Breaking Point
Splash!
The Production Manager jolted awake at the icy chill hitting his face, gasping for air in ragged bursts.
His last memory was seeing Beom-sik's face right before a blow to the back of his head.
Only when the cold water dripping across his cheekbones and down his jaw cleared his vision could he finally look ahead.
He tried to wipe it away with his hand, but his arms were bound tight to the armrests of the chair—he couldn't budge an inch.
The manager slowly raised his head.
Through the gap in the balcony curtains, sunlight filtered in, illuminating Beom-sik with his white shirtsleeves rolled up and another man standing beside him.
"He's awake, boss."
And then voices from either side of the chair.
The manager scrutinized their faces like he was trying to memorize every detail.
The guy who'd first come to fetch him, and the one who'd pretended to talk like a doctor in an empty room.
All of them were Beom-sik's underlings.
"You know me, right?"
Beom-sik asked, looking down at the manager.
But the manager just glared back, water droplets falling from his face, saying nothing.
"Uh... what were those guys' names again?"
Beom-sik started, scratching his temple with a fingertip.
Second jumped in quick.
"Kim Chan-yeol and Choi Hoon, boss."
"Right, yeah. Where are they?"
The manager stayed silent.
Beom-sik waited a beat, then let out a short sigh and nodded like he'd gotten the message.
"Yeah, not ready to talk yet. Seal his mouth."
At Beom-sik's order, Third and Fourth ripped off strips of tape and slapped them over the manager's mouth in a flash.
"Mmph! Mmph!"
The manager thrashed his head side to side, but with his limbs tied down, he was helpless.
Thud, thud, thud.
Beom-sik approached, one deliberate step at a time, right up to the manager's nose—even with his mouth taped shut.
He swept back his overgrown hair with both hands—months without a trim—and stared down.
With eyes drier than a desert and colder than ice.
"Bet you've got a lot to say all of a sudden. But my patience is worn thin now. Get started."
"Yes, boss."
Second, standing right next to Beom-sik, stepped forward with a toolbox.
Beom-sik lit a cigarette and retreated a few steps; Youngest quickly positioned a chair and ashtray for him.
To sit at eye level with the trussed-up manager, like settling in for a movie.
Beom-sik crossed his legs leisurely and started smoking.
The manager writhed like a madman.
Because Second was crouched in front, pulling out insane tools from the kit.
Hammer, awl, scissors, knife, pliers, saw, nails, needles, drill, and more...
Just looking at the lineup was enough to drive anyone insane.
"Ready, boss."
Second spread a towel over the portable organizer and laid the tools out in a neat row, then bowed deeply toward Beom-sik in his chair.
Beom-sik stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and fixed the manager with emotionless eyes.
"We won't cripple you. The boys are rough, but they're pros in this line of work."
Beom-sik wasn't exaggerating.
Kidnapping, confinement, and beatings made up the biggest chunk of the crimes he and his crew had pulled off during turf wars.
Beom-sik had conquered the capital with his fists alone, but when the bosses upstairs gave orders, he'd do anything short of murder.
In other words,
They were experts at locking people up and torturing them.
"Boss, where do we start?"
Second eyed the array of tools.
"Fingernails."
"Got it, boss."
Second, still crouched, turned and picked up a needle.
Third and Fourth forced the manager's palms open and strapped them flat to the armrests.
Now he couldn't even twitch his fingertips.
"Mmph! Mmmph! Mmph!"
He bellowed until his throat felt raw, but the tape turned it into muffled groans echoing in the living room.
As the long needle approached his thumbnail, the manager snorted like an enraged bull.
To steel himself against the coming pain.
Then the needle pierced under the nail.
"Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmmm!"
His face trembled violently as he screamed, but Second didn't flinch, shoving it deeper.
What was truly horrifying was Second's utterly unchanged expression—like he was just eating a meal—while committing this gruesome act.
The sickening rip of flesh around the needle reached even Beom-sik's ears.
But sadly, that was just the beginning.
One needle became two, two became three, then up to ten.
With each new needle, the manager's frenzy gave way to tears streaming down his face, reduced to animalistic whimpers.
Now just one needle left.
Shaking like he'd been electrocuted, the manager looked up at Beom-sik with eyes burst blood vessels.
Bloody tears in his eyes—a plea.
Please stop. Please, that's enough. I can't take any more.
"Looks like you're ready to talk."
"Yes, boss."
Beom-sik, legs crossed the other way now, spun a fresh cigarette between his fingers.
Rip!
The tape was torn off roughly.
The manager's jaw and teeth chattered uncontrollably.
His breaths came in irregular hitches.
"Kim Chan-yeol, Choi Hoon. Where are they?"
