The Hunter Sets a Trap 1
Yuchan didn't believe in God. In his view, God was nothing more than the protagonist of a fanciful dream concocted by mortals desperate to append some hope of an afterlife to their deaths. Ghosts, as God's inferior knockoffs, were even less worthy of his faith or fear. In this world, humans killed humans, raped humans, deceived humans, and oppressed humans. From time immemorial, the entity that had slaughtered the most humans wasn't some vague abstraction called God—it was other humans. So Yuchan was certain this was the work of one of his own kind.
The blade of the thick Chinese cleaver gripped tightly in his hand let out a metallic rasp. The entire edge was forged from steel, with the weight concentrated at the tip, giving it the reassuring heft of a small ax. If the opponent had flesh and blood, all he had to do was kill them. Yuchan moved forward on tiptoe, cautious as ever. His large frame was deceptively agile thanks to innate athleticism—no sound escaped him, like a cat prowling an alley.
He first checked the bathtub where the body had been laid out. Flicking on the bathroom light, he pulled back the simple white polyester shower curtain. The tub was filled with half-melted ice chunks floating around, undissolved sodium nitrite settled at the bottom, and congealed lumps of white fat bobbing on the surface—likely spilled from inside the corpse. It was the expected outcome, but he didn't let his guard down. Assuming the perpetrator who did this was still hiding in the house, why go to such lengths? To stoke fear. Fear, one of humanity's evolved emotions for detecting crises, was unparalleled for the initial jolt—but utterly useless for any real countermeasures, making it one of the most needless feelings of all. Limbs go numb, the body freezes in tension, turning you into easy prey compared to your normal self. Or perhaps they simply wanted to savor Yuchan scrambling in panic. But this method was inefficient. If they'd hidden in the shoe cabinet, say, and struck the back of his head the instant he opened the door oblivious to danger—even Yuchan couldn't have dodged that. An ambush after such blatant warning was meaningless. This was just playful whimsy born from idle amusement.
Once his thoughts reached that point, Yuchan was half-convinced the culprit wasn't here. He strode out of the bathroom without hesitation and headed straight for the table. In Yuchan's barren home—without even a TV or computer—this was the one piece of furniture that lent a touch of human habitation. Now it felt utterly alien. Was it the Halloween-like decor? The upper body, gutted and soaked for days in ice water and preservatives, had turned ghostly white without blood, like plaster. The prominent purple veins here and there screamed that this wasn't some still-life torso but a human corpse.
"This is a hassle."
Drawing closer unleashed a stench of rotting meat, worse than before. He prodded the skin, now tougher than tanned leather—it was still faintly warm. Left out at room temperature for a while. Fluids had leaked from the body, making the chair slick. He'd already drained all the bodily fluids; this was probably preservative-laced bathwater. Yuchan sighed. More cleaning to deal with. He'd have to snag a spare chair from the academy. He'd been away from home for about 40 hours: slept at the cram school the first night after raping Nayae, then met Yujin without returning, then raped Nayae again. Within those 40 hours, the perp had brazenly placed the body on the chair and left.
"What an idle bastard."
The problem was he had no idea why. Scratching his head, Yuchan first dumped the body into the kimchi container he'd just brought in. He had a habit of pondering at the table, but with the chair like this, no dice. He opened the window and lit a cigarette. The night view from the officetel was a blaze of light, bright as day—neon signs from billboards didn't reach the alleys, which plunged into deep, ocean-like darkness, ready to swallow anything. A dizzying vertigo hit him. Had the hidden camera been in his place, not Nayae's? If so, catching the perp would've been a breeze.
Sudden inspiration struck—Yuchan headed to the utility room. Rummaging the shelf above the washer, he pulled out a dusty radio frequency detector. An older model, but with excellent bandwidth; expensive stuff he'd used once before and forgotten. Anyone pulling off stunts like this was surely spying on his reactions. Without constant access to the place, they couldn't use recording cameras or wired bugs—had to be wireless transmission gear. Shutting off all his devices, he fiddled the dial, and the walkie-talkie-sized detector beeped.
"Koreans do good work after all."
