Huh? This Doesn't Exist?

BANG!

"Find out which piece of trash wrote this filth. Now."

"Commissioner General, sir, if you could just calm—"

"I am perfectly calm. If all I've broken while reading garbage like this is a single object, I'd say that's restraint enough, wouldn't you?"

The Commissioner General read the report laid before him and made no effort to conceal how deep his fury ran. A criminal, it said, was writing a novel. He had snorted at the very idea and started in on the text—and what was written there blew past anything he had ever imagined.

"What? The criminal kills police officers? And he doesn't stop there—he carries out a terror attack on a police station? That is no different from a criminal declaring war on the authority of the state!"

Rage with nowhere left to go, he brought his fist down on the office desk once more, harder than before.

"And as if slaughtering people ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with that kind of cruelty weren't enough, he goes and treats the lover of someone he killed in this fashion? The mere conception of it would justify a guilty verdict."

Watching him, the Senior Superintendent offered his own thought with care.

"Sir... doesn't this read like something the man actually lived?"

"I expect it does. Judging from the length of my career, the odds are high this bastard wrote down his own experience. If he hadn't done it himself, how could the prose come out like that?"

The Commissioner General gave a laugh of sheer disbelief and went on.

"This is showing off. He takes pleasure in the crimes he's committed, and he's proud of them. The worst garbage there is."

"Commissioner General... aren't you judging a little too quickly?"

"Does this look like a hasty judgment to you?"

At that, the Senior Superintendent quietly shook his head.

"This novel site. Is it a domestic one?"

"No, sir. It's an overseas fiction site. If we mean to catch the author, we'll need another country's cooperation first."

"A damned headache."

What kind of man was he? The Commissioner General called up every top-class criminal he had ever met, and it was fair to say none of them had committed anything on the scale the novel described. And if any had, they were already dead, or already locked away.

"No. It's next to impossible, and yet... there is exactly one. But that man is surely dead."

He had put a bullet through the man's head with his own eyes, and he had watched him fall from the cliff besides. There was no way he was alive. Drawing that single face up out of memory, the Commissioner General spoke.

"It shouldn't be possible. Even so, strengthen the patrols for the time being. There's no telling what may happen."

"Yes, sir."

"And curiosity will do the rest. Someone is bound to appear who copies the crimes in this novel move for move. Or a real criminal may read it and decide to follow along. It wouldn't surprise me."

"I'll increase the number of officers on patrol as well."

As the Senior Superintendent turned to leave, the Commissioner General called him back and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"It's possible that man is still alive."

"Didn't you say you confirmed the kill yourself, back then?"

"I want to be certain. But the body was never found. Who's to say? He might have lived through a bullet to the skull."

The Senior Superintendent's face hardened as he asked it back.

"Then... you're saying the person writing this novel might be him?"

"A definite answer is difficult. But if someone can render cruelty at this pitch, the probability that it's him is high."

"...Is there any chance it's just an ordinary person?"

At that, the Commissioner General laughed outright.

"You think prose like this simply appears out of nowhere? If a man can write this way, then nine times out of ten it's something he lived."

"I see, sir."

"Off you go. You'll have plenty to do."

He watched the Senior Superintendent leave the room, then muttered so that no one else could hear.

"The response is better than I thought."

The piece was doing far better than anything I'd imagined when I first sat down to write it. Was it because I kept putting in the turns nobody saw coming, and then made every one of them crueler than the last? Far more ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠readers than I'd expected were horrified by the crimes in what I'd written—and hungry for the next page anyway.

"Then again, that author wrote so viciously that even people hardened on the bleakest misery fiction gave up. How were the readers here supposed to take it?"

A fresh shock, maybe. Something past even that. Turning the thought over, I finished the installment and stretched until my shoulders cracked.

"Hoo. Done. That's everything I meant to write today."

