The bus station greeted him with the rumble of engines and the smell of gasoline. Ming You walked past the buses without even glancing at the schedule and headed for the taxi stand. His gaze slid over a row of cars until it stopped on a white one.
He knocked on the window.
The glass rolled down, and warm air from the interior, smelling of cheap air freshener and old seats, hit him in the face.
"Hi-... hi, is this an intercity taxi?" Ming You's voice sounded even, but it trembled right at the beginning, as if he hadn't spoken aloud in a long time.
The taxi driver, a man in his fifties with graying temples and deep wrinkles around his eyes, looked at him appraisingly. His gaze slid over the backpack in the passenger's hand, then lingered on the worn-out sneakers.
"That's right. Where to?"
"Seoul."
The taxi driver's eyebrows crept up, and a smirk played at the corners of his lips.
"You sure? It'll take all night to get there."
"Let's go, come on."
"Suit yourself, get in." The driver shrugged, as if to say: Your money, your problem.
The door slammed shut, and the car pulled away, swaying gently on the uneven asphalt. Ming You leaned back in the rear seat, took off his backpack, and placed it beside him, feeling the muscles in his back tense up. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come, as if his body had forgotten how to rest.
Images flashed behind his eyelids.
Sun Hee.
Her face, her smile, her voice — it all felt so close, as if she were sitting right next to him, touching his shoulder, laughing. But in his chest — an emptiness, as if someone had scraped everything out with a knife. He tried to feel something. Anything. But inside there was only a cold, scorched space where a heart had once beaten.
The taxi rolled down the highway, the kilometers merging into a monotonous strip of road, flickering under the dim streetlights. Ming You wasn't sleeping, though his eyes were sticky with fatigue.
"So, which district do you need?"
The taxi driver's voice tore him out of his half-slumber, sharp, like a snap of fingers in front of his face.
Ming You jerked his head up. First thing — his hand went to the backpack, checking if everything was in place. Then his gaze went forward, to the mirror, which reflected the taxi driver's eyes — dark, curious.
"Turn right, drive past four blocks, and drop me off at the lawn."
The taxi driver chuckled, as if he had caught him in a lie.
"I see you're a local. Is Seoul your hometown?"
"Correct."
The car windows filled with familiar silhouettes: narrow streets, old lanterns, houses pressed close together. A residential complex with private homes — everything was almost the same as back then. Only the billboards were different. Bright, screaming, alien, as if reminding him that time doesn't stand still.
Ming You glanced at his phone — the time on the main screen was 7:44 AM. After paying the driver with money from his former parents' wallet, he slammed the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Ming You passed a couple of neat flowerbeds where pink petals were already collecting dewdrops, walked past tall maples whose leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. His black eyes, empty and bottomless, slid over familiar details, as if he were mentally noting every little thing: a crack in the asphalt, a chip on the edge of a fence, a rust stain on a lamppost.
It was at this very lamppost that he stopped.
Not moving, not even breathing, his body was tense like a string. Every muscle was ready for an instant lunge, but outwardly he remained completely calm. His black eyes, cold and emotionless, were fixed on the gate, as if he could force it open with the power of his gaze. Silence rang in his ears, interrupted only by the occasional sounds of passing cars.
Exactly five minutes later, the gate opened. The creak of the handle sounded sharp but quiet, and a girl stepped out from behind it. Long chestnut hair, gathered into a neat ponytail, swayed slightly with every step she took, and her school uniform — a dark blue skirt, a white blouse, and a tie with a barely noticeable uneven knot — looked perfect, as if she had spent the morning carefully checking everything. She closed the gate behind her, quietly called something out toward the house, waved her hand, and, adjusting the bag on her shoulder, strode down the sidewalk without even looking back.
Ming You instantly darted to the side, circled the lamppost, and slipped behind the corner of the fence, hiding from view. But he didn't give in to panic, didn't allow himself a single unnecessary movement. Instead, a cold, calculating voice sounded in his head, as if a second self, calm and ruthless, had taken control of the situation:
"The usual time it takes for Sun Hee to walk away from the gate is three minutes. Factoring in a delay, if someone calls out to her — six and a half minutes."
He closed his eyes, counting the seconds. Six minutes. Thirty seconds. When the count reached the required mark, he opened his eyes and stepped out from behind the corner.
His movements were smooth, almost weightless, as if he weren't walking, but gliding along the sidewalk, leaving no traces. He approached the lamppost, stopped, and slowly surveyed the street. First, the upper sidewalk — no one. Then the lower one — and there he saw her.
The girl was walking fast, almost running, apparently running late. Her bag bounced on her shoulder, and her hair streamed behind her like a train, as if trying to hold her back, but she didn't look back. Ming You moved after her, keeping his distance. He walked on the parallel sidewalk, hiding behind trees and poles, but never losing sight of her.
