Women with Scars on Their Wrists Are Dangerous
Women with scars on their wrists are dangerous.
"Haa... haa..."
Terror. A primal fear worse than death swallowed Han Sol whole.
Being abandoned terrified her more than dying. Now that she'd reconciled with her father and tasted his warm affection once, she could never again settle for fake love from internet streams.
She couldn't let anyone take her father away. Never.
But how? How could she make sure he never abandoned her? How could she beat that woman? Her father had already slept with her.
Han Sol's pupils trembled. Her ragged breathing clouded her mind, twisting her thoughts into knots.
Normal ways won't work. Playing the good daughter would just mean she'd eventually have to stand on her own as his child.
I have to cross the line.
Han Sol had to break the taboo. She had to make her father break it too.
Or really, it wasn't even a taboo. She was a fake daughter anyway. Legally his daughter, but not by blood.
If she just tried a little, shifting their father-daughter bond into a man-woman one might not be so hard.
Just once. Cross the line just once. Once crossed, it's easier the second time, and then the line loses all meaning.
So how to make him cross it? Her father was upright. Full of responsibility.
Use that.
Take myself hostage and demand it...
An extreme conclusion eroded her mind. She had to make her father completely hers. So that woman included, no other female even crossed his thoughts. Only her. Make him see only her.
The trigger could be guilt or pity—it didn't matter. In the end, her father and she would be happy.
Han Sol staggered to her feet. Her dead eyes turned toward the kitchen.
Cooking tools neatly arranged on the counter. Among them, a kitchen knife stuck in its block.
Chilling.
No dagger flies to embed itself... but it's like ice water dumped down my spine.
Not the room temperature. The boiler's still humming, and the bed's warmth lingers.
Yet every hair stands on end. An instinct etched into my bones from 18 years rolling in the Special Security Management Bureau, battling countless villains—it slammed my brain awake.
My eyes snapped open reflexively.
"...Hm?"
Someone's in front of me. Straddling my stomach.
Knees pinning my waist, looking down at me.
Our daughter, Han Sol.
And in her right hand—a kitchen knife. The one that should be in the kitchen.
"...Sol-ah?"
I couldn't process it; a dumb voice escaped. My daughter, holding a knife, straddling her sleeping father's gut. What the hell?
Was she trying to off me for the family throne or something?
"What're you doing right now...?"
Han Sol didn't answer. Instead, she raised her left hand—the one not gripping the knife.
The wrist warmer she always wore, even at home in comfy clothes watching movies together. She slowly peeled it off.
"—!"
The moment the pale skin beneath was revealed, words failed me.
Red, white, dark scabby lines crisscrossed the white flesh in chaos. Old healed scars overlaid with fresh cuts, then slashed again.
This was a barcode. A history of pain, etched by Han Sol's own hand.
"Wh-what the hell... why...?"
"One by one. Every time I thought you'd abandoned me."
Her voice was too dry. Like she was recounting someone else's story—flat, almost unreal.
"S-Sol-ah..."
My throat parched; words stuck. Shock froze my thoughts.
The old me had just kept distance, thinking our relationship was awkward. But she'd seen it as neglect, spending countless sleepless nights carving her own flesh.
"Why didn't you answer my calls?"
Han Sol tapped the scars with the knife tip.
"Lee Jin-ah, right? That auntie—you were rolling around with her, so you ignored me since last night?"
"That was..."
I couldn't scold her tone—What're you saying to your father?—or play dumb.
Her attitude screamed she knew everything. The smell, the marks.
While I'd trained with Lee Jin-ah, eaten, drank, watched movies, held her, and passed out exhausted—Han Sol had waited, messaging me, clutching her silent phone, tracing her scars.
I couldn't even make excuses, just sat silent. Her lips twisted into a smirk.
"All talk again. You said I was precious, you're my daughter."
"That's not it. This dad..."
"My turn to get tossed now?"
She leaned forward. Her face inches from mine. Her empty, dead eyes reflected my face.
"You're gonna make a real family with that auntie. So I'm obsolete now. Fake daughter."
"—No way in hell!"
I yelled without thinking.
"You're my daughter, Sol-ah!"
I reached out. Had to snatch the knife, hurl it away, pull her into a hug.
But.
"Don't!!"
Han Sol shrieked, yanking the knife to her throat. The honed blade kissed her carotid.
"...!"
I froze. The edge dug into her thin skin. A little pull, and blood would spray.
"Don't move."
She glared.
"Okay. Okay, calm down."
Even saying it, cold sweat trickled down my back.
Dangerous.
My experience told me. Outwardly calm, but inside she was hyper-excited. Fingertips trembling faintly, breathing erratic, pupils contracted.
Classic loss of control. Force her down, and before I touched her, she'd slash reflexively.
Blade fully against her carotid now—no matter how fast I was, I couldn't stop it.
"Haa, haa..."
Her ragged breaths filled the silent room. She was crying. No tears, but her face screamed it.
She smiled faintly.
"Thanks anyway, Dad. For saying it."
"Not just words."
"Then prove it."
"...Prove what?"
"With actions. Don't just say you won't abandon me, you're my daughter."
"What the..."
Mouth bone-dry. Throat locked, voice rasped like metal.
"What do you want me to prove, how?"
The question was the signal. No words came back.
Instead.
"Mmph...!?"
Lips crashed into mine. Not soft—no, it was practically a smash.
Han Sol devoured her father's lips like a starving beast grasping a straw in drowning desperation. This wasn't a kiss. It was confirmation.
Forcing home that she wasn't abandoned, that this man was hers—a pathetic struggle to etch it in.
I tried to push away in panic, but she clung. Desperately shoving her tongue into my mouth.
Wet slurps. Harsh breaths. My mind flashed white.
This... a daughter doesn't do this to her father.
But Han Sol didn't stop. Without breaking the kiss, her hands moved frantically.
Slip.
Her shirt strap fell. Bare white skin exposed.
Her hands didn't stop. Slid lower than her shoulders.
Aimed at my waist.
Soon, my belt buckle clicked open.
No friggin' way.
Zip down, fly ripped open. Pants yanked to my thighs.
Cool and hot invaded my lower body at once.
Daughter straddling father, stripping herself, stripping him.
So depraved, so horrific, yet so heartbreaking—was there a sadder sight?
Han Sol's eyes were gone. Unfocused, but gleaming with mad obsession.
This kid right now...
She's trying to rape her father. Trying to get raped by him.
Just to confirm. To bind us together, no matter how.
Abandonment anxiety. Terror he'd leave, delusion that Lee Jin-ah would steal him—it drove her here.
Clang.
Metal hit the floor. The knife slipped from her grip.
The sound jolted me. Han Sol was defenseless now. My hands free.
Now I could.
Shove her off with force. Pin her arms, end this forcibly.
With my augmentation serum-enhanced body, it'd take a second.
But.
What after?
Shove her off today with brute strength. What about tomorrow? The day after?
Lecture her now—would that fix it? Would tomorrow's Han Sol stay put?
No. Those countless cutting scars on her wrist proved it.
She was already broken. Muscle past today, tomorrow the anxiety returns.
One hint he might abandon her, and self-harm resumes. Next time, not a kitchen knife.
Irreversible choices.
Couldn't force her into psych ward. Adult, her own decisions.
Worse, her father treating her like a lunatic would shatter her completely.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't. No way out.