Hunter Sets a Trap (2)
“Huh? That's weird.”
“What's wrong?”
Yuchan poked his head in to peer at the security guard's monitor. He'd rushed back to the officetel right after disposing of the body to check the CCTV footage installed throughout the complex. Some managers might stonewall you with procedures, but luckily—or perhaps predictably—this guard was a pro at slacking off. The moment Yuchan hinted at it getting troublesome, the guy readily pulled up the recordings.
“Did it break? No footage at all.”
The guard, with his patchy white beard, was the type to drink and nap on the job even during shifts, so Yuchan hadn't held out much hope. But for the CCTV to be completely dead? He'd already reported that stuff had gone missing from his apartment and asked to check the cameras. And yet, with three cameras out for two days straight, no action taken—not even noticed? Yuchan was starting to resent shelling out 100,000 won a month in maintenance fees.
The positions of the likely busted cameras were blatantly obvious. To reach Yuchan's place from outside while dodging CCTV as much as possible, you'd run into exactly three: one facing the emergency stairs, and two at either end of the hallway. And those were the precise ones that were dark.
“You sure? Maybe you just forgot where you put your stuff?”
The guard suddenly snapped, turning the tables and scolding Yuchan instead. A subtle surge of murderous intent welled up in Yuchan. This guy couldn't even handle his own job properly, yet here he was, treating an innocent man like an idiot instead of reflecting. Shameless blame-shifting pissed him off, no matter the excuse.
“Guess I must've been mistaken. I'll check again.”
“Eh, young folks wasting time...”
“Yeah, thanks for your help.”
Expecting much from him in the first place had been the mistake. Checking street cams or dashcams on parked cars might help, but that meant formal procedures—hardly ideal for Yuchan, who'd already broken plenty of laws. He'd put effort into being the quiet, trouble-free neighbor, after all.
Out of the management office, Yuchan lit a cigarette and scanned the surroundings. This guy might be watching him right now.
“Wanna play a game?”
It felt like a child's prank. A blatant show-off craving praise, neatly masked as clever execution. The perp didn't just want a mystery—he wanted Yuchan to solve it. Something twisted and flawed lurked beneath.
He pulled out his phone and called the director.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Yuchan, what's up.”
The head of Cheonsanggye Self-Study Repeat Academy was Director Kang. He'd inherited the place from his parents but dumped most of the work on the teachers, cruising around in sports cars and hitting the nightlife. From Yuchan's perspective, a perfect boss—barely ever showed his face, freeing Yuchan from all sorts of constraints.
Two years back, at a boozy gathering, Yuchan had “casually” approached him, buttered him up, and snagged the psychological counselor gig. Cram schools needed differentiators these days. Something beyond studies to pitch to parents. Kids buried in books did better with someone to vent to—boosted efficiency and results. He'd prepped that spiel, but the director hired him on the spot after hearing about differentiation. Probably because Yuchan had read his Black Box earlier and offered spot-on advice, earning serious trust.
“Hey, bro, mind if I take the day off from the academy?”
“Take three days, crash hard.”
“Nah, just one.”
“You handle it. My head's killing me—hanging up.”
Predictably hungover, as always. Must've partied hard last night. A few more chats about the director's petty woes—mostly girl troubles—and their bond had leveled up to bros.
Yuchan hopped in his car and headed straight to the workshop rental in Incheon.
2.
A workshop rental was your personal mini-factory for the day: oxyacetylene welders, high-speed cutters, milling machines, benders, the works. Looked like any old metal shop from outside. The difference? Urethane floors divided by partitions, so you couldn't peek at what others were making. Mostly young guys renting for hobbies, it seemed.
Yuchan signed the waiver—no liability for accidents from misuse—and booked five hours. 50,000 won an hour. Pricey, but materials were mostly free, so not bad.
What he planned: a crossbow. More precisely, a booby-trapped one. Install it at home—if the perp snuck in for more nonsense, it'd teach him a lesson. If they wanted to play games, Yuchan would counter with something chilling. Traps or electric shocks crossed his mind, but one sure shot felt cleaner.
