I Want to Watch Him Die
How do I even put this. Park Ajeong's attitude had changed.
The woman who used to spread her legs like the whole thing was a massive fucking chore, sighing loud enough to make damn sure I knew how inconvenient I was — that woman was gone. Now it felt like I'd been upgraded to the full-service package.
Her blowjobs used to be labor. Duty, soaked through with obligation. Her teeth would graze the shaft just enough to make me flinch, and she'd slosh around with these half-assed wet sounds, broadcasting as loudly as possible that she wanted it over with.
And now?
Her tongue moved like it belonged to an entirely different creature. It hunted down the most sensitive ridge of the head and stayed there, licking with a stubborn, methodical focus, then spiraled up the shaft and dragged all the way back down to the root. No more teeth. No more shallow little nips and half-hearted tugs. She pursed those soft lips into a tight ring, wrapped them around my cock, and used every inch of hot, wet flesh inside her mouth to pull me in. Her hollowed cheeks flexed and released, flexed and released, and the suction that built from it was staggering.
The sounds alone were on another level — thick, filthy, clinging. A wet, sticky rhythm that had nothing in common with the chore it used to be.
The main event?
Before, she was a missionary-only operation. Spread her legs, lie there, done. If I wanted anything else I had to ask, and even then she'd roll onto her stomach with the energy of someone taking out the trash and let me take her from behind. That Park Ajeong no longer existed.
She climbed on top of me, settled into place like she'd done it a hundred times, and sank her hips down. And then it started.
This was not the stiff, mechanical bouncing from before. Up on my waist, she began to roll her hips in slow, grinding circles — like she was honing a blade against a whetstone. She drew rings around my cock, using every inner surface she had, sweeping the entire length of me in a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree stroke. A spiral tightness that scraped along the skin, then a heavy millstone press that ground down and crushed. I could feel myself melting inside her, and there was not a single thing I could do but take it.
I opened my eyes. Above me, her face, hips still turning. Not a drop of sweat on her. Those same hollow eyes looking down at me. No pleasure in them. No shame. Nothing at all. She looked like a professional technician executing a task that had been itemized, line by line, in a contract.
The finish?
That was a different country too. The old version of her would shove my body aside the second I came, a look on her face that said we're done, get off me. Not anymore. I'd finish across her stomach, and she'd stare at it for a second, then lean down and lick it clean with her tongue. A cleanup blowjob was the baseline. Sometimes she even lifted my hips and worked her mouth over my ass with the same diligent, workmanlike care.
I lay there and let her do whatever she wanted, staring at the ceiling, taking it all in. The past week, in the most literal sense, had been a life of my cock dissolving.
A wet inhale. Park Ajeong, who had been taking me deep, suddenly pulled off with a slick sound and let my cock slip from her mouth. She looked up at me with those glistening lips and dropped the question like she was asking about the weather.
"So. You got a plan? When are we doing it?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The question wiped my head clean. A plan? I hadn't made anything resembling a plan. For the last several days I had been eating the food she cooked, having sex with her, and enjoying what I had started calling, without a shred of irony, the happy life.
Okay. Just say something. Anything.
I grabbed the first scene that floated up — some manga, or a novel, or a drama, I couldn't even remember which — and pushed it out of my mouth as if it were a real idea.
"Just walk past him... slip, stab. Done?"
Park Ajeong said nothing. She stayed exactly where she was, my cock still wet from her mouth, and looked up at me. The sheer contempt sitting in those empty eyes made my face burn. I started scrambling, throwing words at the silence just to fill it.
"Ah, no — I mean, killing someone doesn't have to be all dramatic, you know?"
"Hnn. That so?"
Her face hadn't moved, but the doubt in her voice was unmistakable.
"Yeah, yeah — you saw it last time! Slip, stab, done. That's all there is to it."
I clung to my one and only field experience like it was a professional credential. Something in her eyes shifted, just barely.
"Tell me more."
She jerked her chin. Keep going. I felt like a job applicant who had been asked to present the single line on his resume to a hiring panel.
"It's simple."
"Crowded street. You bump shoulders like it's an accident. And in that less-than-a-second of contact, you put an ice pick through the kidney."
"...The kidney?"
"Yeah. Back of the body, right above the waist. You hit that and almost no blood shows through the clothes. He won't even have time to scream. Just a grunt, and he goes down."
"Massive internal bleeding. Shock. Everyone around him thinks the guy just collapsed. And in that gap, I disappear into the crowd."
I said it the way a butcher talks about cuts of meat. Park Ajeong's eyes widened a fraction.
"That's... pretty simple."
"No reason for it to be complicated."
"But a person dies from just getting stabbed with an ice pick?"
"You don't know what you're talking about. Knives are for amateurs. They look flashy, but they catch on bone, muscle stops them from going deep, and worst of all they bleed everywhere. You might as well put up a sign."
I took a breath and recited it the way I used to recite passages from the true-crime documentaries I stayed up all night watching in middle school.
"Real professionals use an ice pick. It's how the American mafia hit squads did it in the 1930s."
"The wound looks tiny. Barely any blood. But inside, it shreds every organ and blood vessel it touches."
