“You think the boss will trust you just because you take me out like this?”

Hiding in the shadows of the back lot, using his underlings as shields—and still talking big.

Pathetic.

I started by cutting off his arm.

“AAARGH! You—traitorous b*stard!”

The screaming—those curses spilling from his mouth—got on my nerves.

I pinned down his thrashing limbs like a cockroach underfoot, one hand clamping over his mouth, the other tightening around the knife.

“You’re the traitor. That’s why you’re the one dying.”

Even on the brink of death, doubt flickered wildly in his eyes.

I held my breath.

I clenched my teeth so hard that they felt like they might shatter.

I emptied my mind.

There was only one thing left to think about.

Only one of us could survive — him or me.

To live, I had to kill.

From this moment on, you’re the traitor.

The rat who slithered into the organization like a shadow.

Not me — you.

I drove the blade straight into his throat, cutting off his breath.

The pain would be brief.

By the time he realized what was happening, it would already be over.

The breath against my palm faded, then stopped.

His body twitched, then went limp like rubber, before becoming heavy and still.

A sharp jolt shot up my spine, all the way to the crown of my head.

‘Idiot.’
‘You’re the one who killed yourself.’

The air was filled with the stench of blood.

It made me feel sick.

Blood had splashed into my eyes, stinging them.

I wiped the blood dripping from my chin with the back of my hand and stood up.

But I wasn’t the only fool here.

That foolish girl!

“Why are you here again? Why again?”

There she was — Poet — wrapped up in her filthy coat.

I had thrown it away.

Yet there she was, still wearing it.

Seeing her like that, I could easily guess how she had survived after fleeing Mia.

Having struggled so desperately to survive, why had she come crawling back to this filthy storage room?

“I didn’t see anything! I swear, I didn’t see anything! Please, just let me live!”

What made you choose to live like this.

What could matter so much that someone like you would cling to life so desperately?

Don’t tell me it’s something as insignificant as a poetry book.

It wasn’t a book that saved you from freezing to death; it was that ragged coat, resembling a cabbage net.

And it was me who threw it to you.

And now… I’m the one who found you again.

I turned the blade, pressing its flat edge against her cheek.

Drops of blood slid down her pale skin.

Her hand tightened around the book, her fingers turning white from the strain.

I wanted to tear it from her grasp.

You came back to a place like this for something as insignificant as a poetry book.

That worthless scrap of paper… I should have burned it with a cigarette and thrown it away a long time ago.

“Count to ten, then run straight to the temple.”

Let’s not meet again, Poet.

***

It was only a few hours later when the call came.

—”There’s a witness.”

“…And?”

—”Come to the station.”

“I told you not to call me. I’m not a detective anymore—you said that yourself.”

—”You need to see this girl to understand, don’t you, you b*stard?”

The police chief laughed loudly and hung up on his own terms.

‘D*mn it.’

That lifelong squad leader only got his chief’s badge because of me—and now all the annoying work gets dumped on me.

I took four different buses on purpose, going the long way around before reaching the station.

And what I saw there was even more ridiculous.

A hollow laugh slipped out of me.

“You know her? Is she really the witness?”

That stupid girl.

“If there’s a witness, things get complicated. I can’t even pin the m*rder on you anymore.”

“I’ll handle it.”

I pushed open the door to the interrogation room.

There you were, still clutching that worthless scrap of paper. You traced the scorched front page and the crumpled corners as if mourning them. Your thin fingers brushed over them again and again, gently smoothing them as though they were a child’s hair.

“What’s that?”

I asked, even though I already knew.

“…A poetry book.”

That was your name.

“Let me see. I’m asking nicely—I’ve never seen a poetry book before.”

The moment I opened the thin poetry book—barely enough to cover half my palm—I almost let out a hollow laugh.

[My death means nothing. Because those who live as the dead are not freed by dying.]

What a load of rubbish!

Did she really call this poetry?

D*mn it! I could write something like this, too!

Disappointing, Poet.

Did you crawl back into that place for this?

What on earth am I supposed to do with you?

If I took it away, would you just borrow it again?

