The Anonymous App (3)

Walking with my arm linked through Mom's, I watch my sister's back as she drifts further away.

The image from the feed overlaps with her again.

Wait—what about Mom?

...I switch on Cheat Mode. Nothing. Mom isn't on it.

The moment my sister steps into her room, she's already tapping that little heart.

Would she like it if I left a comment too?

But what would I even write? She's still my sister. Dropping the kind of filth and sex jokes those degenerats spew feels... wrong.

I rack my brain for a long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠while, and nothing comes.

4 a.m. I'm awake an hour and a half earlier than usual.

The familiar ache... I lift my shirt and an old surgical scar stares back at me.

No way I'm falling back asleep now. Might as well go for a jog.

The living room lies wrapped in silence. I glance at my sister's closed door, then head out.

The moment I reach Riverside Park, a man hurries out of the men's restroom.

A woman in a black cap and mask slips out right behind him.

The two scatter in opposite directions without so much as a glance back.

...That's suspicious.

Cheat Mode shows two markers stacked perfectly on top of each other.

The man runs a simp account. And the woman is...

A common name, maybe that's why it feels familiar.

Her activity history is stuffed with relationship advice threads and DM logs, plus plenty of high-octane content.

Videos of men whose bodies are hidden, only their cocks poking through a glory hole as she sucks them.

Her face is always masked by AI Blur.

The most recent post catches my eye.

There's a photo attached too—her tongue licking a cockhead. That person is over there, right on the bench ahead.

Curiosity dragged me all the way here, but now I can't even bring myself to say a word. Great.

She's got earbuds in, tapping away at her phone.

Just keep walking. Just go about my run.

"Jihoon? Kim Jihoon, right?"

Fuck. Our eyes met.

But how does she know my name?

She steps closer and pulls down her mask—a complete stranger to me.

"You don't recognize your teacher? It's been such a long time."

Teacher? Where have I heard that name before...

Lim Yoonjung... Yoonjung.

Fuck. No way.

If my memory serves, she was my homeroom teacher in my first and second years of middle school.

"Ms. Yoonjung?"

"That's right! Now you remember? I almost didn't recognize you either. You've grown so much."

This can't be real.

The Ms. Yoonjung in my memory was warm and endlessly caring.

During my rehabilitation after the car accident, she looked after not just me but Arin, too, with real devotion.

"Um... do you still live near the subway station? You went out of your way for me so much back then—I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."

"You do remember! Well, you haven't seen me once since you graduated, so it's only natural. It's good to see you."

"What a relief. I'm still grateful for everything you did. Are you out here jogging?"

"Yes, not regularly—just now and then when I have time. How's Arin doing?"

Not a single blink. Not even a flicker of a lie.

That woman—the one who uploaded those videos and photos—is my old teacher.

"She's fine. She mostly stays in her room, though."

"You look healthy too, Jihoon. In my memory you were such a skinny, frail little student."

"I recovered well thanks to you. Arin made it through graduation because you looked out for her too... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It was all thanks to you, really."

"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I? I should get going—I have to get ready for work."

"Shall I walk with you until the path splits off?"

"I'd like that. You've gotten so tall, and broad-shouldered too."

Every time she speaks, my eyes drift to her lips.

"I'm off now. It was really nice seeing you after so long."

"Same here. Get home safe."

I watch Ms. Yoonjung walk away, then follow her account.

...You'd never guess from the outside.

My shirt is drenched in sweat. Walk into the house like this and my sister will be on my case again.

Conveniently, there's a convenience store. I buy a bottle of water, drink it, and head in.

The tension never lets up.

Just as expected, my sister is sitting at the dining table with her laptop.

"Drink your water first, dear. I've laid out a change of clothes for you."

"Thanks, Mom."

Mom, dressed for the office, greets me at the entryway and hands me a glass of water.

Had I known, I wouldn't have chugged a bottle on the way home.

At least I'm spared my sister's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nagging.

She tilts her chin up and looks down at me, but soon looks away.

Water down, then the bathroom.

Damn. I have to drink the lemon water too, don't I.

...I'm still wet.

The bathroom video floats up behind my eyes.

And then Ms. Yoonjung from just this morning, of all people.

No way. Not first thing in the morning—there's no way.

Huh? Why did it suddenly get bigger?

Her post—send a photo if you want to meet up IRL.

The phone camera flash goes off.

...Am I out of my mind? Sending this to my old teacher?

It's only when I look at the photo that I realize I've gone way too far.

By the time I've washed up, thankfully, it's calmed down.

I carry the lemon water pitcher to the kitchen.

I see to Arin's breakfast, and the moment I come back down, my sister is waiting—chin tilted up, eyes cutting down at me.

"Hey. If you're going to work out, you need to hydrate properly afterward. You didn't drink a single glass."

"Slipped my mind. Sorry."

Don't argue back. Just let it go.

Slowly dragging a hand down the back of my neck, I drink the lemon water right in front of her.

