The Wicked Are Not Forgotten (3)

The morning news detonated before it had even properly begun.

The anchor listed the incidents in a level voice, and that very dryness only laid more weight on the tragedy.

A tragedy? Or a comedy? Heh.

I leaned back slowly. Sinking into the sofa, a laugh slipped out of me.

Things that had spent their whole lives swaggering around inside lavish houses. A landfill of human garbage, minds smashed to pieces one after another, choosing a little do-it-yourself euthanasia.

Ahh. Does it get any more satisfying than this? There isn't a day I can keep from laughing.

The broadcast cut straight to the next shot. A brief clip of the scene went by—police cars, white sheets, reporters swarming in—and the anchor's voice picked up again.

Photos slid across the screen in a steady line. Faces blocked out by black bars, names lingering faint in the captions, one case after another tagged on underneath.

I folded my arms and let out a thin little laugh.

Yeah. There ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is a common thread. They're the dregs of the species. What a gutted justice system couldn't do, I'm doing in its place.

Search till the end of time. They won't turn up a single hair off my head. Not so much as a scrap of fingernail.

I shut off the TV and opened the biggest community board in the country. I wanted to know what ordinary people were thinking.

Sure enough, the place was plastered wall to wall with the chain of suicides among the Luxury executives.

A faint smile pulled at my mouth. They're all just like me. If I'd been the one leaving comments, I would have written something pretty much the same.

Satisfied, I moved on to the next post.

I stared down at the comments for a long while, then snorted.

Weird, they said. Someone's pulling the strings, they said. Let them talk all they want.

In the end, only two things remain. It feels good—or it's frightening.

Funny, isn't it. Their mouths go on about how suspicious it all is, while inside they're blown wide open and clear.

Whatever anyone says, not one of them is giving up that rush.

Honestly, all any of us can do to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the wicked is swear at them. And for all that, those bastards stay tucked safe under some oh-so-sweet judge. Off somewhere, eating well and living well. That's how it goes, doesn't it?

Now men like that drop an obituary just by lying around. No way that doesn't feel good.

Dopamine copying itself over to you? Yeah. Something like that.

Honestly, I don't think I'm doing this because it's some grand philosophy, or because I'm delivering justice.

I do it because it has to be done.

Commit a crime, and you take the punishment. That, at the very least, is how the world is supposed to work.

I snapped the phone shut.

Rant all you like inside a screen. The conclusion comes out the same.

Trash is meant to disappear in the end. The process is just a little loud, that's all.

Outside the window, it was bright. A sky clearer than yesterday's.

For no reason I could name, it felt like I could breathe again.

I wiped away the quiet smile spreading at the corner of my mouth. No need to let it show.

I opened Nutube and started hunting for today's piece of shit.

The Han River, Seoul. The scene was already a wreck—police lights flashing, reporters thrusting cameras in, neighbors pressed close and murmuring among themselves.

Inspector Kang Doyoon ground his teeth around a cigarette, puffing away. His face looked like it was rotting inward.

"Fuck... again? This time it's the former vice chairman of Luxury Group."

A detective nearby edged over, careful.

"Inspector, the Commissioner called again."

"What'd he say."

"Why there still aren't any results... He said if this case slips away too, he'll genuinely hold someone accountable."

Kang Doyoon crushed the cigarette hard into the pavement.

"Those sons of bitches. What am I, a god? Give me a lead, and then we can talk about catching somebody!"

His fist trembled.

For the past month the whole country had been turned inside out over the "criminal death cases." The press was tearing into it like mad, so the brass perched atop the National Police Agency stayed glued to their phones, hounding them all day long. Thanks to that, every last person on the investigative team was being ground down like a dog.

Beside him, Jeong Harin looked over the scene without a word.

Something caught her eye. It was no ordinary energy.

Cold, and dark... that presence I can't explain is still lingering in this place.

Her thoughts and her mouth were two different things. Her lips stayed pressed shut.

"Inspector. There's nothing unusual."

In the end, Jeong Harin spat out the lie.

Kang Doyoon glared at her.

"Harin, aren't you supposed to feel something? If even you can't tell, how the hell are we supposed to investigate this!"

Jeong Harin forced her eyes away.

In one corner of her mind, a thought refused to leave. They were bastards who deserved to die. And now they're dead.

That was when it happened.

Several SUVs came roaring in, and hunters from the D.K Guild stepped out in black suits. Kang Doyoon's face was just flushing red when a guild officer walked up and held out a sheaf of documents.

"Orders from the Association President. We'll be taking the investigation from here. Step aside."

