Min-seok leaned in close, his voice low and cold, eyes locked on his father's—watching every twitch, every flicker of rage build as he spoke.
"You're wrong about her," he said slowly, letting the words hang like a blade. "Everything you said… lies. She earned that money working two jobs—cleaning houses during the day, sewing clothes at night until her fingers bled. She got offers to spread her legs for easy money… men like you, trash who thought they could buy her dignity."
His father's face twisted, veins bulging in his neck. "You little shit—you don't know what—"
Min-seok cut him off, voice rising just a fraction, sharp and deliberate. "I know you sent most of those men to her in exchange for a bottle of soju. You wanted to turn her into a slut, then use it as an excuse to beat her, snatch all her money, and hide your own incompetence.
But she never did. She never gave in, which made you furious because your sake got compromised. You're right about one thing—she was pure from the start. Kind. Loving. Everything you never were. You were the fault. You were the worthless one."
The father's breathing grew ragged, face reddening, eyes bulging with fury. "Shut your mouth, boy! She was nothing but a—"
Min-seok's voice dropped lower, colder, pressing on. "And my sisters—they had the worst fate, born not because you two loved each other, but because you raped her every time, even against her will. She didn't want any new kids because they'd have the miserable fate of having you as their father.
I'm happy my sisters took after Mom mostly and almost nothing from you—even though they were products of rape. Because Mom never had the heart to kill the kids in her stomach, even if they came from a monster like you. She knew it wasn't their fault that their father was a rapist."
The father jerked against his restraints, spit flying from his mouth, voice a furious rasp. "You think you're better? If you liked her that much, you should've told me—I wouldn't have minded you having sex with her! She was a whore anyway, spreading her legs for—"
Min-seok's eyes flashed with pure rage. He stabbed the knife into his father's thigh—deep, twisting it slowly as the man howled in pain.
"You're right," Min-seok said, voice steady but laced with venom. "I'd have been a better man to her than you could ever be. I'd have loved her, protected her, given her everything you took away.
But you… you couldn't even be a man. Couldn't provide, couldn't love, couldn't keep your hands off her. Weak. Pathetic. And when you couldn't even lift that peanut dick of yours anymore, you thought of selling her.
You failed miserably—like the impotent, incompetent human you are. A failure. A waste of sperm. I wish your father had worn a condom that night—at least my mother wouldn't have gotten you for a husband. A useless man who took it out on the best person in the world."
The father's face was purple now, body shaking with rage and pain, blood pooling from the thigh wound. "You bastard! I'll kill you! She deserved every beating—she was nothing without me!"
Min-seok laughed coldly—low, dark, chilling—as he pulled the knife out, blood dripping from the blade. "She told me everything, you know.
Every single thing you did to her ever since I was born. She whispered it all to me every night she couldn't find the will to keep going— every thing from how you raped her, beat her, tried to sell her, trying to get her drunk, even try feeding drugs to her. And now… I'm going to make you pay for every one of them."
He stabbed again—into the other thigh, slow and deliberate. "This is for raping her the first time—when she begged you to stop."
The father screamed, body jerking violently against the ropes, sweat mixing with blood. "Stop! You crazy fuck!"
Min-seok twisted the knife. "This is for trying to sell her to your drinking buddies—like she was trash you could trade for booze."
Another scream—louder, ragged. The father's eyes bulged, veins popping, face contorted in agony and fury.
Min-seok pulled out the knife, watching the blood flow. "This is for beating her black and blue every time you felt small—hiding your own worthless life behind her bruises."
He stabbed into the shoulder—deep, grinding. The father howled, spitting curses through gritted teeth. "I'll haunt you! You'll burn for this!"
Min-seok leaned close, voice a whisper. "This is for raping her while she was pregnant—forcing yourself on her even when she carried your children, making her fear for their lives before they were even born."
The father's screams turned to gasps, body weakening, but his eyes still burned with hate. "She… she wanted it… she was mine!"
Min-seok stabbed the arm—slow, painful. "This is for stealing every penny she earned—leaving her to beg for scraps while you drank it away."
The man jerked, weaker now, blood soaking the chair, pooling on the floor. His breaths came in wheezes, rage fading into pain.
Min-seok stood back for a moment, watching him suffer, laughing coldly as the torment dragged on—minutes turning into endless agony, the father's breaths ragged, body convulsing.
Finally, when the man was barely alive—whispering desperate begs for mercy through blood-flecked lips—Min-seok stepped forward one last time.
"And this," he said, voice ice-cold, "is for everything else—for breaking the woman who deserved the world."
He cut his throat deep—quick, final—watching the blood pour out in a rush. The father gurgled once, eyes wide in shock and terror, then went still. Min-seok stood there until the light faded completely from his father's eyes, making sure he was gone.
The room fell silent except for the drip of blood.
Min-seok wiped the knife clean on his father's shirt, then walked away—face blank, heart finally free.<|control12|>Min-seok leaned in close, his voice low and cold, eyes locked on his father's—watching every twitch, every flicker of rage build as he spoke.