She ran up to the school gates, slowed her pace, adjusted her uniform, as if suddenly remembering she had to look perfect. It seemed that now she would dissolve into the crowd of other students, become just another girl in a sea of identical faces, and he would lose her again. But then something happened that Ming You had not expected.
An older male student approached her. Tall, slender, with an awkward smile and a gaze full of adoration. He said something, Sun Hee laughed, and suddenly... she hugged him. The boy blushed to the roots of his hair but didn't pull away. On the contrary — Sun Hee took his hand, whispered something, and they went inside the school together.
Something inside Ming You tore. He clutched his solar plexus, squeezed the fabric of his T-shirt with his fingers, as if trying to squeeze the pain out of himself. But it wasn't just pain. It was bloodthirstiness, a fury that rose from the very depths of his being, filling every cell of his body. He hadn't even gotten a good look at that guy. Didn't remember his face. He didn't care. He was only looking at Sun Hee.
And in his eyes, empty and coal-black, something dark, predatory, flared up.
"S-Sun Hee…" His voice was a whisper, but it trembled with rage. "Don't make me kill you…"
A storm was raging inside him. Blood pounded in his temples, a hum filled his ears, and a burning, uncontrollable desire spread through his chest — to tear, to strangle, to destroy. But instead of rage, he managed to retain only cold calculation.
Ming You stepped back, leaned against the fence in the shadows, away from the busy sidewalks. His gaze was fixed on the school gates, as if he could burn through them with the power of his hatred. He waited. An hour. Two hours. Three. People walked by, laughed, talked, but no one noticed him. He stood motionless, like a statue, only his eyes, dark and unblinking, followed every movement at the entrance.
And then, finally, the older students started coming out. Ming You slowly straightened up and headed towards the school gates. Just at that moment, Sun Hee emerged from them. He approached her and deliberately bumped into her shoulder:
"Hi...-hi."
"M-Ming?" Sun Hee's voice trembled, her fingers involuntarily clenched the strap of her bag, as if seeking support.
"Glad you recognized me."
His lips stretched into a smile, but there wasn't a trace of warmth in his eyes. They remained black, empty, like two pieces of coal in which the glimmers of something unhealthy danced.
He was standing too close, deliberately violating her personal space, and Sun Hee instinctively took a step back.
"Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?"
Ming You tilted his head, pretending to be interested, but his gaze slid over her figure, noting every detail: her trembling eyelashes, her too-rapid breathing, the nervous movement of her hand as she adjusted a strand of hair. She was afraid. And it amused him.
"Listen, Ming, I'm sorry, of course, but so much time has passed and... I'm not sure everything can be like before…"
"Maybe let's just take a walk? Reminisce about a few things along the way." Ming You abruptly interrupted her, taking a step forward, once again closing the distance between them.
"I don't mind, but you know, Ming…"
"Remember that abandoned building where we sprayed each other with a hose?" He interrupted her again, deliberately pulling her back into the past.
"Y-yes, I remember…"
Her voice became quieter, almost a whisper. She remembered that summer, running through the empty rooms, laughing, dousing each other with water. But now that memory seemed alien, as if it belonged not to her, but to some other girl from a parallel universe.
"Shall we head there?"
Ming You took another step forward, and now less than half a meter remained between them. Sun Hee felt her heart beat faster, and she involuntarily began to walk along the sidewalk with him.
"Um..."
"Don't be afraid, we're not going to spray each other with a hose; we'll just sit there and talk. You also have a lot you want to tell me, right?" Ming You's hand suddenly touched her shoulder, and she flinched.
His fingers were cold, even through the fabric of her blouse. Sun Hee tried to smile, but the smile came out crooked, unnatural.
"I do, but I hope you'll understand one thing..."
"Absolutely. I still like you, but right now, I want to hope for our friendship." — Ming You spoke so lightly that Sun Hee felt relieved:
"You've grown up so much, Min. And I don't just mean your height, but in general."
She tried to steer the conversation into safer territory, but Ming You only let out a fake chuckle.
"Thanks, you've grown up too, heh."
His gaze slid over her figure, and she felt uneasy again.
"So, maybe you can tell me about yourself? What have you been doing all this year? Did you find any friends there?" — she spoke quickly, almost chattering, as if trying to fill an awkward pause.
"We're almost there, let's just go in and sit down now. I have things to tell you, and that place is... more quiet, I'd say."
He pointed to an old brick building, almost hidden by thickets of bushes. The windows were broken, the walls covered in graffiti, but he walked towards it with such confidence, as if it were his home.
"You're right, I liked that place too, but those idiots from the upper grades always cover the walls with graffiti." — she snorted.
"Heh, can't argue with that."
When they stepped inside, the air grew thick with dust. Sunlight broke through the shattered windows, painting intricate patterns on the floor. Ming You led her further in, into the darkest room, which smelled of dampness and mold.
