A Rotten Drop (1)

I set to work at once, digging up whatever I could find on Kang Moojin.

Blogs and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rest of the usual internet clutter turned up nothing worth a damn. I killed the window and opened YouTube.

When it came to dirt on criminals, this was the place. Lately, it was the most useful app I owned.

The sheer volume of information packed into this one channel was staggering—enough to make you click your tongue. They knew about this, too?

With a subscriber count like his, there were even halfway credible comments floating around, wondering whether the man behind the channel wasn't someone who worked in the field.

Sure enough, Kang Moojin was in there. I hit play and started forcing every last detail about this maggot into my head.

And those were only the ones lucky enough to survive and find a voice. There could easily be more. With the ability that bastard had, swallowing a victim without leaving a trace was far too easy.

The longer it went on—the trembling voices in the video, the tears, the broken little sentences—the harder my teeth ground together.

What the hell had anyone been doing while it came to this? The ability was a hard one to catch, sure. That didn't mean there had been no way at all.

The video kept playing, and every new fact made me feel like my insides were about to boil over.

That piece of shit Kang Moojin had already been named a suspect more than once. Every single time, he walked on the fine-sounding excuse of insufficient evidence. This beautiful country of ours did what it always does—moved to bury the case, the way you do for a precious A-rank hunter.

The Association and his guild had approached the investigation with all the warmth of dishwater. He'd almost certainly greased the palms of those exalted prosecutors and police. Otherwise, how the hell does a bastard like that walk out clean?

Even this arrest smelled forced, dragged out only because public opinion had turned sour. Spark some other incident, yank the crowd's eyes elsewhere, and hand him a slap on the wrist where neither mouse nor bird would notice. An obvious script. The way it always went.

What an absolute piece of shit. Yeah. You're done.

I found his photo at once. Befitting a distinguished A-rank hunter, that washbasin of a face wasn't hard to track down. I shut the phone off and opened my Status Window.

A chance to wreck a piece of trash—and to test whether this ability worked on the awakened, too.

A bastard who doesn't even deserve a trial. Go on, then. Try slipping out of this one too. If you can.

I lay back on the bed and looked into the Curse Kaleidoscope.

The Awakened Detention Center.

The exterior was armed to the teeth, but the air that filled the inside was loose in a way no one could quite name.

Kang Moojin was an ordinary man in his forties. His hair was thinning in patches, and he had a bit of a gut. The sort of face that, if you passed him on the street, would make you wonder whether that man could really be a criminal.

But he was an A-rank hunter.

On that fact alone, dozens of detectives from the Awakened Division kept their distance and watched their step. Not one of them could easily draw near.

Kang Moojin sat with his legs crossed, arms folded, wearing an attitude that made it impossible to tell whether this was a prison or a lounge. The corner of his mouth was lifted. Not a trace of guilt on that face. If anything, it was a brazen smile, as if he were the king of this ward.

That was when the door opened and a guild member came in. Low-rank, at a glance. The moment he stood before Kang Moojin, he bent at the waist and started bowing and scraping.

"Who the hell are you? If you're not an officer, why'd they send a worthless shit like you?"

"The Master's a bit busy, sir. Please try to understand."

Kang Moojin let out a sigh, as if the whole thing were absurd.

"Just hold on a little longer, boss. Public opinion's ugly right now, that's all. You'll be out soon. The Guild Master and the Association President are already moving, so wait just a bit."

He snorted.

"Fuck. Why me? Plenty of other hunter bastards are out there screwing around and raising all kinds of hell. Why's it my turn again?"

The guild member nodded in a hurry.

"Yes, boss. You're right. Truth is, everyone plays around the same way... You just stand out more because you're A-rank. Think of it as something for show."

The corner of Kang Moojin's mouth twisted.

"For show? Ha. That's why they're pigs and dogs. What does that shitty public opinion even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠matter? Don't you know how fickle those bastards are? Today they curse me out. Tomorrow some celebrity's drug scandal breaks, and they'll go sprinting over there to hammer their keyboards."

The guild member nodded along as if he agreed, hands moving with the words.

"Goddamn it. Rotten luck, of all people, that I got caught. What's so unbearable about those nobodies? If they're so pissed, they should've been born proper A-rank awakened themselves."

