Meeting the Devil

My body felt heavy. My shoulders ached as though someone had taken a club to them — not that they were strangers to pain in ordinary times, but this was on another level entirely.

"Uuugh..."

Clutching my shoulder, I tried to sit up — and flopped right back down midway.

I want to die.

A plain wish, but a fierce one. I couldn't remember the last time a voice like that had left my mouth — not since the day the illness first struck, in fact. Hearing myself sound that high knocked what little will to live I had down another peg.

"Oh! You're awake!"

The steady hiss of running water that had been tickling my ears from somewhere far off cut out. I tilted my head slightly, and the man walking slowly over from the sink called out to me as if we were long-lost friends.

Lee Suho — the man who'd introduced himself as my manager. Who, as it turned out, was a devoted reader of everything I'd ever written. I had drunk the tea he handed me and lost consciousness.

Was something mixed into the tea he gave me?

"You're taking this rather well, I must say. No despair? No fury?"

"Well, I'd call it poetic justice... Back when I wrote under my second pen name, a few people who caught on to who I was left comments swearing they'd track down exactly where I lived."

I told it flatly, but the absurdity wasn't lost on me. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me who weighed every little detail at work, who combed through everything when a serial was running — to think that same me let thoroughness slip in my actual life.

For someone who's already been through something like a threat on his life, I certainly am careless...

Even now — kidnapped, confined, or whatever this was — there was nothing to fear. The worst they could do was kill me. Was there anything beyond that?

"Haha! Noona, aren't you being a little too relaxed about all this?"

"No. This is simply the most at peace I've ever been in my life. You're the CEO of Mirae Co., Ltd., right? Lee Suho. The one who commented on every single one of my novels. Except — weren't you supposed to be in your forties? Going by what the media put out there, that's the age I expected..."

I wanted to snap back at this punk for calling me noona, but nailing down who he actually was came first. Turning his name over in my head, I finally placed it just now.

A CEO who'd been founding company after company lately, all built on the back of a pharmaceutical firm. A man who sent every business he ran into steep, vertiginous growth. The man whose story everyone knew — he couldn't bear to watch someone close to him suffer from Acute Sex Change Syndrome, so he'd established a pharmaceutical company to develop the Symptom Delayer.

"Ah, I am CEO Lee Suho... because... hm."

Suho clamped his mouth shut as if the rest weren't worth the breath, then began again, his words flowing as smoothly as ever.

"In any case — never in my wildest dreams did I think the author I'd been hunting high and low for was taking our company's medication... I only found out recently... All that flailing around, wasted."

"So? What exactly are you planning to do with me?"

The man thrusting his face toward mine had a build that seemed even slighter up close, yet he felt threatening all the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠same.

"I'm going to make you finish them. Every last one of your works, Noona."

I might have to change my mind about things. Apparently there was one thing in this world I feared more than dying.

The words were scarier than a knife brandished with a promise to kill — before I knew it, I'd bolted upright and shot back:

"Wh...what?"

"The novels you wrote and then abandoned. The ones you abruptly marked 'complete' without ever giving them a proper ending... All of them."

This guy is a complete lunatic, isn't he?

"No. That's impossible!"

"Won't you think it over a moment before answering?"

"Ha! How am I supposed to rewrite all of that... I don't even particularly want to live. ...Just kill me."

And I meant it. The masculinity I'd guarded so desperately had vanished in a heartbeat. The moment I felt what had vanished from me — as though yin and yang had simply traded places — take on a different shape, my desire to live drained away with it. The world I had unfolded to hold my dreams was already closed. With the dream gone, there was no way the will to live would remain.

"I didn't expect you to be this listless... Well then, let's make it a contract, Noona. I happen to have a way to revive that drive of yours."

"...And what would that be?"

To me — flat on my back, eyes on the ceiling — Suho produced several sheets of paper.

"First, the terms are exactly what I just said. You will properly complete every novel you dropped without notice, and every one you marked 'complete' without ever giving it a proper ending."

I listened without answering, and he spoke on as though reading my mind.

"You have nowhere to return to anyway. I told your landlord — playing your 'younger brother' — that my 'older brother' had to rush back to the hometown 'because of his sister,' and that I'd be handling things in his place. Your belongings will be shipped over by courier any day now."

Such meticulousness — he'd already done away with the very place I might go back to. The contract terms were preposterous from start to finish, but I couldn't help wanting to see what he was actually dangling in front of me, so I asked:

"Isn't this a bit too high-handed? ...If it's a c...contract, there's supposed to be compensation. What is it?"

"The compensation is..."

His deliberately drawn-out tone made me swallow hard and wait, ears straining, for him to finish.

"A cure for Acute Sex Change Syndrome... Ah — a complete cure. One that could return even someone who has already transformed back to the sex they were born as. How does that sound?"

"...What?"

"There's already a genuine, documented success. Though — due to administrative issues like resident registration — they live on only after filing a death report, or a missing-persons report..."

Gulp. I barely managed to wet my parched throat.

For an offer coming from someone who looked like a boyish young man, the contents were outrageous. And yet I couldn't write him off — I knew of patients who had abruptly been reported missing or dead. And this was the CEO of the very company selling the Symptom Delayer, so I thought the drug might really exist. No — I could be certain of it.

