Heesin stirred, then slowly opened his eyes. Out of habit, he reached toward the head of the bed — his hand found his phone. He checked the time, and in the darkness, an unfamiliar face came into focus. He frowned. He sat up and switched on the nearby lamp. The room turned amber.
At the same moment, his phone died.
“……”
Beside him, Im Gyeong lay face-down, silent as the dead. Shirtless, wearing only his trousers, he was so still that even the sound of his breathing was imperceptible. Heesin traced back the memories of last night, and his expression stiffened. He slipped off the bed.
He found the bathroom quickly, looked in the mirror — his hair was a complete mess. He washed his face and went out.
Coming into the living room to collect his jacket, he could see it was just before sunrise. Empty liquor bottles were rolling around on the table. He remembered the two of them getting through three bottles of whiskey. Im Gyeong had been the one doing most of the talking; Heesin had mostly listened.
Im Gyeong had told him, without any particular weight, about crossing over to Japan as a child after his parents’ divorce. He’d apparently said something in Japanese partway through, though Heesin couldn’t remember the details. He’d said elementary school had been hard — being Zainichi Korean — and that he’d cried a lot.
Thanks to all of that, Heesin had come to know Im Gyeong a little. Even as recently as yesterday he’d been full of hostility toward him, but after sleeping on it, something in how he felt had softened. Once we’re married, we’ll be family anyway. I can’t fully trust him yet — but I don’t have to hate him either.
Because if Im Gyeong ends up on my side, that’s not a bad thing at all.
Im Gyeong still hadn’t stirred by the time Heesin grabbed his keys and left. He pulled out of the parking garage — the sun had already risen. He got home and rushed through getting ready for work.
Then, at the bathroom sink, he happened to catch something on his neck.
“Huh?”
What is that? Did something bite me? There was a faint red mark on the left side of his neck. He had no idea what it was.
No mosquitos in this weather.
“……”
He looked more closely. It looked almost exactly like… a hickey. Last night, it had been only him and Im Gyeong. No one else had been called over — and even if someone had, there was no way anything like that would have happened. A lip mark? He checked the other side too and stood there wearing a dumb expression. He checked the rest of his body just in case, but there were no other marks.
— Stop staring. Even if you’re both men, looking at someone like that is going to turn them on.
Why of all things. Why did that shameless face have to come to mind?
“Ha. I must be losing it. What a ridiculous thought.”
He shook it off, squeezed a generous amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush, and brushed his teeth. Then a cold shower, slowly combing back through last night. I didn’t do anything stupid, did I? He still couldn’t recall anything to explain the mark on his neck.
He dried his hair after washing up, and messages started trickling in one by one on the fully charged phone.
— Oppa, are you asleep? Your phone was off.
— Can you send a little more money? Mom’s sorry….
— Prosecutor. The warrant request for Choi Yuno was rejected.
He was reading through them with a sigh when a message arrived from Im Gyeong.
— You ran away? I wanted to have breakfast together.
Ran away. He got up and left for work. Does he think I have the same luxury as him? He let out a short, humorless laugh and was about to set the phone down when it rang. He debated picking up, then pressed answer and brought it to his ear.
— Did you get home alright?
“Yes.”
— Want to come back?
“I have work.”
He put it on speaker and started knotting his tie. Then he caught his own reflection in the mirror. His gaze drifted slowly to the left side of his neck. A flicker of suspicion — but nothing he could be certain of. It might have just gotten rubbed in my sleep. Could be an insect bite. Though he seriously doubted any insect would be living in a penthouse that expensive.
— Are you listening?
“Go ahead.”
— Dinner this weekend? There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.
He ran through excuses in his head. No need to keep my guard up — but nothing good comes from spending too much time together either. The plan had been to buy time by playing along, just enough, until whoever had been tailing him was identified. He was about to mention a prior commitment, but Im Gyeong beat him to it.
— It won’t be a bad meeting. Trust me.
He hesitated. I don’t trust Im Gyeong. And yet, somehow, those two words — trust me — nudged something loose in him. Im Gyeong had helped him yesterday, after all. When he asked who the person was, Im Gyeong said he’d find out once he came — which meant it was someone well-known enough that Heesin would recognize the name.