"You're wrong about her," he said slowly, letting the words hang like a blade. "Everything you said… lies. She earned that money working two jobs—cleaning houses during the day, sewing clothes at night until her fingers bled. She got offers to spread her legs for easy money… men like you, trash who thought they could buy her dignity."
His father's face twisted, veins bulging in his neck. "You little shit—you don't know what—"
Min-seok cut him off, voice rising just a fraction, sharp and deliberate. "I know you sent most of those men to her in exchange for a bottle of soju. You wanted to turn her into a slut, then use it as an excuse to beat her, snatch all her money, and hide your own incompetence.
But she never did. She never gave in, which made you furious because your sake got compromised. You're right about one thing—she was pure from the start. Kind. Loving. Everything you never were. You were the fault. You were the worthless one."
The father's breathing grew ragged, face reddening, eyes bulging with fury. "Shut your mouth, boy! She was nothing but a—"
Min-seok's voice dropped lower, colder, pressing on. "And my sisters—they had the worst fate, born not because you two loved each other, but because you raped her every time, even against her will.
She didn't want any new kids because they'd have the miserable fate of having you as their father. I'm happy my sisters took after Mom mostly and almost nothing from you—even though they were products of rape. Because Mom never had the heart to kill the kids in her stomach, even if they came from a monster like you.
She knew it wasn't their fault that their father was a rapist. Couldn't even be a man—couldn't provide, couldn't love, couldn't keep your hands off her. Weak. Pathetic. And when you couldn't even lift that peanut dick of yours anymore, you thought of selling her.
You failed miserably—like the impotent, incompetent human you are. A failure. A waste of sperm. I wish your father had worn a condom that night—at least my mother wouldn't have gotten you for a husband. A useless man who took it out on the best person in the world."
The father's face was purple now, body shaking with rage and pain, blood pooling from the thigh wound. "You bastard! I'll kill you! She deserved every beating—she was nothing without me!"
Min-seok laughed coldly—low, dark, chilling—as he pulled the knife out, blood dripping from the blade. "She told me everything, you know. Every single thing you did to her ever since I was born.
She whispered it all to me every night she felt she couldn't go on any longer—every single thing, how you raped her, beat her, tried to sell her. And now… I'm going to make you pay for every one of them."
He stabbed again—into the other thigh, slow and deliberate. "This is for raping her the first time—when she begged you to stop."
The father screamed, body jerking violently against the ropes, sweat mixing with blood. "Stop! You crazy fuck!"
Min-seok twisted the knife. "This is for trying to sell her to your drinking buddies—like she was trash you could trade for booze."
Another scream—louder, ragged. The father's eyes bulged, veins popping, face contorted in agony and fury. "You think you're better? If you liked her that much, you should've told me—I wouldn't have minded you having sex with her! She was a whore anyway, spreading her legs for—"
Min-seok's eyes flashed with pure rage. He pulled the knife out and stabbed into the shoulder—deep, grinding. "You're right," Min-seok said, voice steady but laced with venom. "I'd have been a better man to her than you could ever be. I'd have loved her, protected her, given her everything you didn't have competency to give."
The father howled, spitting curses through gritted teeth. "I'll haunt you! You'll burn for this!"
Min-seok pulled out the knife, watching the blood flow. "This is for beating her black and blue every time you felt small—hiding your own worthless life behind her bruises."
He stabbed into the arm—slow, painful. "This is for raping her while she was pregnant—forcing yourself on her even when she carried your children, making her fear for their lives before they were even born."
The man jerked, weaker now, blood soaking the chair, pooling on the floor. His breaths came in wheezes, rage fading into pain. "She… she wanted it… she was mine!"
Min-seok leaned close, voice a whisper. "This is for stealing every penny she earned—leaving her to beg for scraps while you drank it away."
He stabbed into the chest—deep but avoiding the heart. The man screamed louder, body jerking in the chair, blood soaking his clothes.
The father wheezed, trying to spit more words, but Min-seok stabbed him again—in the stomach this time, deep and twisting. The man howled, eyes pleading now, but Min-seok watched, laughing coldly as the torment dragged on—minutes turning into agony, his father's breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Finally, when the man was barely alive, whispering begs for mercy—"Please… stop… I'm sorry…"—Min-seok finished it. He cut his throat deep, watching the blood pour out in a final rush. He stood there until the light faded from his father's eyes, making sure he was gone.
Finally, when the man was barely alive—wheezing, gurgling, whispering pathetic begs for mercy through blood-flecked lips—"Please… stop… I'm sorry…"—Min-seok stepped back, knife dripping red.
He looked down at the broken, gasping wreck of the man who'd ruined his mother's life.
Then he laughed—low, cold, empty.
"You begged her too, didn't you?" he said quietly. "Every time you forced yourself on her. Every time you beat her. Every time you tried to sell her. You begged her to stop crying, to stop fighting, to just take it like a good wife."
The father's eyes—wide, terrified, pleading—locked on his son's face.
Min-seok unzipped his pants.
"You wanted her dignity? Her pride? Her body? You took it all."
He aimed deliberately.
"And now… I take yours."
He pissed—hot, acrid stream—straight onto his father's face.