He'd already hidden a camera in his place. Anything during his absence would get recorded between the bookshelves.
Yuchan wanted an equal opponent even in games. Prey? Not his style.
Crossbows were regulated under Korea's firearms laws—online buys were dicey, risked tails. Better to DIY.
He scavenged the material corner: aluminum pipes and steel plates for the compound bow's limbs and body, pulleys for drawing the string. Test 'em one by one, pick the best performers. Toy gun from the stationery store for the lower receiver—skipped that. Arrows from fiberglass-reinforced plastic rods used for garden stakes. Tips modeled on hunting broadheads: barbs angled backward for hard removal, channeling blood through the hollow shaft for quick bleed-out.
In this era, you could find DIY bomb tutorials online. Crossbow blueprints? Google it.
Yuchan had tinkered as a kid; this nostalgic rush made his heart race. Starting with welding the pipe to the steel plate for the limbs and riser, he hummed a tune.
3.
Build time dragged longer than expected. Two extra hours to finish. He packed the arm-thick crossbow into a travel bag and hit the road. Trickiest part: crap materials. Carbon fiber or duralumin would've been lighter, easier—but free scraps meant heavy. Still, crafting by hand was always a joy.
Straight home. Korea's gun-shy cops made random checks unlikely, but the weight was a hassle. And he craved solid sleep tonight.
Door open, he grabbed the hammer from the shoe cabinet. If the creep had crept in again? Payback time.
Three minutes of thorough search: nothing. Perp was cautious. Camera check: no traces.
Yuchan unpacked the crossbow. Next: a Golden Bug rig with wire and lever action. Stacked boxes by the entry like clutter, crossbow loaded inside. Clear fishing line from the door handle—if not lifted to open, closing the door would unleash a 70-pound arrow straight through the torso.
He tidied the dangling line with nails and bearings, tested with a pillow secured at the door. Lowered the handle—tension set. Closed the door, ducked.
Shhhk! Arrow punched through the box, shredding the pillow. Feathers flew like wedding smoke effects.
“Nice.”
Better than expected. Retrieved the arrow, reloaded, pulled out his phone. Stuff to handle around 10 a.m. Planned to ignore it, but minimize exposure. Five hours' sleep? A twinge of regret, but he steeled himself. Diligence pays off.
4.
Nayae, studying in the hall, glanced at the counseling room. For some reason, Mr. Yuchan hadn't shown today. Morning relief—no facing him after that shameful backstage romp—but by lunch, then dinner, she oddly craved his face. Even without appointments, passing teachers greeted warmly. She'd buried that obvious intent and studied hard till lunch, but learning he was out? Crushing letdown.
“Ugh, so hard.”
She scrubbed the math formula on problem 4 with her eraser. Irritation vented on the workbook. No clue despite pondering. Mark for later, next problem—another wall. Weak in math for a STEM kid; last CSAT had her sobbing over it. Unknown problems spiked insane stress.
“Ha, transfer majors?”
No dream career tying her down—February wasn't too late. Twirling her pencil amid doubts, she meerkat-stretched toward the counseling room.
Her phone blared—Nayae jumped, silenced it. Text. Number deleted, but memorized. Kim Hyunwoo.
Her face drained pale. Fingertips trembled on the phone. What now? Teacher said it was handled. Memories with him? Pure nightmares now. Secret sex tape blackmail—no lingering nostalgia for that ex.
Cautiously checked.
Absurd bullshit. Did Teacher fail to delete the video? Pretend up front, restore later? Despair swallowed her. Meeting that scum alone? Anxiety exploded.
Biting her lip, she scanned around. Tell Teacher. Couldn't handle solo.
Another text.
Still not fully deleted. That stubborn ex backing off at “lawyer”? She'd chalked it to hopeful relief then. Breath caught. Fresh escape, new crush—why haunt her?
Long deliberation, no reply—then call. She cut it, texted back, flipped the phone. Tears welled.
She missed Mr. Yuchan.