Mother's Funeral (1)
Aieeeeng-! Aieeeeng-! The piercing wail of sirens tore through the night air outside the corridor-style apartment complex. Flashing red and blue police lights pulsed through the window, sweeping chaotically across the living room walls.
"Caller! Caller, are you inside? We're coming in!" Bam, bam, bam! Heavy knocks rattled the front door, followed by the sound of the electronic lock being forced open. The thick steel door flew wide, and three riot-geared officers burst in, hands hovering over their tasers and batons.
"Freeze! Hands up... Urrgh?!" The young patrolman who led the charge choked out a retch instead of a shout. As the door swung open, the trapped air circulated, unleashing a condensed wave of horrific corpse stench and decay gases from the master bedroom and bathroom. It had transcended mere odor, assaulting the brain like a toxic nerve agent.
"Cough! Urk! F-fuck, Sarge! The smell—uuueeek!" One sergeant following behind slammed his face into the entryway shoe cabinet and heaved up his guts like his stomach was turning inside out. Even the veteran squad leader, face drained pale, pinched his nose and mouth, tears streaming as he staggered back.
No matter how battle-hardened, no cop could endure this barefaced without a gas mask. And right in the middle of the vomiting chaos and panic.
Swoosh. A greasy lump on the living room sofa slowly rose.
"I... I made the call."
"Urk! D-don't come closer! Stay right there!" The cops reflexively backed away, yanking out their batons. The caller was Ha Ohu—but in this eye-watering hell where even blinking hurt and every breath threatened vomit, this fat, creepy-looking guy in his twenties showed zero physiological reaction to the stench. He just approached, bloodshot eyes streaming tears in raw agony.
'Ah... this must look pretty suspicious right now...'
His shadowy, criminal-sketch vibe was enough to trigger any trained cop's defenses on instinct.
'No smell. Seriously, nothing.'
Staring blankly at the cops puking their souls out, Ha Ohu marveled at how flawlessly his self-hypnosis was working. Seeing even them break down quantified just how grotesque the black sludge of his mother's melted corpse must be.
But reason aside, his chest ripped open like it was being sawed by jagged teeth.
"Mom... my mom..."
The second hypnosis command—regard Shooting Star, Han Sara, as your real birth mother—had rooted deep too. The app-forced grief clawed at him like authentic soul-searing pain.
Ignoring the cops' wariness, Ha Ohu collapsed to the floor and wailed like a beast.
"She's gone... Dad, Dad killed Mom... Waaaaaah!"
His sobs filled the rot-vibrating living room. The cops' frantic radio calls for backup and forensics mingled with his cries. Soon, a hazmat-suited forensics team in gas masks arrived. Scene preservation and body recovery began in earnest.
And the initial questioning of the caller, Ha Ohu, kicked off breathless and urgent.
Under the harsh white fluorescents of the station's violent crimes interview room, Ha Ohu sat in fresh gray sweats, clutching his head. Across the table, a middle-aged detective reeking of stale smokes flipped through files with a grim face. Detective Park.
"Ha Ohu-ssi. Calm down and listen. You know what's blowing up outside right now?"
ID checks had flipped the station upside down. Fingerprint matches on the unidentifiable crushed man, apartment registry, and DNA from bone fragments scraped from the gas hell—all pointed to victim Han Sara, the rising hero Shooting Star who'd vanished 20 years ago, and her husband Ha Deok-gu.
She'd stayed C-grade post-adulthood without retesting, but her stunning looks and physical prowess had pegged her as A-grade potential, maybe even S. The nation’s little sister hero's gruesome end was nightmare fuel.
Plus, Ha Ohu's initial statement painted her as the husband-killer.
Not national emergency level since she'd retired as a promising mid-tier, but gossip catnip for the masses' raw nerves.
'The Hypnosis App stays buried, even if they slit my throat.'
Head bowed, Ha Ohu desperately brainstormed his alibi inside.
If the world learned Ha Deok-gu had raped and defiled a hero for 20 years with some bullshit artifact app... pandemonium. The Hero Association would declare emergency, seize Deok-gu's phone—his sole lifeline. Cockroach body or not, he'd die homeless without it.
He had to package 20 years of horror and last night's murder in the most plausible real-world lie.