The man jerked weakly, trying to turn away, but the ropes held him. Urine flooded his open mouth, ran into his nose, soaked his eyes, dripped down his chin mixing with blood. He choked, sputtered, coughed violently—humiliation complete in his final moments.
Min-seok watched without expression as the stream continued, soaking the man's hair, his shirt, pooling on the floor beneath the chair.
"You're nothing," he said calmly. "Not even worth the spit. Just piss and blood and a life wasted hurting the woman who deserved the world."
The father's eyes—already dimming—flickered with one last flash of rage and shame.
Min-seok finished, zipped up, then stepped forward.
He raised the knife one final time.
"This is for her," he whispered.
He cut the throat deep—clean, final. Blood poured in a hot rush, soaking the chair, the floor. The father gurgled once, twice—eyes rolling back—then went still.
Min-seok stood there until the last faint twitch left the body, until the light completely faded from his father's eyes, making sure he was gone.
Afterwards, Min-seok didn't panic.
Min-seok stood over the lifeless body for a long moment, chest heaving, knife still dripping in his hand. The room reeked of blood, piss, and fear. His father's corpse slumped in the chair—throat gaping, face soaked and discolored, eyes frozen wide in final terror.
He didn't want to touch the filth again.
Not with his bare hands.
He scanned the abandoned apartment—dusty corners, broken furniture, trash scattered across the floor. His eyes landed on a rusted metal coat rack leaning against the wall, one leg bent but sturdy enough. He grabbed it by the base, dragging it across the floor with a harsh scrape.
He hooked the curved end under the corpse's collar, avoiding any direct contact with the piss-soaked shirt or bloodied skin. With a grunt, he yanked. The body lurched forward, chair tipping, then slid across the floor in jerky stops as he pulled it toward the bathroom.
He didn't look at the face. Didn't want to see the eyes anymore.
Once inside the cramped, moldy bathroom, he let the coat rack clatter to the tiles. The corpse slumped half-off the chair, head lolling, blood and urine pooling beneath it. He poured lots of water on his corpse to get the urine and blood out of his body so he can handle the aftermath perfectly.
Min-seok stared down at it—thirteen years of rage boiling over in perfect, icy calm.
He wasn't done.
He retrieved the knife from the living room, then returned. He knelt beside the body.
First, he sliced off the ears—slow, sawing cuts—because his father had never listened to his mother's pleas, never heard her screams. Blood welled fresh; he wiped the blade on the corpse's shirt.
Next, the tongue—pulled out with his fingers (still gloved in an old rag he'd found), then severed at the root. His father had always spat insults, cursed her name, called her worthless while forcing himself on her. Now the mouth gaped silent forever.
He carved shallow, deliberate lines across the chest—not deep enough to open organs, but enough to mark every place he remembered his mother showing bruises: ribs, sternum, collarbone. Each cut came with a quiet, emotionless recitation.
"This is for the ribs you cracked when she tried to protect me."
"This is for the collarbone you broke when she wouldn't scream loud enough."
"This is for every time you hit her stomach while she was pregnant."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. The words were calm, factual, final.
Then the genitals. He castrated the corpse with brutal cuts—removing what his father had used as a weapon against his mother for years. He let the pieces fall into the toilet bowl, flushed once, and watched them disappear.
Finally, he stood.
He dragged the mutilated body into the bathtub using the coat rack again—careful, methodical. He wrapped it in the old, moth-eaten sheets from the closet, tucking the edges tightly so no blood seeped through immediately.
He wiped the knife on the sheets, rinsed it under the faucet until the water ran clear, then tucked it into his waistband.
He scrubbed the bathroom floor with a rag and bleach he found under the sink—erasing footprints, blood smears, urine puddles. He wiped every surface he'd touched: doorknobs, light switches, the coat rack (which he returned to its corner exactly as he'd found it).
When he was done, the apartment looked almost untouched—except for the faint metallic scent that would linger for days.
He stepped out into the hallway, locked the door behind him with the key he'd taken from his father's pocket, and walked away.
No panic. No rush.
Just silence.
And the certainty that his mother's ghost could finally rest..
The place was abandoned anyway. No one would find it for days—maybe weeks.
He walked away into the night, hands in his pockets, face blank.
The weight on his chest was gone.
His mother could finally rest. The place was abandoned anyway.
After that, he went straight to his mother's grave. He sat there for hours, hugging the gravestone like he used to hug her. He told her everything—how he caught his father, what he did, how he made sure he would never come back. He cried until he had no tears left.
From that day on, he visited her grave twice a day. Sometimes he would just sit and talk to her. Sometimes he would hug the stone and cry until he fell asleep there.
Weeks passed after that night. The rundown apartment stayed silent, its door locked, the body slowly decomposing inside. No one lived nearby. No one visited. The place had been abandoned for years—rent unpaid, utilities cut off. The smell eventually seeped out, faint at first, then stronger.
A/N: If my story made you smile even once, that's a win for me. That's what I want to live for—brightening dull days and reminding people that joy still exists. My dream is to keep getting better, to someday reach a legendary level of storytelling.
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