She eats up crude talk and abuse from other men, but with me it's still that same look of contempt.

"Could you excuse me for a moment? I need to take this—it's an important call."

The moment Mom picks up, my sister presses a finger to the center of her lips and stares at me.

You pick the fight first, and now I'm the one who has to shut up? I know that much without being told.

I can't make heads or tails of the call itself. Her personal phone sits on the table as well.

"Looks like you'll be closing the contract soon, Mom?"

"That's how it's shaping up. I may be working late for a while. Don't wait up for me—make sure you three have dinner."

"Okay, don't worry. We'll take care of ourselves."

After breakfast, Mom stands at the mirror, reapplying her tint over and over.

She looks especially strained today. Whatever's weighing on her before this big deal, it must be enormous.

I watch mother and daughter leave the house together.

Midway out the door, my sister turns back—arms crossed.

"Hey. Buy some apples and have them ready."

"Understood."

"...The bananas are way too old. Just in case. There's a fruit stand in front of the building."

"I'll ask for the freshest ones."

Maybe it's because I'm so meek about it, but that cold stare softens just a little.

My sister follows Mom out.

Back in my room, I turn on my phone.

Ms. Yoonjung's account.

...Forget it. That's my teacher.

Instead, I scroll through my sister's activity history—still within one kilometer.

A worry-counseling board? Something about it catches my eye.

The marker vanished. But what does that even mean? I like being ruined?

The account activity began six months ago. A history of watching sadistic videos, and posts that defy comprehension.

...What a slut.

I replay the video where she writes her username with her ass.

The comments are depraved beyond belief—and my sister liked one of them.

What would happen if I left a comment?

She says she wants to be ruined.

I type one out and delete it. Over and over.

What is wrong with me.

She won't know it's me anyway. Just write it.

I ended up writing it in casual speech. It's neither an insult nor a sex joke, so why is my heart pounding like this?

She's probably in the middle of a lecture—she won't see it for a while.

She saw it already?

In that case... should I comment on another post too?

It's already almost 12:10. Time really does fly.

Arin's lunch comes first. I'll start with the frozen pork cutlets I bought yesterday.

No sooner have I finished setting up than the familiar VTuber voice carries in from far off.

I thought she was coming down early, but no—right on schedule, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as always.

Same as every day, Arin in her mask and hoodie settles into the dining chair with her tablet.

"Still going strong, huh."

Mask off, Arin doesn't react at all—just eats her warm pork cutlet while glued to the tablet.

The VTuber's voice is suddenly drowned out by an anchor's broadcast—it has to be breaking news.

"Video donation."

"Send something a little more normal next time. You scared me half to death. And I don't mean just me."

It's been so long since I heard Arin's actual voice.

Someone out there is donating news reports to her stream.

But something about the content nags at me.

No way. It couldn't be.

Before long, Arin leaves half her pork cutlet untouched, pulls her mask back on, and disappears upstairs.

That unsettled feeling won't leave me, even as I clean up.

I should rest for a bit. Way too much has happened since dawn.

I wipe cold sweat from my forehead and open my eyes.

The same dream again.

I don't want to get up. Maybe I'll just scan the area with Cheat Mode for a while.

When I check my phone, it's already six.

The apples. I completely forgot about buying apples.

Out in the living room, my sister is tapping away at her laptop on the recliner.

"You were in your room all day?"

"Couldn't sleep last night. After lunch and the dishes I lay down for a bit, and suddenly it's this late."

"I got the apples. They're in the fridge—make sure they go out with Mom's dinner."

Slowly dragging a hand down the back of my neck, I give a sheepish grin.

What a relief. No fruit run needed after all.

While making dinner, I keep an eye on my sister.

She's changed clothes—gray sweatpants and a short-sleeve tee.

A hint of belly peeking out, too.

"Mint chocolate chip, right?"

"You don't get any of mine."

The arrogant look, the imperious gaze—all the same. And yet, somehow, she seems... easier to handle now?

I can't explain it.

I finish serving Arin's dinner, and I'm about to head downstairs when I stop.

...If I comment right now, couldn't I watch my sister react in real time?

I carefully leave a comment on the post with the photo of her on her knees, masked and blindfolded, waiting.

I watch my sister from the kitchen as I eat.

A moment later, she—who'd been tapping away at her laptop the whole time—checks her phone.

...She just liked it. Right in front of my eyes.

No like on the reply, though.

My sister sets her phone down, closes her laptop, and heads straight for her room.

Did she just blow me off?

I open my sister's feed immediately.

In the photo uploaded just moments ago, my sister is replicating pose number 2 from the Bitch Slave Pose Compilation I'd seen before—down to every detail.

Wait. The clothes hanging there are the gray sweatpants and short-sleeve tee she was wearing just now.

And this—this is the pose the commenters told her to fix.

My sister's room. Barely ten meters away.

The realization hits me, late as ever.

She didn't ignore my comment.

@doll_chae simply answered my request for more.