Even without a direct answer, Im Gyeong waited unhurriedly.
“…I’ll think about it.”
A pleased laugh came through the receiver. A brief, easy goodbye — and the call ended. Heesin stared at the screen for a moment, finished knotting his tie, and let out a quiet sigh.
He opened the refrigerator and looked for something edible. He pulled a bread roll out of the freezer and threw it in the microwave. After sitting frozen for who knows how long, the bread had lost all its moisture and crumbled dryly. Just like my life. The thought left him vaguely bitter.
Heesin was walking through the lobby when he spotted someone and stopped. Before he could pretend not to see her and slip away, she had already spotted him and was waving in his direction.
Heesin! My son!
A few heads turned. He exhaled, and steered his mother — who had shown up out of nowhere — outside.
“What’s gotten into you? Mom’s wrist hurts. Heesin.”
He led her outside, to a quieter spot with fewer people around, and let go of her wrist.
“What brings you here?”
“I took the first bus….”
“What for?”
His cold tone made his mother’s expression crumple with hurt.
“…Can’t a mother come to see her son?”
He knew better than anyone that it was never just that. He noticed the worn-out clothes, the old shoes, the cheap bag she was carrying. No matter how much money he had sent over, his mother’s appearance hadn’t changed one bit from years ago. At least if she’d spent it on herself, the resentment would be easier to bear.
The bitterness got the better of him, and the words came out colder than he intended.
“I’ll wire you money. Please go back.”
“It’s not about money….”
“Then what?”
“…Just come visit sometime. Your father’s been asking for you.”
A short, involuntary scoff escaped him. She still loves a man who hit her every day, cheated on her, and buried her in debt — and now she’s nursing him too. Can you even call something like that love? If this is what love looks like, I would rather die than feel it. The thought crossed his mind, briefly, before he pushed it away.
“Go home. I’ll send more money.”
“Instead of that, come see your father—”
“Please, not the father thing again!!! Are you not sick of it? Why would that man be my father!”
He lost his temper for just a moment — his voice rising — and a few passersby glanced over from a distance. Knowing anything more would only turn into something crueler, he took his mother by the arm and headed toward the car.
“Let’s go. I’ll drive you to the terminal.”
“Mom can take the bus.”
He put her in the passenger seat anyway, ignoring any objection, and started the engine.
She was quiet the entire drive. When they were getting close to the bus terminal, she finally spoke, carefully.
“…Do you still hate your father?”
He never answered that question. Hate doesn’t even cover it. I just want him gone from my life. Even when the man had been unconscious, kept alive only by a respirator, Heesin had felt more relief than grief — he’d prayed for it to end quickly, prayed that he’d be released from this exhausting, suffocating pain.
But there clearly was no god. Every other prayer had been answered — just not that one. Then again, what kind of god would grant a prayer asking for your own parent to die.
They arrived at the bus terminal. He bought her ticket, sat her down in the waiting area for a moment, then went and got cash from the ATM. He folded the bills in half and tucked them into her worn bag. His mother looked apologetic but didn’t refuse. Her shamelessness nauseates me — and still, somehow, I feel sorry for her.
“Go on. You’ll miss the bus.”
“When are you coming down?”
“I’m not.”
“Minhye misses you, too.”
There it is. His mother always used his little sister as leverage. When the father card didn’t work, it was always some variation of the same thing. Minhye wants to see you. Your brother’s been acting strange again. His brother and Minhye had always been anchors dragging him back.
“Come when you can, okay?”
He turned away from her voice and walked back to the car.
But once he was inside, he couldn’t bring himself to drive. He buried his face against the steering wheel.
…Fuck. I’m so tired of this.
He got out instead of driving, and walked to the nearest convenience store. He bought a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a drag — his head spun. That lasted only a moment. His body adjusted quickly, and the harsh smoke pushed into his lungs without resistance.
Then a text from his mother arrived — she was sorry, she said. She didn’t know how to face him.
He read it with a hollow feeling in his chest. Then he smoked a few more, stood up, and got back in the car.
Before getting in, he sprayed himself down with deodorant — but the stubborn smell didn’t fade easily.
