The blade of the knife emerged from the piece of flesh with a wet shhk, leaving behind a ragged, oozing cut. The blood was no longer gushing, but only seeping lazily in thick, viscous drops, mingling with yellowish ichor and fat. Ming You flipped over the severed flap of skin—its underside was covered with a thin web of subcutaneous fat, whitish, like moldy cottage cheese, with pink capillaries running through it.
"The only happy days, right?" Ming You said with irony.
"I'd say... the last ones..."
Ming You hurled the piece of meat aside. It slapped against the floor, bounced like an overripe fruit, and lay still in a puddle of its own juices.
"Heh-heh, the relatives you slaughtered."
His fingers gripped the knife again. Dried blood was caked between his phalanges, sticking them together like paste.
"At least I had reasons for it."
The blade plunged into the ribcage, slipping between the ribs with the crunch of breaking cartilage.
"They deprived me of happiness."
He yanked the knife downward—the cut gaped like a grinning mouth, exposing ribs like rotten teeth.
"Their guardianship over me... that damn other city, which was hundreds of miles away from Seoul..."
Ming You sighed heavily, squeezing the knife's handle as the blade crunched its way out of the sticky piece of meat.
…
The kitchen was quiet. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall broke the oppressive silence. Ming You sat at the table, clutching a cup of already cold tea. His fingers were trembling slightly, though he tried not to show it. Across from him sat his uncle and aunt—their faces were serious, even stern.
His uncle, a tall, sturdy man with sharp features, was the first to break the silence.
"Ming You, we need to talk."
Ming You slowly raised his eyes. Something tightened in his chest—as if a cold hand were squeezing his heart.
"About what?" he asked, though he already had an idea.
His aunt, usually kind and gentle, wasn't smiling this time. Her slender fingers were interlaced on the table, her nails tapping lightly on the wood.
"We've decided it would be better if you moved in with us," his uncle continued. "You will live with us. It's the right decision."
Ming You felt his throat tighten.
"But I don't want to leave!" His voice trembled, and he immediately clenched his teeth to not betray any weakness.
His uncle frowned.
"This is not up for discussion."
"I can't just abandon everything!" Ming You stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "My friends, school… Sun Hee! I can't leave her!"
The name Sun Hee sounded like a final argument, like an incantation that was supposed to stop the inevitable.
"You have to think about your future," his uncle spoke slowly, as if stretching the words so they would sink in deeper. "You have nothing here. There—opportunities."
"She is important to me!" Ming You was almost shouting now, tears welling up, but he blinked furiously, forcing them back.
His aunt finally intervened, placing a hand on her nephew's shoulder.
"Ming You, we understand how hard this is for you. But this decision was made for your own good."
Her voice was soft, but it left no room for argument.
Ming You turned away, realizing it was useless to argue.
An hour later, they were standing by a taxi. Ming You's suitcase—a single, half-empty one—was thrown into the trunk.
He did not look back when the door of the house closed behind him for the last time.
The taxi pulled away.
Ming You sat in the back seat, pressing his forehead against the cold window. Outside, the lights of the city he could no longer call his own flashed by.
…
The knife blade slid between the ribs with a wet crunch, as if butchering a bird carcass. The cartilage crackled, tearing under the steel, exposing the spongy tissue of the lungs—pinkish-gray, laced with thin vessels that had already stopped filling with air. Ming You pulled them out, feeling the organ sag heavily in his hand, still warm, still holding the last traces of life. He squeezed his fingers—a murky fluid, mixed with blood, spurted from the alveoli, leaving sticky droplets on his chin.
"In those days, I completely immersed myself in basketball... trained with all my might, channeled all my aggression and despair into the game, hoping to escape reality…"
The voice in his head sounded muffled, as if coming from under a layer of water.
Ming You smirked, cutting off a piece of the lung and throwing it aside.
"You're right, it's not like you can play chess with anyone anymore, heh. But you did strengthen your talent for the game, that's one of the main things."
He ran the knife along the ribs, scraping off the remnants of meat, exposing the white, almost porcelain-like bones.
"And that's how a whole year passed since then…"
"Well, getting a driver's license and a certificate of capacity, which allowed you to be partially independent, is a very useful thing, so that after your relatives died you wouldn't be sent to an orphanage… So, the plan to kill them was brewing even back then, right?"
"I don't kn…"
" 'Don't know' again, heh-heh. You don't even have to answer, I know everything anyway, because I am me."
He abruptly plunged the knife into the ribcage, leaving it sticking out between the ribs like a flag on conquered territory.
"I. You. How did we come to this? Why am I still here? Why are you in my place? Or am I in yours?"
The voice trembled, breaking into a whisper, but Ming You just tilted his head, listening to it like a bothersome fly.
"You are the weak part of me, so just shut up already and don't interfere with me achieving my goal."
"Me? But how…"
Before the voice could continue, Ming You pulled out a lighter. The flame ignited with a quiet click, illuminating his face—pale, smeared with blood, with empty eyes that held neither remorse nor fear. He brought the flame to a piece of meat cut from the thigh. The fat crackled, sizzled, bubbling and blackening at the edges.
A thick, sweetish smell hung in the room, reminiscent of fried bacon, but with a faint, putrid note that made one's stomach clench involuntarily. When a golden crust had formed on the piece of meat, Ming You brought it to his mouth. His teeth easily sank into the warm, fibrous flesh, which had a slight metallic aftertaste. He chewed and swallowed unhurriedly—as if it were the most ordinary dinner.
