Still Smiling (1)

Oh Myeongho fired orders at every employee as if each passing second were his life draining away. It was the only thing left that he could do. By tomorrow, it might be his own neck in the noose.

"Call them right now and pay the compensation!"

His staff, the fire already licking at their heels, got the victims' families on the phone.

"Yes, am I speaking with the bereaved family? We're calling to arrange payment of the compensation..."

The abuse pouring through the receiver was almost entirely one-sided condemnation. Oh Myeongho, listening in on the call, muttered under his breath.

"Don't want it? Then don't take it..."

But he couldn't hang up. The money had to be shoved through. That was his safety net—or, to put it exactly, a revolting little show.

Most of them went the same way. Refusal at first, then curses, then sobbing, and in the end they had no choice but to give an account number. The dead were not coming back.

Money was a god in its own right, and Oh Myeongho knew that fact far too well.

Before many days had passed, compensation reached every victim of the Luxury Department Store collapse: a hundred million won to each bereaved family, fifty million to the injured. A fortune poured out all at once, and Oh Myeongho didn't so much as flinch.

"See? Money really is the best."

He went straight to a high-end entertainment club, lifted his wine glass high, and let the chandelier light strike the crystal and glitter. It was hard to believe this was the same man who, only days ago, had been shaking as he clutched a gun. The face that hadn't slept a wink for sheer anxiety was smooth and clear now.

"Those beggar bastards. Toss them a lousy hundred million, fifty million, and they clamp their mouths shut like they're grateful. What did I tell you? Me! Oh Myeongho! I said I'd never die, didn't I? Huh! Nothing stands a chance against money!"

He laughed, big and booming, and slid an arm around the waist of the woman beside him. Across the table, bottles of top-shelf liquor worth thousands of dollars apiece stood in a row with their caps already off, and his luxury watch and rings threw light over his hand like a spotlight.

"This whole country runs on money anyway. So what?"

A sour little smile settled at the corner of his mouth. The arithmetic in his head was already finished. An inheritance in the hundreds of billions of won—leak even a fraction of it, and he could live in splendor for the rest of his life.

"Right about now that moron's probably got some actor out there playing the patriot and working overtime to get himself killed. Dumb bastard."

He burst out laughing and popped a bottle of champagne. Foam surged up and spilled into every glass, and for a moment the room was a party again—still drunk on luxury and pleasure, as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had ever happened at all.

Oh Myeongho's eyes slid shut, heavy with drink.

Then the world began to collapse. Everything he had trusted came down, and his whole body started to tear apart. He screamed every scream he had, and none of it did any good. This was a dream. Even dying would not let him out.

Pathetic. Oh Myeongho really was a worthless piece of shit. In public he apologized, he paid compensation, he laid every scrap of overacting on as thick as it would go. Look closer, and he was the most spineless excuse for a man among spineless men—so afraid he might die that he planted a body double. Nothing but a loser who happened to be born into a house with money. He tried to hold the line with cash, but scraps of paper like that couldn't protect a thing.

I drummed my fingers on the armrest and let out a short laugh.

The internet, meanwhile, had lost its mind.

I scrolled a little farther, and the voices on the other side started to show.

The comments tipping toward suspicion came one after another.

It was playing out exactly as I'd expected. Half of them cheering, half of them afraid, clawing at each other the whole way down—and the conclusion was still the same.

It felt good.

In front of the camera sat an old woman, her hair gone white. She clutched her wrinkled hands tight, steadied her breath, and slowly began to speak.

"...When I think of our daughter, and our grandson. Not a single day did I sleep with my legs stretched out. Close my eyes, and I can still hear it. The sound of that place coming down, and a child crying."

The corners of her eyes grew wet.

"I was alive, and still... every day was hell. I'd lift a spoonful of food and it would catch in my throat and refuse to go down, and even breathing felt like a sin. I'd see other people laughing and talking, and I wanted to sink down right there and weep."

Every time she drew a breath, her chest hitched. The microphone caught even that tremor, whole and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unsoftened.