"That's right. The Association won't make a big issue of your case, boss. This time... you were just terribly unlucky. Everyone's already moving, so think of it as a short rest and sit tight."

An arrogant smile spread across Kang Moojin's face. Not guilt. Not remorse. Not a single thread of either.

Jeong Harin was watching the scene from the far end of the detention center corridor.

Through the window, Kang Moojin didn't look like a convict. He looked like a man seated on a throne. Guards who didn't dare meet his eyes. A guild member bowing and scraping, clinging to his side. It was impossible to tell whether this place was a prison or a VIP lounge.

Jeong Harin's fingertips trembled. The victims' tears came back to her, the shaking voices from the footage that had hounded the case. Those wails were still raw in her ears, and the man responsible was laughing, perfectly at ease.

She was police. An A-rank ability detective in the Awakened Division, no less—and the truth in front of her was wretched. A reality in which even she could do nothing. Become a detective, and you were still only one more part of this absurd system.

Let the Association protect him, the guild wrap him up, and the judges and prosecutors throw up both hands, and this bastard would slip free again. The way he always had.

As ever in Korea, the victim collapsed and the perpetrator smiled. Die, or hide, or be forgotten. All that ever remained was the criminal, still alive.

Jeong Harin's vision slowly blurred. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Rage and helplessness surged up in her at once.

Why is a man like this still breathing? Isn't there anyone... anyone who can judge this son of a bitch the way he deserves?

Her fingertips had not stopped shaking.

Kang Moojin opened his eyes.

A narrow solitary cell. Cold, familiar walls. But the air was different. The stench of blood clung to it, sticky.

"...The fuck."

He tried to move, but his body was slow. His arms hung heavy as wet sand, and his legs dragged.

A dream? No. This was real. The chill of the concrete floor was biting into his skin.

In that instant, from the ceiling—tok. A drop fell from somewhere. He wiped it away and looked at his hand. Red. Blood.

All at once the red spots on the ceiling spread, as if they were breeding. They struck his face and ran down his cheeks. Kang Moojin snapped his head up and choked on his breath. Inverted faces clung to every crack in the ceiling, lips torn open all the way to the ears, making the sound of something being chewed.

Dozens of teeth, chewing all at once. It felt as if his ears would tear.

He reached out on reflex.

"Huh?"

Normally space would have split, or a wall would have opened. Nothing happened. His fingertips only scraped empty air. The ability didn't answer at all.

"Why... why won't it work... Do you know who I am..."

The tail of the sentence shook. A sensation he had never felt before.

Helplessness.

The faces hanging from the ceiling dropped all at once. Then they began to burst, and strange things came spilling out. A child with the arms and legs cut away. A woman with her intestines pouring loose. A man whose skull was half crushed. All of them spilled toward him, crawling free.

They seized him. An ankle caught. A wrist twisted. His jaw crushed down hard enough to snap.

"Gaaah! You—you bastards!!"

Kang Moojin screamed and swung his fists, but his body was still slow, as if snagged in slow motion. Before he could even get a hand out, dozens of arms and legs had latched onto him. Flesh tore. Chunks of meat hit the floor and squirmed. The fallen flesh became little faces again, clung to his ankles, and wailed.

Kang Moojin's eyes shook. The look of the weak—the ones he had always stared down at. The fear-choked faces of the victims he had loved so much were his own face now.

"You... fuck... stop... I said stop...!"

He screamed until it felt as if his vocal cords would rip. The arrogant smile had vanished long ago. The more he thrashed, the heavier he became. Hundreds of hands seized him as if they meant to pull the bones out of his body. They took hold of everything that was Kang Moojin, and at last his tongue was dragged down into his throat until his breath was gone.

For the first time, he understood. In this place, he was unawakened. Nothing but a lump of meat being torn apart, unable to do a single thing.

"N-no!!!"

The rest of the word was crushed flat and cut away.

It was the first time since his awakening. The first time he truly understood what fear was.

Team Leader Kang woke to a ringtone going off from early morning. What case was it today.

He answered the phone as if it were nothing.

"What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now?"

The man on the other end was already rattling on before the words were out.