"What? This is a police scene! Who the hell do you people think you—"

"Inspector. I said it was the Association President's orders."

With a cold sneer, the officer shoved them back. Inspector Kang clenched his jaw and forced himself out of the way.

"This is such bullshit."

There was nothing to be done. The moment the Association President's name entered the picture, it was as good as a universal cheat code anywhere in the Korean hunter world.

One of the D.K officers called over to Jeong Harin.

"Detective. You don't sense anything at all?"

Jeong Harin shook her head once more. The officer's eyes wavered, just slightly. Then a woman stepped forward.

Dressed in the white jeogori of a hanbok, she made it plain what she was. Lim Jiyeon. A hunter with an unusual past—once a mudang, a traditional shaman, who had later awakened. She crossed the scene slowly, without a word. She set a hand against the ground and sniffed at the air, even whistled, as if she were working an exorcism, focusing everything she had and straining to feel the energy of the place.

Every eye around her turned her way.

That was when Lim Jiyeon's pupils shook. Her breathing went ragged, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Ugh—!! Hrrk—!!"

Stark-white vomit poured onto the ground. Her shoulders shuddered as she thrashed in pain, and the guild members came running.

"Hunter, are you all right?!"

Deathly pale, Lim Jiyeon shook her head. Her eyes rolled with terror, as if they might turn inside out.

"This... this isn't a human energy."

Gasping, she stumbled backward.

"I've never felt an energy like this. Cold, and damp... i-it's too scary. We can't handle something like this! Never! Nobody touch it!"

Kang Doyoon ground his teeth.

"What? What the hell are you saying?!"

Lim Jiyeon screamed as if something were being torn out of her.

And with that, Lim Jiyeon bolted. The guild members, the police, the reporters left behind—all of them stared at one another as if frozen. In the silence, the ember of Kang Doyoon's cigarette dropped to the ground.

Gangnam, Seoul. The dawn air sat heavy, and only the glow of the monitor stained the room.

The news was already looping the same footage, over and over. The chain of deaths among Luxury Group's senior executives. Each time the captions changed, the corner of his mouth crept slowly upward.

"...It worked."

The man whispered it, staring hard at the article on the screen. His fingertips were trembling.

Yesterday's papers lay scattered in a mess across the desk—articles underlined thick in red pen, dates and names, charges and verdicts. The hand that had marked them carried a reporter's particular meticulousness.

"This is no coincidence. Not a chance."

Murmuring it again, he closed his eyes. It was as if he could hear a puzzle clicking into place inside his head.

Criminals falling in a line, as if someone were passing judgment without a shred of mercy.

No. More precisely... exactly the way his videos had laid it out.

His breathing roughened. He dropped back into the chair, half sprawled, and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead.

"I knew it. He was watching my videos!"

A crooked laugh leaked out. His handsome face twisted, and a shadow of madness slid across it.

"Now the problem is how to make contact."

His eyes shifted to the side of the monitor. An editing program was open, and the video files he had made before sat lined up in a row—crime roundups, breakdowns of verdicts, social issues. Most of them were material trimmed so the public could follow it easily.

He opened one file and hit play. A calm voice read the narration through. Then, abruptly, he pressed pause.

"No. Not like this. This has to be... something only a person who knows how to look can recognize."

His gaze grew sharper. He leaned forward and struck the keys.

"What about this?"

The corner of his mouth warped into something grotesque. A smile soaked in madness. He muttered, low.

"You'll be able to tell. Something this simple."

He pressed record.

A low, unhurried breath entered the microphone. His fingertips trembled.

To an ordinary ear, it would be nothing but plain words.

But.

Played back another way, the real meaning comes out.

A stifled laugh broke from his mouth. Satisfied with himself, he leaned back.

Who should I wreck next.

I flipped through the news, and still my finger found its way back to With Crime. Every other channel was nothing but noise. The only thing actually useful was With Crime.

Honestly, it was strange. The videos going up lately were too on the nose, as if someone were handing me information right out in the open.

Not that I'm complaining. Thank you very much.

This video. The title was a little odd.

Huh?

A title in a completely different shape from usual. It didn't have that signature With Crime feel—naming the case and the criminal outright, hauling in the rage-clicks.

Suspicion rose on instinct.

Is this meant for me?

I turned the phone upside down, just as the title said. The screen flipped with it.

And of course, nothing changed.

A hollow laugh burst out of me.

Ah, shit. Even I know this is pathetic. Am I actually an idiot? Heat climbed my face.

No way that guy would be this sloppy.

Then a thought cut through my head.

No way?