The Anonymous App (4)

Completely defenseless.

For that one instant when the photo was taken, she looked like she had set everything down—at least, that's how it looked to my eyes.

My sister's like pops up, belatedly.

Then I should leave a comment of my own.

And in real time, comments pour in from other guys whose dopamine is going haywire.

A familiar handle. That bastard seems to have taken the feedback—did my comment play a part in it too?

A comment that makes me think of Ms. Yunjeong. Thankfully, there are no DM records anywhere in my sister's activity history.

It's turned into a full-blown comment war. Total chaos.

…Her activity has stopped.

Wait—the photo she took with the blindfold on is gone?

Did she delete it because of the comment saying her pose was wrong?

She uploaded two photos at once.

The first is close to the pose I saw ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠earlier; in the second, she's lying down with her legs raised.

Don't tell me she's still working her way through the Bitch Slave Pose Compilation?

Most of them egg her on like it's as natural as breathing.

Should I be talking her down? And yet my sister is hitting like on every single one of these comments.

Is she really doing this because she wants to?

I type out a comment and delete it, over and over.

…It's not like she knows who I am anyway.

Seeing that like pop up only makes me feel queasy.

Stripped of the profanity, I egged her on exactly like those guys did.

But nothing has actually happened yet. It's only because it's anonymous that they can carry on like this.

Her activity stops again.

I give up waiting, gather Arin's tray, carry it down, and start on the dishes.

My attention keeps drifting to my sister's room.

And then, the door opens.

I yank my eyes away and focus hard on the dishes.

My sister was carrying a small handbag—clothes unchanged, gray sweatpants and a short-sleeve tee.

Ms. Yunjeong flashes through my mind. No way. Not my sister too?

I turn on Cheat Mode and follow.

The marker, moving in the opposite direction from home, pauses briefly at a convenience store, then lingers at a beauty and health shop for close to half an hour.

I know this is stalking. And yet my feet won't stop.

Then the marker heads back home.

…That's all it was?

All that effort for nothing.

I feel hollow. Chasing her all the way out here makes me look like an idiot.

I've never done anything like this in my life.

Why am I so parched? Since I'm out anyway, I'll grab a bottle of water ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the convenience store.

The part-timer who'd been cursing out "young forties" smiles at me, bright and sunny.

It makes me wonder if that's exactly how she sees me, too.

When I get home the living room is empty, and the bathroom door is shut.

Calm down. The person behind that door isn't @doll_chae. It's my sister.

I turn on the TV and sink into the sofa, but my eyes keep sliding back to that closed bathroom door.

Another thirty minutes pass like that.

My head is still a tangle when the front door opens, and a faint, elegant fragrance drifts through the living room.

Not a single strand of her hair is out of place, and it's the same suit she wore this morning.

"Seems you haven't gone to bed yet."

"Welcome home, Mom. You must be tired."

"I'm quite all right. Did you have dinner?"

"Yes, I had a pork cutlet. Go change out of your work clothes first."

The moment I stand up to take care of Mom's dinner, the bathroom door swings open and my sister steps out.

She washed up. Her skin is freshly smooth.

She clings to Mom like always, and even grabs the protein shake and the apple I set out for her.

Nothing about her has changed, not a thing.

…Struck out again. Fuck.

It's irritating, but I'm the one who acted like a fool.

All the bathroom holds now are the traces of a bath—she even used the tub, from the looks of it.

Back in my room, lying on my bed does nothing to settle me.

My thumb keeps scrolling through my sister's account feed.

One photo and one video went up.

The photo is obscenely suggestive—and again she's wearing the mask and the hat.

The video's thumbnail shows a bathroom.

My sister, sitting with her legs spread.

But why does her body look like that? It's too glossy to be water—the sheen on her skin is bright enough to catch the light.

The flesh-colored device in her hand looks like a dildo.

The moment I hit play, the first thing I hear is the sound of shower water.

My sister, constantly glancing toward the door, teases the dildo in and out between her legs.

She closes her eyes, kneading her chest.

The hand gripping the dildo is speeding up, and her nipples are swelling in real ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time, right there on the screen.

And then it just ends. If she's going to break, she should have gone further than this.

It's far longer than before, too—and the explicitness has escalated with it.

Did she take my comment as feedback? It was like this earlier, too.

No—she's taking feedback from the others as well.

As of now, I'm just one more of those guys.

I scroll through the comments, hitting like.

The ones egging her on have multiplied, too.

But I'm different from these bastards.

Not even a few seconds pass before my sister hits like.

Her reaction time is fast.

To be honest, I aimed for that—her Q&A post on the board had said as much.

Apparently he's not the only one sending photos like that.

…Why is the picture I took this morning floating up into my head?

No.

No matter that they don't know who she is—that would be crossing the line.

I find myself replaying the bathroom masturbation video on loop. It's already eleven.

Her activity stopped just now, though she's still logged in.

The history has updated.

The fifteen-minute-ago entry is the bathroom video. But she posted something five minutes ago too?

No notification ever popped up, though.

I tap through the linked address and land on an advice board.

The nickname is blurred out.

No one has commented on my sister's post yet. In that case—