"Such a quiet place," — Ming You whispered, and his voice sounded unnaturally soft, like silk sliding over a blade. — "Grab that stone behind you, we'll sit down and discuss everything."
Sun Hee nodded and turned to pick up the stone, and at that moment her body instinctively tensed — something was wrong. But the realization came too late.
A dull, wet thud. The stone hit her in the back, not with full force, but enough to knock the air out of her lungs.
"Kkh! What are you doing?!"
Her scream tore through the silence, but the walls absorbed the sound as if the building were an accomplice. She turned around, her eyes widened, her pupils black with horror.
But Ming You was already moving — not in rage, not in blind aggression, but with a frightening, polished precision. His leg swept up and struck her knees. Not just to make her fall. To break them.
A crunch.
A sharp, white pain pierced her legs, and Sun Hee collapsed onto the floor. Her mouth opened for another scream, but it was preempted by a boot slamming into her throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Each blow was calculated, methodical — not just to cause pain, but to guarantee silence. The cartilage of her crushed throat crunched under the impacts, her voice turning into a hoarse, gurgling whisper.
Ming You wasn't breathing heavily. His face wasn't contorted with malice. On the contrary — it was calm, almost empty. Only his eyes were slightly narrowed, as if examining a complex problem. He dropped to his knees, sat on her stomach, pressing down on her ribcage, depriving her of the ability to breathe fully. His fingers unzipped the backpack and pulled out a kitchen knife. The blade gleamed with a dull silver in the semi-darkness.
And then, tears began to stream down his cheeks.
"Sorry, Sun Hee," — he whispered, but his voice sounded as if these words were not meant for her, but for someone far away. Maybe for himself. — "It's all for the sake of victory."
"For... what... cough-cough... victory?"
Her lips were stained with pink foam, her voice was torn, hoarse, but a flicker of incomprehension still remained in her eyes. She didn't believe it. Even now.
Ming You remained silent.
The knife entered her solar plexus — not sharply, not in a burst of rage, but slowly, as if he wanted her to feel every millimeter of the steel parting her flesh. The skin resisted, then gave way with a quiet, squelching sound. Muscles contracted, gripping the blade as if trying to hold it back. Her eyes rounded, her lips trembled, but there was no sound anymore. Only a gurgling rattle, only blood bubbling on her lips.
But she was alive. Conscious.
Ming You pulled out the knife. The blood flowed thicker, but didn't gush like a fountain. His hands were trembling, but not from fear — from something else, as if a struggle was going on inside him, as if he himself didn't understand what he was doing.
And suddenly, he flipped the knife and aimed it at his own veins.
But the next moment, his face contorted. His lips stretched into an unnatural, almost caricatured smile.
"Heh-heh, nope!" — his own voice, but with an intonation that wasn't there before. "Killing yourself won't achieve absolute victory, don't force yourself to lose."
"No! I've already lost!"
"We are one, after all, so let me help you."
The voice sounded louder, more insistent, as if breaking through from the depths of his consciousness.
"I hope you can win in my place."
"Don't doubt it, and now go, I'll take care of everything."
And something clicked.
Ming You's face changed — not gradually, but instantly, as if someone had switched off everything human in him. The tears, which had just been streaming down his cheeks, dried up, leaving behind only sticky tracks on his skin, shining in the dim light. The despair that had been constricting his throat evaporated, giving way to an icy, bottomless emptiness.
He inhaled evenly, too evenly — like a person who had awoken from a long sleep in which the line between reality and nightmare had already been erased. His fingers clenched the knife with such force that his knuckles turned white and a pink fluid oozed from under his nails — a mixture of Sun Hee's blood and his own sweat.
She was still breathing.
Her eyes, cloudy and veiled with shock, were still looking at him. There was no comprehension in them — only an animal, primal horror, frozen somewhere between the pupil and the torn nerve endings. He saw her pupils convulsively dilating, saw her eyelashes trembling, matted with tears and blood. But she couldn't scream. She couldn't even close her eyelids.
The blade touched her forehead.
The first movement was almost tender — a light pressure, and the skin parted with a nasty, wet sound, like someone tearing wet fabric. The blood didn't gush out immediately — at first, it only seeped out slowly, thick and dark, like syrup. But then, when he started cutting deeper, separating the skin from the muscles, it streamed down, flooding her eyebrows, flowing into her eyes, mixing with her tears. Sun Hee couldn't squeeze her eyes shut — her eyelids twitched in a mad rhythm, but they could no longer close.
The skin on her head came away in layers, exposing the pinkish-white film of the periosteum. Somewhere there, under the thin layer of fat and muscle fibers, vessels pulsed. He could hear his own breathing merging with her rattles — short, intermittent, as if someone were shaking an empty coal sack.