The Morning Before the Hunt
The woman with the long hair slowly opened her eyes. At first, she saw Ha Yul’s back. She had just stepped out of the bathroom, her hair still damp, a towel wrapped around her waist, head slightly lowered as she stared at her phone screen. Then, when Ha Yul turned her body halfway, the woman caught a glimpse of part of that back. The long, faint scar that ran beside her spine. The old, sunken mark beneath her shoulder blade that had healed unevenly. Two thin lines left above her waist. Traces she herself barely remembered, yet were obvious to anyone else’s eyes.
Among the women who had spent the night with her, a few had run their fingers along Ha Yul’s back, only to pause silently for a moment. Some never asked. Others cautiously inquired about the origin of the scars. Ha Yul usually gave short answers. Nothing special. Just something from work. Half truth, half lie. Naturally, they were not marks an ordinary person could pick up in daily life. Nor were they the kind left behind by simply living a rough life. They were the back of someone who had fought, been cut, and survived again and again.
The long-haired woman saw it all but said nothing. She didn’t look surprised, didn’t offer clumsy pity, and didn’t ask light questions like “What happened to you?” Her gaze simply touched it for a moment before quietly withdrawing. That attitude felt strangely refreshing to Ha Yul. People usually fell into two categories: those who grew curious at the sight of scars, or those who quickly looked away to pretend they hadn’t seen. Both were exhausting. But this woman had seen it yet chosen not to pry. Not out of indifference, but as if she had deliberately decided not to ask. Such silence was rare.
The long-haired woman sat up a little. The faint rustle of sheets broke the quiet. Without a word, she reached for the water bottle beside the bed and poured some into a cup. The sound of water filling the glass rang clear in the morning stillness. She held it out toward Ha Yul.
Her voice was low and slightly hoarse, still heavy with sleep. Ha Yul glanced at her briefly. After a short hesitation, she accepted the cup.
The cold water sliding down her throat seemed to settle the lingering fever inside her body. The long-haired woman said nothing more during that time. She only glanced at the phone screen. The short-haired woman was still asleep, but the atmosphere in the room had already shifted. It was nothing new for a single breaking disaster alert to change the density of everyday life. Some saw it as news, some filmed it from beyond the cordon, some sighed and moved on. And then there were those who walked straight into the scene.
Ha Yul belonged to that last group.
The long-haired woman asked, “Do you have to go to work?”
After a brief silence, Ha Yul gave a faint smile.
The long-haired woman didn’t smile back. She simply gave a very small nod. Ha Yul didn’t dislike that reaction either. It was far better than empty comfort or baseless reassurance.
A little later, the short-haired woman stirred and slowly opened her eyes. She squinted, looking around with a dazed face, then noticed that both Ha Yul and the long-haired woman were already awake.
the long-haired woman answered shortly. The short-haired woman fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, then widened her eyes slightly when she saw the disaster alert on the screen.
She wasn’t shocked, but she wasn’t numb to it either. It was the familiar reaction of anyone living in this world. Moorim Agency alerts had become more ingrained in daily life than typhoon warnings or subway delays.
The long-haired woman murmured softly, “It’s barely morning and they’re already at it again… hasn’t this been happening way too often lately?”
The short-haired woman let out a sigh. “The redevelopment zones are probably even messier. There are tons of illegal training halls and black market spots for the Sapas there.”
It was a bit too detailed for something an ordinary person would say. Ha Yul didn’t bother asking. Seoul’s nightlife mixed people from far more varied backgrounds than most realized—corporate superhumans, registered martial artists, ordinary citizens, those at risk of mutation, and people who hung around them long enough to pick up unsettling information secondhand. The late-night entertainment districts sat too close to the city’s shadows.
The short-haired woman sat up, pulling the blanket over herself. The faint mark above her collarbone appeared and disappeared with the movement. The long-haired woman asked quietly, “Does this happen often?”
Ha Yul didn’t answer right away. The room fell silent. In the distance outside the window, the faint sound of passing cars could be heard. The short-haired woman was still scrolling through her screen with a half-awake expression. Eventually, Ha Yul looked only at the long-haired woman and spoke briefly.
It wasn’t a detailed explanation or excuse. Just a small piece of truth. Any more would weigh too heavily; any less wouldn’t reach her. The long-haired woman didn’t press further. She didn’t ask why such nights came, how it had come to this, what she was afraid of, or why she couldn’t sleep alone. Nothing. Instead, she spoke slowly.