And.
'Can't leave Mom branded a murderer...'
"Hic... Detective..."
Ha Ohu rubbed his bloodshot eyes, body trembling.
"Do you know... why our mom retired suddenly 20 years ago? Rumors flew—secret chaebol marriage, fled abroad..."
He gasped out the fabricated tale.
"Mom... hero work crushed her with depression, mental strain. Hate comments, stalkers, villain fights... She sought anonymous counseling and met... Dad, the counselor..."
Detective Park's brow twitched. He clicked his pen, waiting.
"At her most vulnerable... Dad gaslit her. Used sessions for ongoing relations, got her pregnant with me... She had no choice but to quit and hide it. Scared of scandal if the Association knew..."
Thick tears streamed down Ha Ohu's face. Lies from his mouth, but Slot 1 hypnosis etched them as soul-deep memories, gutting him.
"And for 20 years... domestic abuse... Dad ran a tiny clinic, sunk into gambling, inferiority complex exploding every night on Mom. Why she never fought back as a hero? For me. Scared I'd get hit... family shatter... She suppressed her superhuman strength, took the beatings to protect just me... for 20 years!"
He pounded his chest, sobbing.
"Then last night... gambling debts dried up, so Dad tried selling me off... You know, Shooting Star's son... villains would pay big... Mom snapped, first time in 20 years unleashing her power, killed Dad... then couldn't bear it, slit her wrists in the tub... Waaaaaah!"
Depressed rising hero. Gaslighting counselor impregnates her. Devoted mom seals powers to shield child, endures 20 years abuse. Gambling desperation triggers tragedy.
Tragic, realistic domestic drama anyone would tear up over. No supernatural app bullshit.
No app needed.
Ha Ohu built 20 years from scratch.
"Haa..."
Detective Park sighed heavy, removing glasses to press his eyes. Veteran instincts read zero fakeness in the tears. They were real, hypnosis-born.
The statement went straight to report. Soon leaked to station lobby reporters. The story wildfire-spread through media and communities.
'Fuck, why'd they call that bastard HaMo...'
Slot 1 hypnosis grandpa Ha Deok-gu anonymized sucked, but seeing his statement stick, Ha Ohu sighed relief. The world devoured Shooting Star's tragedy.
And naturally, the sole survivor Ha Ohu's details and mug leaked via sneaky reporter cams, mosaics botched, flooding communities underground.
In the station's victim family waiting room, Ha Ohu sipped vending machine barley tea, scrolling news and reactions on Deok-gu's recharged smartphone. Started as checking if his statement sold to the public.
But alone. Lonely. Dove deeper than needed.
His scrolling hand began to shake.
"...These, fucking pieces of shit."
Sympathy for the horror or mom's devotion was fleeting. Anonymous masses latched onto the juiciest mockbait: the surviving son's looks.
Hundreds, thousands of hate comments and mockery poured in. Turning others' nightmares into cheap dopamine hits—the vile human herd.
'Fuck... this sucks...'
Ha Ohu's guts twisted. Even normals struggled; this collapsed soul in roach flesh, daily inhaling parents' death mockery like air.
'No wonder he turned mega-hypno-scum like his old man...'
Why game-canon Ha Ohu shed all human pity, outdid dad as gen-2 hypno king. He felt it marrow-deep.
Breath ragged, fingertips numb-itchy to claw.
'Fucking cunts... kill 'em all...'
Ha Ohu panted, fleeing to home screen. Frantically opened the Hypnosis App.
"Huck...!"
The rage boiling to burst vessels, the urge to shred humans—vanished. Stress headache snapped off like a switch. Breath calmed in one second. Heart normalized, flushed face cooled. Fingertips settled.
Glancing back at the comments.
'Retards.'
Miraculously numb. Just dry text: 'Oh, this post exists.'
"...Whoa. This thing... straight-up side-effect-free top-tier dope."
Toggle emotions off. Castrate rage. Overlay memories. This cursed app—thought only for victimizing others—chilled him, felt direct on his own brain.
Yet weird relief. With this, no cracking under this shit world.
Ha Ohu pocketed the darkened phone. Time to head to the funeral hall.
But will they have bereavement clothes in my size? Hypnosis-peace let random thoughts float.