But that was exactly what terrified me: this man knew far too much about me.

"You... you ran a background check on me? No — how did you even get my landlord's contact information?"

"Yes. When I searched the ID from your first pen name, there was an account with the same handle on NyangHub. As for the landlord, I went there in person and asked the security guard."

"Ah..."

So if we'd met with my guard fully up, he couldn't have tried anything — that's why he introduced himself as my manager and brought me here... He's a textbook stalker. I've really been caught by the worst possible one...

The cat-iconed code repository used across the entire world. Naturally, my account was exposed there — I'd been a programmer. And a repository like that would hold my resume, posted for outside eyes... and a resume, inevitably, contains all of one's information. The notices I'd posted announcing hiatuses for my birthday, the birthday itself sitting right there on my resume — a simple cross-check and anyone could have connected the dots.

That was how he'd summoned me, had me drink tea laced with who-knows-what while my mind was buried in the paperwork, and hauled me off to who-knows-where.

Thorough bastard...

Going by what he'd said, this had to be his home — but it was too early to pin down where. A house far too large to be an ordinary family home; for all I knew, it was an office.

"A gender-neutral legal name that didn't match his apparent age, as if it had been changed not long ago. One hundred percent freelance work, no in-person interviews — remote technical interviews only. A non-negotiable contract condition: remote work, always."

Looks like he really did dig up everything.

Every word of it checked out, so I nodded.

"At that point you were practically advertising yourself as an ASCS patient with a fear of other people, so the information behind the account — about you, Noona — wasn't hard to find."

"What's that supposed to be?"

"...Sorry?"

I pointed out the part of his words I didn't understand, and instead he asked me what I was even asking about.

"I'm asking what ASCS is."

"Ah — Acute Sex Change Syndrome."

"Ah..."

When I sank deep into thought and left him hanging, Suho seemed to grow restless and spoke as if hurrying me along.

"So. What do you say? Will you sign?"

"Can't you give me some time to think? You're the one calling it a contract."

"Hmm... Yes, of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠course."

Suho set the papers down on the bed, walked back to the sink, and started the dishes again with a fresh clatter. Once my nerves were off him, I turned back to the documents. Several things caught in my craw.

My eyes racing down the page, I slowly re-read a strange clause slyly wedged in around the middle.

...Marriage registration?

That was the legal institution where two people reported they'd become husband and wife, wasn't it? So why was something like that slipped in here, acting like it belonged?

"Hey, Suho! What's this marriage registration business supposed to mean!?"

"Ah. That's how I get to torment you for the rest of your life?"

"What?"

"If you drop a serial, run away, then file a gender change on your records and swap out your resident number — how would I ever find you? Exactly."

So if we're registered as family, he can trace me through a family relation certificate...?

"Hey. Isn't this a little too coercive?"

Whether he'd finished the dishes or not, Suho scrubbed his hands dry on a towel, wandered over, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"...You ran out on your readers without so much as a notice, didn't you? Unlike you, Noona, I'm not offering notice — I'm offering a contract."

"Mmm..."

He wasn't wrong. I'd stopped serializing without a word to my readers more times than I could count. I wouldn't even pick up when my previous manager called. I just made the excuse that it was only a hobby, and ran.

"Hey! Hand me my phone."

"Why?"

"Did you actually kidnap and confine me? Hand it over."

"Hmm... Well now."

I pressed the little pipsqueak, who would neither confirm nor deny.

"I need to know how many things I'm on the hook for, don't I?"

"Yes... Well, if that's all... Here — a spare phone, activated just today."

I caught the phone Suho tossed me. The screen lit up the moment I pressed the power button.

Should I just dial 911 right now...

I considered it, but there was no need to provoke the man without cause. He wasn't making any particular threats. He'd proposed a contract, so—

There were too many items to sort through one by one in my head.

I need something to write on.

"Paper and a pen."

"Is that truly the request of someone who was worried about being kidnapped and confined?"

"Hurry up."

"Haaah... Yes, yes."

I took the notebook and pen he held out and jotted down notes while diligently flipping through my phone.

First account: six works in all. Three deleted, two dropped without notice, one marked 'complete.'

Second account: five works in all. Three marked 'complete,' two dropped without notice.

Third account: thirteen works in all. Five marked 'complete,' three practice pieces, three deleted, two dropped without notice.

Fourth account: four works in all. Two practice pieces. Two deleted.

And on the account I was writing under now, one work I'd quietly demoted to 'practice.'

Written out like that and taken in at a glance, I could finally see why my infamy ran so hot. The flood of vicious comments that greeted every new release — right up until I disabled comments altogether — suddenly made perfect sense. Laid bare in a notebook for anyone to see, I was a villain among villains, the kind of lowlife other lowlifes couldn't hold a candle to.

He's telling me to properly complete... twenty-nine works in all..?

Setting aside how long it would take, I could only be skeptical about whether it was even possible. All I could do was stand at the threshold of hell, staring at the hell about to unfold before me.

"Hey. That's twenty-nine in all. And you want me to do... all of them?"

"Huh? Isn't it nineteen?"

He said it with feigned surprise, so I counted them again, carefully, and answered.

"No. It's twenty-nine."

I should have said nineteen.

"Yes. Twenty-nine. You counted correctly."

A chill shot down my spine.

...That was a trap?