That short answer lingered in Ha Yul’s chest for a long time. She rarely heard words like that. The world told people like her to find it thrilling or to focus on duty. Registered martial artists, corporate superhumans, special response agents of the Moorim Agency, private hunters. They were constantly consumed through news, advertisements, streaming channels, and records of nighttime incidents. Commercials, variety shows, interviews. On internet communities they were half-treated like celebrities, and in bars, clubs, and private lounges, martial artists or corporate superhumans whose exact identities remained unclear would brush past ordinary people.
People feared martial artists while yearning for them. Danger and sensuality were two sides of the same coin. This was especially true for strong female martial artists—dangerous, beautiful beings that smelled of blood yet remained captivating. The gazes drawn to them, the curiosity to get closer, the desire to touch despite knowing the risk. Spending a night with someone like that was no longer a hidden transgression. It had been the same for Ha Yul.
After a hunt, she slept holding a woman—or women. A habit that couldn’t be explained by desire alone. It was a way to calm her overstimulated nerves with human body heat, to cool the violence boiling inside her. Not hands that tore flesh, but arms that slowly wrapped around a sleeping person’s back. A shabby, quiet method to remain human. She didn’t preach about it like some grand philosophy. She simply kept repeating it.
The short-haired woman spoke in a hoarse voice, “Once that disaster alert pops up, everyone’s going to start uploading videos. The morning commute is going to be chaos again.”
the long-haired woman said.
The short-haired woman frowned.
At those words, Ha Yul turned her gaze toward the window. Some people bled inside the cordon while others picked out triangle kimbap at a convenience store just across the line. The broadcast played emergency alerts, onlookers filmed videos, corporations advertised mutation suppressants, and when night fell, someone would sit at a bar and approach a strong female martial artist. Everyone knew the world was breaking, yet daily life kept rolling on. Maybe that was why the scent of other people became even more important.
Ha Yul slowly stood up. It was time to move. The loose morning ended here. She picked up her clothes from beside the bed and began dressing one piece at a time. Shirt, slacks, belt. Just before she put on her coat, the long-haired woman spoke.
When Ha Yul turned, the woman gestured to indicate that some of her damp hair was stuck to her back. Ha Yul casually brushed it away. The long-haired woman looked at her back again for a very brief moment. Her gaze remained quiet and asked for nothing. Ha Yul couldn’t quite name whether she felt grateful or something else, but it wasn’t bad.
The short-haired woman swung her legs off the bed and looked up at Ha Yul.
Ha Yul adjusted her shirt collar instead of tying a necktie and answered. Lee Sumin. Yoon Chaewon.
the short-haired woman said with a small laugh.
the long-haired woman added quietly.
It was a common farewell, yet for some reason it didn’t feel cliché. Probably because this woman had never pried too deeply about anything until now. Ha Yul paused for a moment, then gave a very small nod.
As she walked toward the entrance, she glanced back once. On the bed were still-rumpled sheets, morning light, the two women’s messy hair, the water cup on the nightstand, and the screen displaying the disaster alert. Just minutes ago it might have looked like the end of an ordinary one-night stand. But now it didn’t. The smell of the outside world had already seeped into the morning air. The scent of blood and dust, sirens, cordons, radio chatter, cold concrete. Ha Yul’s eyes slowly changed. This was who she truly was. Even after falling asleep feeling someone else’s warmth, the moment an incident broke out she would immediately reach for her weapon. The irony of needing another person’s warmth yet being unable to linger in it for long.
With her hand on the doorknob, Ha Yul said briefly, “Sleep well. Wait, no… I guess it’s a good morning now.”
the short-haired woman laughed. Between her laughter, the long-haired woman spoke softly.
Instead of answering, Ha Yul opened the door. The hallway air was far colder and drier than inside the room. She felt the warmth from within for one last moment just before the door closed, then let it slip away from her body. Now it was time to be a hunter. Yet the coldness of the water cup that had lingered in her hand until just moments ago, the low voice that had said “That makes sense,” and the warmth of skin bearing marks that would eventually fade—none of it had completely disappeared. Because those things remained, Ha Yul was still closer to being human. And perhaps because of that, she would be able to step out once more.