He swung it around. Strongest signal under the table—he crouched to peer. There, taped to the underside with cellophane, was a tiny bug. He peeled it off quietly and smashed it. The detector fell silent. He scanned other frequencies and spectrums—no more hits. Tossing the detector on the sofa, Yuchan lit another cigarette and grabbed a Hennessy Paradis from the wine cellar. He stubbed the cig in the ashtray and poured the deep crimson liquor—half-empty—into a straight glass. Yuchan lived modestly in his home, car, clothes, but his standards loosened for booze. This cognac was rare domestically; he'd ordered cases overseas at $1,000 per 700ml bottle. He downed half in one go and lit up again. Tempting spice mingled with sweet caramel, clinging thickly to his tongue. The 40% burn carried a supple, heavy body that coated the back of his mouth, finished with harsh tobacco.
And in that moment, Yuchan realized it.
Aha.
I'm having a blast right now.
This city had been too cramped and peaceful for a predator like him—dull routine shattered by this anonymous threat right under his nose, delivering real thrill. Why leave the body out? First guess: burglar. A thief would've called the cops or bolted upon finding it—no need for hassle. Second: revenge. But the victim had no ties. Leaving the corpse to rot showed zero respect for the dead. If they wanted Yuchan's reaction recorded for punishment, they'd have used a camera, not some vague bug. So revenge was unlikely. Not Hyunwoo, surely—he'd crushed any will to resist. Short-term, no worry.
Feeling like a detective in a mystery novel, Yuchan turned his mind slowly. Click-click—gears meshing in his auditory hallucination—he pieced together the clues. His instincts and insights were always sharp; he trusted them. Unswayed by stray emotions, he pierced to the essence. Fingertapping his glass, he hit on one possibility.
The missing persons cases in Ilsan. If not coincidence, there was a perp. Not him. If that real culprit was eyeing him...
"Time to stop riding the razor."
Yuchan quit speculating. One possibility lingered, but clues were too thin—imagination would just spin a plausible novel. Better collect what's left. Start with apartment CCTV. Tiny bugs were mass-produced online, hard to trace. No ghost; they'd left some trail. Until he knew how he'd been tailed, prioritize disposal. He stowed the cognac and headed to the bathroom. Donned latex gloves from the toolbox, added hat and mask against stray saliva or hairs. Wanted to dump in bits, but no choice. Like a butcher deboning, separate bone from flesh with the cleaver-ax, mince the meat fine. Crush bones with hammer, simmer like bone broth till mushy, blend with meat and water, flush down the drain—perfect crime. The mere thought exhausted him, but no alternative. He dragged the body from the kimchi tub to the tub, spread a large plastic sheet over the tiles.
Her eyes snapped open. Weekday wake-ups were always by 7, but instinct screamed crisis—Nayae checked the clock.
"Screwed..."
9 a.m. No wonder she felt so refreshed upon waking. That hazy alarm in her dream was real. Missing cram school once or twice wouldn't scold the model student Nayae, but breaking her own promise stung. Lips pursed, she sighed deeply. Might as well study a bit at home tonight. Since she was late anyway, take it slow getting ready. In resigned self-pity, she tied up her disheveled overnight hair—then glanced between her legs.
"My period?"
Too early for that magic. Her cycles were clockwork; this confusion never happened. "Eek! What the hell!" The damp morning surprise soaking her panties was unmistakably obvious. Thought it was discharge at first, but no—sticky love juices. Her body, still fired up from Yuchan's overnight prodding, had eagerly secreted lubricant. Oblivious, Nayae flushed with shame. Some dirty dream? Like fragmented film from a blackout, hazy dream snippets resurfaced: intense sex with Counselor Yuchan.
Trying to recall brought vivid details. No dialogue stuck, but probably filthy talk...
"God, I'm not some hormonal high school boy..."
Wet panties like a wet dream—with him, the man she'd fantasized about while masturbating before. Conservative Nayae clutched her face in self-loathing. Stress building sexual frustration? Faint guilt toward Yuchan swirled. Feeling filthy, she headed to shower. Panties wedged tight from fluids—walking sent cool, teasing stimulation below. She stripped pajamas, tossed panties in the washer. Pubes had grown back decently. Fresh Brazilian wax had made her giggle, like boiled chicken. Smothering a chuckle, she ran the water and sank into the tub. Cupped warm falling water to her chest. Body itched all over from the lewd dreams.
"Haa, I shouldn't..."
Muttering to herself, her hand slipped into the slick cleft anyway. Inside throbbed. Sticky as melted butter in an oven—fingers alone nearly drew moans. Amid guilt, her fantasy partner was Yuchan. Piecing dream memories, she evoked his firm body, low voice. Face flushing crimson, Nayae sank into her private world.