“Let’s help each other out.”

I spoke the same way I did to the underlings.

“What could someone like me possibly do to help?”

“To us, you’re valuable. After all, you’re the only one who reported it.”

I smiled.

The chief once said my smile was more frightening than my silence.

“And the one who did the stabbing hasn’t been caught yet. He’s the worst one, right?”

I wanted to scare you.
I wanted you to beg.

With that stubborn face of yours, I thought you’d ask for help, that you’d say you wanted to live.

“Did he see you?”

“…I didn’t see anything.”

You couldn’t even lie properly.

The truth was that you hadn’t seen it; you’d just heard about it.

Yet still, you couldn’t say that.

You already knew.

I saw you that day.

But you didn’t see me.

You realized anyway that it was me holding the bloodstained knife.

“Why do you carry this around, Poet?”

I brushed my finger over the part I had burned with cigarette ash and held the book out to you.

You looked like you wanted to grab it more than anything—but you hesitated, wary.

So I reached a little closer.

Your trembling hand snatched it away.

“Lee Chun-hee.”

For someone who didn’t understand the value of education, there were only ever two chances.

I couldn’t let Poet walk out of the police station.

She was the only witness, the only person who had seen what I did and could identify me as a m*rder suspect.

No matter what, I had to keep her with me.

I would answer for k*lling a man, but not yet.

I had already torn apart and erased everything she had said: her identity, and what she had seen.

As she turned away, I snapped the handcuffs around her wrists.

“Why are you here again?”

Her bound hands trembled as if she’d been humiliated.

“Are you a thug or a cop?”

I smiled.

“What if I am?”

She reacted as she always did: she shouted, threw punches and kicked me.

Ultimately, I had no choice but to gag her and tie her legs together.

Then I forced her into the boot of a police car that was parked in the basement.

Even then, she continued to struggle and curse at me through muffled, choked sounds.

I watched her for a moment, expressionless.

Then I pulled a sack over her head and slammed the boot shut.

No one would hear.

No one would see.

From a nearby payphone, I made two brief calls to my men.

After that, I headed home earlier than usual.

I sat in the car, smoking and waiting for the sun to set.

Only then did I open the boot, lift her over my shoulder, and carry her inside.

The moment I set her down, she started thrashing around again.

Despite the cloth in her mouth, she still managed to make strangled sounds.

“Even when I let you live, you still act like this.”

She trembled as she looked around the room, taking in the hanger on the wall and the ashtray on the floor.

There was nothing to see. Besides, she couldn’t see anyway.

But, as always, she didn’t know how to give up.

She dragged herself forward on her knees, only to slam her head straight into the wall.

“You d*mn b*stard! Untie this!
You filthy cop! Just die already!
What are you? Who the h*ll do you think you are?!”

Most of it was just a stream of curses.

I ignored her.

Leaning back against the wall, I lit a cigarette in the familiar darkness.

It tasted sweet.

I drew in deeply, then exhaled the smoke slowly.

In the dark, the smoke spread thick and heavy through the air like mould.

Through that haze, she kept dragging herself forward on her knees.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

It was a good thing I laughed it off.

“Is that something you say to a cop? Our squad leader really became a thug on the way to becoming chief.”

The girl—Poet—had crawled right up to me on her knees.

I held out the hand holding my cigarette.

“What, you want one?”

Yeah, right.

I pressed my fingertips against her forehead and pushed.

She shook her head, trying to avoid my touch. She lost her balance, collapsing to the side, but struggled back up again.

The poetry book slipped from her coat pocket as she fell.

I nudged it towards her with my foot.

Her hands groped along the floor until they found it, and she clutched it as though it were a lifeline.

Ridiculous.

While all this was happening, night fell.

I still had to return the chief’s car, which I had borrowed to bring her here.

A police car meant for catching criminals, and I had used it to carry off the only decent citizen who had reported them.

The thought drew a bitter laugh from me.

After finishing my last cigarette, I stepped outside.

As I closed the door, I had a feeling that someone was standing just behind it.

I turned and looked back at the door.

She was the first person to ever enter my house.