"Exsanguination. Shock. Until they cut him open, it can even pass for a heart attack."
I finished and looked at her. She was staring at me, saying nothing, with an expression that sat somewhere between who the hell is this guy and genuine recalculation. I felt a private, ugly little satisfaction. Finally — proof that I wasn't just some worthless amateur.
She looked at me for a long time. Then she opened her mouth.
"Mm. Okay. I get the plan... but I don't like it."
"...Huh?"
The first thing she had to say about my confident briefing was a rejection.
"I want the thing you did before. You know."
"The thing I did?"
"Yeah."
She got up off the bed and came right up to me. She looked me dead in the eyes and whispered, very quietly, in a voice like ice.
Her whisper hit my entire plan like a hammer. What I had pictured was a clean assassination. Brush past, stick him, vanish into the crowd. No feeling in any of it. Efficient removal, nothing more.
That was not what she wanted. She wanted to sit in the front row and watch every second of her father dying in agony, right in front of her face. That wasn't an assassination. That was an execution at point-blank range.
The difficulty just went through the roof.
Anyway. Why haven't the cops come for me yet? It's been two weeks. Are they even working?
I had always figured the ending of my life would be police kicking in the door and slapping cuffs on my wrists. That ending has not arrived. I felt like an audience member still sitting in the theater after the credits, waiting for a scene that was never going to play.
The air in the room was awkward, and heavy.
After that day, our strange little project began.
Every piece of information came from Park Ajeong. She sat at the low table in my studio and started explaining, sketching it out like a kid drawing a map. A rough layout of the precinct where her father worked. The bar he went to after his shift. Every route and habit of his that she knew. She laid it all out the way you'd recite a stranger's biography — dry, flat, not a flicker of feeling in any of it.
"Name, Park Kyung-chul. Rank, sergeant. He likes to drink alone at night. Drives an old silver Sonata. The plate number is..."
I wrote down everything she said in a beat-up notebook, mechanical as a clerk.
For the next few days we moved like shadows. During the day I sat at my computer and searched for Sergeant Park Kyung-chul. A handful of articles floating around the internet. A photo on the precinct website of a kindly-looking middle-aged man, smiling. The face in that picture did not belong to a beast who raped his own daughter. It belonged to some ordinary ajusshi you'd pass on the street and forget.
At night we camped in a twenty-four-hour cafe near the bar she had named, and we waited for him to show. In an awkward silence we watched the window, checking whether his car appeared, whether he was with anyone. It felt like a scene from a cheap detective movie.
On the third night, we saw him for the first time.
He came out of the bar smoking, yelling into a phone at someone. Even from a distance you could tell his face was flushed with drink. He kicked a car parked at the curb and spat on the ground.
Park Ajeong, beside me, whispered — very small.
"Son of a bitch."
There was a cold hatred in that voice that made the way she had first spoken to me look warm.
Even after we got back to the studio she didn't say anything for a long time. She just stared out the window into the dark. I couldn't tell what the silence meant.
"...Are you really going to do it that way?"
I spoke first. She turned her head and looked at me.
"Do what?"
"The way you want. Watching him die, right in front of you. That's too dangerous. The odds of getting caught are a hundred percent."
"I don't care."
For a long while the only sound in the room was the television. I sat there silently begging her to understand what I was saying, to make a decision that had some contact with reality.
"...Fine."
Eventually, she spoke.
"Do it your way."
"...Really?"
"But I've got a condition."
She stood up, walked to the window, and looked out as she said it.
"Let me watch."
And that was how the final plan got locked in. A slight modification of the assassination I had originally put together. I would brush past him and put the ice pick through his kidney. Park Ajeong would watch the entire thing from across the street.
"And make it hurt as much as possible."
That was the compromise. Honestly, I couldn't think of any other way to do it.
Maximum pain. The words she left me with would not get out of my head. A woman who would not be satisfied with simply killing him.
I sat with it for a while. Stab him, then twist it around inside? Would that be enough for her? And more to the point — if I started digging around in there, he might still be able to react.
The liver and the kidney are not the same organ. The liver is a sponge packed with blood. Drive something deep into it and the bleeding inside is like opening a faucet. The thin membrane around the organ tears and swells under the pressure of the blood trying to get out, and the pain signals that hit the brain are more than it can process. Unconsciousness takes seconds.
The kidney is different. It's a fatal target, yes — but it sits behind a thick wall of muscle and fat. It is not an organ that switches a person off in one hit the way the liver does. The pain can go the other way. He might make one last desperate lunge. He might scream. A few seconds of chaos like that could blow the entire plan apart.
I needed another method.
Somewhere in the back of my head, a line from a cheap spy novel I'd read in middle school surfaced. The easiest thing to get. Leaves no trace. Inflicts the worst pain possible. In that book, a killer who used to be special forces loaded an ice pick with a volatile liquid and used it that way.
Inject.
The word kept circling. Just coat the ice pick and stab? No. That's stupid. It would wipe off on the clothes. Almost none of it would make it into the wound. Useless. The killer in the novel had said inject. Which meant the ice pick itself had to work like a syringe.
I got up and started digging through a toolbox that had been gathering dust. I needed a very small drill bit, super glue, and something like a hollow plastic tube.