The episode, roughly summarized: the protagonist disguises himself as a delivery driver, breaks into the hero's home, and slaughters the family in hideous fashion before the hero can arrive. The hero, meanwhile, puts down another villain and comes home in high spirits—only to find that scene waiting, and to scream.

"The more I write, the more my mind frays."

Was this even the right way to do it? Maybe the reason that author had ended things on an incomprehensible note and vanished was that the endless descriptions of crime had ground his sanity down to nothing.

I hadn't known it when I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠started, but plagiarizing the thing while still reshaping the story to suit myself was harder than I'd expected. Put the original phrasing in as it stood and the plot snarled; take the cruelty out, and I missed that particular, meticulous detail too much to stand it. Even so, the story itself had needed adapting.

"Because the novel ended with the protagonist dying in a nuclear blast."

He had grown too strong, and too cruel, for the heroes to stop him. So they clung to him to buy time, and when the nuke hit they all went down together. The death was so absurd that I, along with a great many other readers, had sent protest emails. That much I remembered.

"But the author had already vanished, so it didn't amount to much. I'll write this with an eye toward keeping him alive if I can. The thought of a 5,700-character complaint email is horrifying enough on its own."

I was slumped against the sofa, letting my worn-out mind rest, when a call came in from Jiyoon.

It had been five hours at most since my sister walked out the door. She wasn't calling about my health. She had some other intention. That much was obvious.

A sister who had lived her life as a woman would understand this body better than I did, after thirty-five years as a man. I felt an unplaceable unease about whatever she might bring home, but I folded the thought away quickly and lay back in comfort on the bed.

"It's been a long time since I just lay down and rested like this."

I sank into the plush give of mattress and blanket, and I must have fallen asleep—because a table that looked familiar was sitting in front of me.

"Hello?"

"And who are you supposed to be?"

It was not a god this time. A red-haired beauty steeped in decadent allure sat at the table and knocked back a cup of steaming tea in a single swallow.

"Haa. Nibbling at it bit by bit like some miser is nothing like my style at all. So we finally meet. You're the one, aren't you? Well, well... you look like you'd be wickedly good at the work."

Who was this woman? I thought for a moment, and one thing at least was certain: she was not looking at me with anything like goodwill.

"This is the first time we've met, isn't it? And 'you look like you'd be good at the job'—is that a compliment, or an insult?"

"Who knows. What do you think it is? Don't people usually take that sort of thing as praise?"

"I don't believe this. So who are you?"

I asked her outright, but she only drank her tea and wore a meaningful smile, and she never did answer. It felt as if she had no intention of answering anything I asked.

"The shape of the soul is still the same, is it? Well. You haven't been settled and living here for long. Of course it would be."

"You seem to know something. Could you just tell me plainly? And while you're at it, I'd appreciate knowing who you are."

"Next time. We'll be seeing each other again soon enough anyway."

She set down the tea she'd been drinking, smiled, and said it lightly.

"Hmm. Shall I at least give you my name? No. It'll be more entertaining if you find it out yourself."

With that she rose and started toward the pure-white door behind her, and from the sight of her going ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I could be sure of one thing. This woman was, in temperament, the opposite of the god.

The god had explained as much as he could, and what he could not tell me he had dodged on purpose. This woman told me almost nothing, and on top of that she said only what she felt like saying—the worst of the worst. And I was extremely good at handling people of this kind.

"That's all for today's meeting. See you next time?"

"Before you go? There's something I'd like to say."

I called her back as she opened the door to leave, and for the woman who paused a moment to hear me out, I brought up the line I'd prepared.

"Mm?"

"Do you know what an intelligent being hates most?"

I watched the interest kindle, the question forming on her face—and I stood, flung open the pure-white door behind the seat, and slipped out of the space as I spoke.

"First: being cut off in the middle of a sentence."

Surely that was the greatest displeasure one could offer an intelligent being. I was already gone before I could even check her expression, and as I pictured how she must have taken it, a mean little smile pulled at my mouth before I knew it.

"She heard it. So long as she's an intelligent being, there's no way she isn't furious."