Regret, Ruin, Obsession (4): Itchy, Itchy, Itchy!

Kim Jun-gong was scraping at his wrist with nails already worn to stubs, drool spilling from his lips. It should've been blood oozing from the gashes, but instead, tiny maggots the size of eye boogers wriggled out from the wounds. Even now, he could feel thousands—no, tens of thousands—of them squirming between the veins, muscles, and bones in his wrist.

In desperation, he'd grabbed a nearby bottle of booze and poured it over the spot, but that only made it worse. The alcohol didn't soothe the itch; it just enraged the maggots, sending them into a frenzy.

He had no idea how this had happened. His eyes darted wildly in confusion—until they landed on the wristwatch he'd hastily removed. The exact spot where the itching tormented him, where the maggots were spilling out, was right where he'd worn the watch.

What the hell went wrong?!

He didn't know much about "that world," but he'd heard the people helping them used objects like this to gather or channel energies. This watch, a prize from the alumni, must be infused with all the good fortunes they'd extracted from his classmates. But what if something had gone wrong? What if impurities had snuck in?

Instinct took over. Kim Jun-gong wrapped the watch around Ho-bbang's wrist—the round-faced guy's arm had already shrunk by more than half, skin tightening like it was laced with glass shards, squeezing the life out of him. Slipping the watch on was easy.

"Kahaaaaack?!"

It worked. Ho-bbang's purple-tinged head ballooned like a swelling balloon, then burst with a pop—not with blood and brains, but a spray of maggots. Whatever had been devouring Kim Jun-gong's body had jumped to Ho-bbang.

Of course, that didn't solve everything. He and Ho-bbang weren't the only ones; every member of the Seonggol crew was writhing in agony from some grotesque affliction.

The guy who'd gotten the luxury perfume had skin rotting away in real time wherever he'd sprayed it. The one with the sunglasses sprouted a massive hole in his face, sucking in skin, flesh, and bone from the inside out. It was surreal, human frailty crumbling helplessly before otherworldly horrors.

Kim Jun-gong had no right to call it unreal—he'd benefited from those unreal powers himself—but it felt like a hallucinatory nightmare.

"Gruk! Keruk! Kehek! Keheeeeeek...!"

The winner of the premium ginseng set had chugged a packet of extract to protect his liver before drinking. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Now, he was vomiting not just bile, but every organ inside him, his mouth tearing wide.

H-how? How could this happen? It was fine for the last three years!

Three years? Hell, the higher-ups must've been pulling this shit for decades. They were still fine, so why would underlings like him suddenly hit with side effects? If there were glitches, they'd have blown up ages ago.

So what caused this catastrophe? He had a hunch.

Clutching his wrist, Kim Jun-gong shouldered open the room door.

F-first... gotta report up the chain. If it's just our problem, they'll fix it. But if our weak spot's exposed to the outside... it's uncontainable!

He bumped into a server bringing room service but ignored him, pushing on until he reached a spot where his phone had signal. The VIP private rooms blocked outside comms for privacy.

"Phone... pick up, damn it...!"

With trembling hands, he called his direct superior.

You couldn't just ring up the big shots at this hour; it had to go through the chain of command, even for emergencies.

The call ended, and Kim Jun-gong bolted to the bathroom, clutching his re-itching wrist. Couldn't let anyone see him shaking like this—not until the backup arrived. Better hide here.

"Fuck, fuck, what the hell is this...!"

He wrapped his wrist in toilet paper to hide the wound, then started calling the other alumni one by one—just in case.

"This is insane!"

Not one picked up. Late as it was, you'd think a couple would be awake. Group chat messages, voice calls—nothing. No reads. Dozens of alumni linked to him had ghosted like it was coordinated.

No... not ghosted. Maybe like them...

The prize winners were probably all trapped in horrors, unable to answer. High chance.

Then chaos erupted outside—footsteps, shouts. The server must've peeked into the private room massacre and called for help.

Some hotel staff were in their pocket, so they'd smooth it over. Worst case, cops show; the power-holding elders would bury it. They didn't want the reunion's secrets exposed either.

More urgent: the safety of his Hanseong University Class of XX alumni crew. No guarantee they'd see tomorrow's sun or walk out intact. Fear swelled by the second.

Then his silent phone rang.

"Hik?!"

Startled, Kim Jun-gong snatched it up, clinging like a castaway to a lifeline.

"Wh-who is this?!"

I'm saved. Others might not be, but he'd live. Sure, painful costs, reprimands from above, trauma—but alive was alive. Better to roll in shit than die.

Following orders, the hall cleared of staff. Elevator dinged open down the way. Out stepped a woman in her early thirties, plain long padding coat. Oddly, her hair was pinned up with something like a Joseon-era hairpin.

Her sharp gaze locked on him.

"H-here... over here."

As Kim Jun-gong waved her over, her face shifted. Trembling, she dug into her coat, pulled a talisman, pressed it to her forehead, squeezed her eyes shut, and muttered rapidly—too fast and soft to make out.

She's here to help—why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ritual first?

"What are you—"

Crack! The talisman tore horizontally—and her head snapped exactly 180 degrees.

In the empty hotel corridor, Kim Jun-gong heard a bell tinkling... and the screech of a massive scythe dragging across the floor.