"A-a-A-AH...!!!" the voice screamed in panic.
In response, Ming You, with an almost ritual slowness, ran his fingers over the victim's exposed ribs, feeling under the thin film of skin for that particular piece of flesh—the shriveled, bluish nipple, cut off earlier. With a disgusting squelch, he slapped it onto his sticky tongue, feeling the nasty, rubbery texture adhere to his palate.
Then, grinding it with enjoyment with his molars, he crushed this slimy mass, feeling it spread into a putrid slurry across his teeth, before pushing it down his esophagus with a nasty gulp, leaving behind a taste of old blood and something musty, like spoiled meat.
"Y-you... I-I... a cannibal!?"
The voice shrieked, shuddering with horror. Ming You, however, grinned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"Cannibals are those who eat their own kind. I am eating a woman."
"Y-you... I…" the voice faltered, before dissolving and disappearing into a strange echo.
"Have you left now?"
After that, only the faint rustle of flies circling over the remains was left.
Ming You slowly bowed his head, as if under the weight of an unbearable burden that had long since crushed his soul. A cold tear, like the last drop of his humanity, slid down his pale cheek and fell onto the shapeless heap of meat—sticky, warm, still pulsating with the remnants of someone else's life. For a moment, a reflection glimmered in that bloody puddle—and he recognized himself. But it was no longer him. The face, smeared with thick, dark blood, stared back at him with empty, dead eyes, behind which gaped only an infinite void.
…
Ming You stood before the mirror, peering intently at his reflection. Before him was a sixteen-year-old youth with a lean yet sturdy build; his height of 5.8 feet (178 centimeters) betrayed a teenager who had almost crossed the threshold of adolescence but had not yet acquired adult confidence. His black hair, slightly disheveled and carelessly falling forward, reached almost to the bridge of his nose but did not cover his eyes and forehead, leaving his face open.
But what captured his attention the most were his eyes. Jet-black, deep, as if bottomless, they seemed completely empty—as if darkness itself had taken residence within them, having swallowed all emotions. His gaze was detached, almost lifeless, as if no thoughts or feelings lay behind it. And yet, if one looked closely, within this void, one could discern a faint glimmer of something human—a shadow of pain, a suppressed hope, or perhaps the last remnants of a will not yet entirely extinguished.
A few minutes later, the front door of the house swung open and then slammed shut with a dull thud. His uncle and aunt had returned, stepping over the threshold with their usual carefree manner. Their voices, laughter, the rustling of bags—all merged into a single background noise.
"Uncle, Aunt... or rather, Mom and Dad, if you prefer it that way..." he began, in an deliberately soft tone, "The showerhead in the bathroom seems to be broken. And I would like to talk with you."
His fingers slid towards the kitchen knife lying near the mirror. The cold metal burned his palm pleasantly. With a quick motion, he hid the blade under his black T-shirt, then leisurely pulled on blue gloves.
"Darling, he called us parents!" exclaimed the uncle, exchanging a happy look with his wife. "Finally, he acknowledged us today, at least."
His voice trembled with emotion. He didn't even think to glance at his nephew, didn't notice the strange gleam in his eyes.
"I'll take a look now and we'll discuss what's wrong," he said to Ming You, already heading towards the bathroom.
The aunt smiled, moving closer.
"Ming You, I'm glad you called us. While your uncle fixes the shower, we can talk. After all, we are the only ones who will try to help you."
Her voice sounded cloyingly sweet, as always.
"Heh heh, the same false notes of concern that have driven me mad for years," flashed through Ming You's mind.
He slowly turned to face her. His face was empty.
"Yes, I have something to tell you," he said in an even tone. "But I don't think the dead will be interested."
The bathroom door clicked shut with a dull snap.
"What are you talking about?"
The aunt froze. Her face was etched with confusion, and then—the first shadow of fear.
But it was already too late.
Ming You felt the cold handle of the knife under his T-shirt; his fingers closed around it with familiar certainty. The blade, sharpened to a razor's edge, lightly scratched the skin of his stomach, but he didn't even blink. In the shower, everything was quiet—only water droplets fell from the tap, shattering against the tiles.
"The shower is fine, what's wrong?" muttered the uncle, still unaware that his voice was the last thing he would hear in this life.
He didn't even have time to turn around.
Ming You moved swiftly, like a snake striking its prey. His hand swept upward, and the blade plunged into the soft tissue of the aunt's neck. It passed through the skin, the subcutaneous tissue, severed the jugular vein—dark crimson blood gushed out in a fountain, drenching her blouse, dripping onto the floor. Her larynx rasped, but the sound was immediately choked by bloody foam.
"AAAAH! What are you doing?!" The uncle rushed forward, but Ming You was already upon him.
He didn't answer. Instead—another strike. The blade entered the side of the neck, at an angle, piercing the carotid artery. The blood flow, under pressure, hit the wall, leaving an arc of scarlet splatter. The uncle gasped, his fingers convulsively clawed at his nephew's arm, but he only pressed harder, twisting the knife in the wound, tearing through muscles and the trachea.
"This is for victory!" hissed Ming You, and his voice sounded like the grating of metal on bone.
The uncle collapsed onto the floor, his body twitching in agony, but his consciousness was already fading. Ming You wiped the blade on the uncle's T-shirt and moved closer to his aunt, who seemed to still be choking on her blood.