"And if I happened to smile, even for a moment... I'd think, am I allowed to be like this, and I'd cry again. Our children are in the cold ground and they can't come back, so how am I supposed to smile? That thought... My life stopped there."

She bowed her head for a moment. Tears beaded on the back of her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand and fell, drop by drop, to the floor. She held her breath for a long while, then lifted her face again.

"Only now... only now do I think I might be able to close my eyes for a little while."

Her voice shook, and a sob threaded the end of every sentence.

"That doesn't mean the children who left are coming back. Money can come in. Those men can die... My babies still don't come back. They'll live the rest of their lives only inside my chest. In the grave, and in my eyes."

She wiped at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears only ran harder.

"People tell me. You've got the compensation now, so it's over. Stop now. But how does that end? Touch that money, and it's only cold. What meaning does that money have? If I could hold my daughter's hand just once, if my grandson could call my name just one more time... I could burn every last bill of it and not think it a waste."

The old woman's shoulders trembled. The microphone took the sobbing down exactly as it was.

"Even so... even so, my heart feels a little lighter."

Eyes dark and brimming turned toward the camera.

"Because it feels like someone fought in our place. We screamed and screamed, and no one heard. This time... someone screamed for us. I felt it. That there is still justice in this world."

A tear fell. Drop.

"I don't think this was an accident. I think someone moved for people like us. I believe that."

Drop. Another tear fell. It was not only grief. It was the light, trembling release of a stone that had been lodged in her throat for well over a decade, shifted at last by the smallest roll.

"...Thank you. I don't know who you are, but thank you. Truly."

The camera held on the silence for a moment, then slowly closed in on the old woman's face. Deep wrinkles left by the years, and tears running through them. It was not a simple tragedy. The shadow that had wrecked a whole life, and the faintest light of relief felt only at the very end of it, lay over her at the same time.

I was skimming the news when my finger stopped.

I didn't trust my eyes. I read it again, and then again. Death sentence confirmed. I'd thought it was over. He was still alive? A hollow laugh slipped out of me.

"...Is this even a country?"

Dozens of people had died in the cruelest ways. Man or woman, child or elder—he hadn't cared. Everything he did while they were still alive is written down in the record. Bodies carried out in black bags. Ventilators switched off. I had read those articles more times than I could count, and the interviews from back then were still in my ears. The crying. The screams.

And the man who did it? A model prisoner? He takes every meal right on schedule, works out, reads books, even joins in the religious activities. What is this, a camping trip? What kind of punishment is that? Freedom, with iron bars around it.

A serial killer. A man who killed people like toys and counted lives as nothing but numbers, and the world is protecting him and keeping him alive. All because of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this oh-so-fucking-precious thing called human rights.

The victims' families still can't sleep. Close their eyes and that day plays again—blood-soaked corpses, belongings strewn across the ground. That has them by the ankles for the rest of their lives. And the murderer eats well and sleeps well, guarded by taxpayer money.

My hands are shaking. I stared for a long time at the black-and-white face in the article, photographed inside the prison. A single set of bars was protecting him. That narrow solitary cell had become the safest sanctuary of all. They hand down a death sentence and never carry it out. The human rights this country is so proud of—in the end, isn't that just a shield keeping a murderer alive?

I lifted my head. Maybe even now that bastard is eating, brushing his teeth, saying his prayers. Where is justice? Who is the law for? Think about it all you want. It's a question that never has an answer.

Something inside me slowly broke.

"These bastards actually believe prison is safe."

There's something they don't know. My ability isn't stopped by things like that. Iron bars? Thick walls? Prison guards? None of it matters.

My eyelids trembled. I turned eyes burning red on the monitor, and disgust, rage, and hatred snarled together and burst.

"Prison? Life without parole? Cut the bullshit and drop dead for real."

I closed the article. The rage didn't close. My heart went thud, thud, thud, like a beast straining at its leash. The thing everybody knows and nobody says had flipped me completely. I can't stand the sight of human garbage like that walking around with both eyes open. Not even if it kills me.

Go on. Hurt until you wish you were dead. You won't get to die right away.