Flesh That Fits the Soul
It felt just like a full-body latex suit tailored perfectly to hug my soul tight—the kind of case that fits a dick like a glove, or a dildo made for a pussy. In simple terms, I knew right away that this was my body.
"Stinks like booze in here. But a real man's gotta have that scent clinging to him."
I staggered to my feet, flung open the office fridge. There was the ice-cold sikhye I'd brought over from S-man's place in jars and bottled up. I rinsed my mouth with a sweet swig and headed out. A guy in a suit waiting outside jumped when he saw me.
"No way... how...?!"
"If you're a client, wait here. Otherwise, wrong address—head back."
I brushed past the typical salaryman clutching his oversized briefcase and plunged into Hongdae's glittering night streets. Whether he was a coroner or insurance investigator come to confirm my death didn't matter a damn.
I picked a hotel and strode in, but a staffer rushed from the front desk to block me.
"Sorry, sir, no entry without a reservation."
Was it my shabby look triggering the manual response, or did he smell the booze wafting off me like trouble and bolt out? Either way, he had prime material for Employee of the Year. Wrong to pay minimum wage to a guy like that and stick him in a nightlife hotel.
I slurped my sikhye, grabbed his shoulder, and gently shoved him aside.
"It'll be fine—just wait. Call the cops if you're worried."
"No, you can't go in...!"
"Only heaven's off-limits to me. Hell, I'm handling your annoying problem for you—don't get in the way."
More precisely, a place I won't enter.
Ignoring his protests, I hopped in the elevator and stared into the mirror like that fateful night. Good—countless reflections stared back with countless Han Daeris. When I reclaimed my real body, the mirror reflecting it spawned endless Han Daeris again. So many had died, yet here they all were, alive and breathing.
"Thought some bum was haunting the mirror."
I mashed down my wild hair with my hands, straightened my rumpled clothes. A few days' stubble made me look like a hobo boss.
"Live like you look, whatever."
This time, no trouble—the elevator dinged right on target. I ripped the door off the luxury suite. Inside, women sprawled tangled with S-man. Stoned on weed and booze, limp as dried fish. Made me realize just how far a twenty-something cuts loose. Though technically, I was one too.
"Money, looks, sweet personality—they say no woman's out of reach. That fake-fuck with a guy hit him that hard?"
He'd gone all-in with these women, probably scarred from glimpsing the fake in his body banging a trans. I grabbed the barely-breathing S-man by the nape—pupils blown, breaths shallow—and dragged him to the bathroom. Dumped the entire ice bucket by the giant tub. Supposed to hold champagne or wine, but they'd guzzled it all in their orgy madness.
I filled the tub with ice-cold water and dunked his head. Counted exactly five seconds.
"PBUHAAAAA?!"
"What color are my panties?"
"Wha... PBGLRLRLRL?!"
I didn't even know what color mine were. Neither did he. Too gay to check.
"PUHAAA! Bl-blue! Bl-blubglrlrlr?!"
"Ghost with x-ray vision. Wish I had that."
Book a flight to Vegas, clean up as gambling king.
"Dead body feeling the drowning pain of the living—how's that? Kinky thrill got you hard?"
"BRRRGLGLGLGL!"
"I could do this all day. So let's skip the bullshit—go our ways. Dead to heaven, living stays here. That's the rule, right?"
I yanked his hair up again. The thing possessing him shuddered out through his mouth. Classic for possessed folks—puking up that twisted, evil energy.
"URK! GUUUURK! OOOOO!"
S-man spewed a glob of nasty black ink-like sludge and passed out. I drained the tub, flushing the ghost down the sewer. Straight to heaven or detour—whatever, as long as it went. Even a sinner reeking of sewage, Jesus would welcome with open arms.
Moments later, the bathroom mirror rippled. S-man's eyes snapped open.
"Whoa! Boss saved me again. You okay?"
"Always am. Congrats on the weed-fueled orgy marathon."
"......"
"Quit dawdling—grab your clothes. Two dudes alone in a bathroom? Too gay."
Stung by the sharp truth, S-man bolted out to snatch his scattered clothes and dress.
I lined up the weed-and-booze-soaked women neatly on the king bed, tucked them under a big blanket. Looked like a girls' sleepover now.
"Boss, dressed."
"Flush all the leftover weed. Saw it in movies—cops hate modern toilets."
Real enemy of narcs: high-tech flushers. Down the sewer, evidence gone forever.
"Uh, leave the girls like this?"
"Don't play good Samaritan. They might team up and send you to jail."
"How?"
"Easy. Claim you got 'em drunk, dosed weed, raped 'em. Grandpa president couldn't bail you out. Think Korean women's rights are a joke?"
S-man snapped back to reality, followed me quietly out of the suite. Down the elevator, tossed an unused condom as a tip to the front desk guy, strolled out free.
If it'd ended that easy, we'd have clocked out and met tomorrow morning. But nope—case unfinished.
We hit a late-night cafe on a bright street corner after a dark alley.
"This mass kid disappearance? Not just supernatural. Too artificial."
"...Agreed. Like my mirror-world self deduced—manipulated event."
"Key point: victims didn't even know the cause. Usually, that shit spreads via SNS rumors, kids get curious. But they just said 'someone told us.' So select kids nationwide knew the method."
"They didn't know who. Untraceable KakaoTalk or texts sparked interest, they tried it."
"Seize their phones, track sender? You're ex-S Group—tech feasible?"
"Impossible. Burner phones or disposable accounts? Useless. Culprit wouldn't leave traces. Supernatural involved? Modern tech can't touch it."
"Fucked."
I sipped sugar-bomb coffee, eyed the terrace crowd. Moths to nightlife flames. Spotted some staring at us by the window. I saw their sins.
"One thing's sure—they knew about us."
"...How?"
"Illegal doc hit the office. License-stripped quack slinging underground treatments. Sent to check my status."
"Knew you'd die tonight, sent him?"
"Precisely: if I missed the first mirror world deadline, the fake in my body dies—my body dies too."
But countless Han Daeris realized they were illusions and suicided for the real me. Perfect timing—fake croaked, I slipped right back in.
"Chilling. Not just murder... supernatural-assisted hit? Wait...!"
"Not your family. Checked their sins—no link to that quack."
He hadn't sinned with S-man's kin either. Problem: peeking sins showed no connections.
"Quack got untraceable Kakao from someone: 'Confirm corpse, get 100 mil—10 mil upfront.' That account? Burner, like you said."
Finished coffee, scanned street again. Stares gone.
"We're bold but sloppy on caution."
"Realizing now?"
"Hire another employee. Got a candidate."
"No pay from this case—afford salary?"
"We got passion pay."
Boss loves it, employees must too, right? I chuckled bitterly, recalling the coin laundry grudge.