"Th-this won't solve anything. Beat me all you want—you don't have the pull to find them."
"So you know how to find them, then?"
"I-I... uh..."
"Don't know?"
Beom-sik glanced down and nodded again.
Clear tape headed for his mouth.
"W-wait! Just... mmmph! Mmph!"
One might think he'd get another chance, but Beom-sik lit his cigarette without a hint of regret.
"Time for hammers, boss."
Beom-sik nodded.
He took a deep drag and exhaled thick smoke toward the manager.
As it wafted between them,
Second stood with hammer in hand, legs spread wide.
Blood vessels bulged on the manager's bound hands, needles piercing nine fingers.
Seeing the hammer, he jerked so hard the chair rocked backward.
Screaming and thrashing wouldn't work on these men.
Neither would wits or lies.
They were the type who could do this all day until they got what they wanted.
Literal madmen.
Tears burst from the manager at the impending agony.
He looked pitiful, but the men before him didn't blink.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
By the time the thumbnails, index, and middle fingernails on his right hand were smashed to pulp, the quivering manager finally lost consciousness.
As he passed out, Third and Fourth ripped off the tape and fetched the med kit like they'd been waiting.
They tilted his head back to secure his airway, pulled the needles from his nails, and started treating him with practiced hands.
* * *
Splash!
The manager snapped awake like from a nightmare, drenched in cold.
He'd screamed without realizing it, now catching his breath as reality sank in.
Glancing down at the fiery, throbbing pain in all ten fingertips.
His battered nailbeds were neatly bandaged.
So cleanly done, he half-thought a nurse must've come by.
"Youngest, medicate him."
"Yes, boss."
At Second's order, Youngest brought pills and pried the manager's mouth open, forcing them down.
"Shh, easy. Painkillers and anti-inflammatories."
Hearing "painkillers," the manager swallowed involuntarily.
But on second thought, meds meant they'd patch him up just to torture him again.
Nothing else made sense.
The tattooed crew taped his mouth shut again and suddenly left the house.
The manager was left abandoned in his state.
How much time passed?
Staring at the tools beside him, his mind raced with thoughts.
Just seeing the bloodied needles and hammer made his body tremble.
An involuntary physical reaction.
Threats of death might've had no effect.
But their brutal torture had shattered his mind.
Alone now, pain mingled with fear of the future and crushing loneliness.
Suddenly it hit him:
Was it really so hard to say they'd locked the two in the warehouse? Would anyone kill him over spilling that one detail?
I should've just told them from the start! The regret crashed over him like waves.
Every tiny footstep outside the front door made him hold his breath; a distant male voice sank his heart.
The weirdest part: this "safest" moment alone felt more terrifying than ever.
When will they come back? What next? How much more can I take?
Time lost meaning.
Then multiple footsteps converged at the door—it swung open.
Beom-sik and his crew filed in, resuming their positions naturally.
Beom-sik sat opposite the manager and pulled out a cigarette.
Recognizing the pattern, the manager's eyes widened in horror.
If that bastard lights up...!
He knew they'd give a chance to talk before acting.
But against expectation, they prepped for more torture without a word.
The manager was going insane.
He was finally ready to spill— but these psychos had no interest in listening.
No will to even converse.
No choice now.
He had to make them see he wanted to talk.
He made grotesque noises at Beom-sik, eyes bulging, head nodding frantically.
Like a zombie.
Beom-sik, smoking and watching, looked puzzled.
"What's with him?"
"No idea, boss."
Second seemed baffled too.
"Didn't treat him right?"
"We did, boss. Gave him two painkillers even."
"Then why's he acting up?"
"Lost his marbles, maybe, boss."
"Already? Too soon... Beat him till his head clears, then."
"Yes, boss."
Second grabbed a needle again; Third and Fourth yanked off the manager's socks.
His face went sheet-white.
Toes this time.
Bloodshot eyes blazing, he thrashed with every ounce of strength.
He had to signal these monsters he wanted to talk.
"Mmmph! Mmmmmmph!"
Maybe the intensified struggling worked.
Second, needle in hand, glanced at Beom-sik awkwardly.
"Looks like he has something to say, boss."
"Not talking yet. Keep going."
"Yes, boss."
Their exchange barely ended when the manager nodded like a maniac.
"Mmph! Mmmpmph!"
I'll talk! I'll talk! Or so it seemed.
Second paused; Beom-sik eyed the manager thoughtfully and flicked his hand.
Rip!
Tape torn off again.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! Anything you want...!"
The manager spat as he screamed.
"Shh."
Beom-sik watched, then glanced at the window, finger to his lips.
"Spill it. Everything you know."
Beom-sik stubbed out his cigarette, uncrossed his legs, and stared straight at him.
Infected People