The Cursed Saintess Came to My House (1)
It was pouring rain. A vicious downpour, like the sky had ripped open, with relentless wind and rain battering the window without mercy. Rain in the dead of winter. On December 25th, of all days—no snow in sight, just cold, damp sheets of water cascading over the city on this Christmas.
The TV I'd left on all day featured a weathercaster whining about how a white Christmas was out of the question, droning on about atmospheric pressure and whatnot. But honestly, none of it registered. TVs are just background noise when you're alone anyway.
The street outside was deserted, with only the occasional person scurrying by under an umbrella. Everyone else must've hunkered down somewhere, using the rain as an excuse. Motels, hotels, or maybe someone's one-room apartment. Just having a place to go on Christmas made them a step above me.
...Well, I've got a home, at least. I tried to console myself with that thought, but it left a bitter aftertaste.
As I stared blankly at the rain streaking down the window, the screen changed, and the anchor's stiff voice suddenly dropped in tone, drilling into my ear.
The news crushed the Christmas vibe in an instant, and my face twisted involuntarily. I grabbed the remote to change the channel but got too lazy and set it down. No matter where I flipped, it'd either be Christmas specials or this crap.
TS disease. I didn't know the official name, who discovered it first, or how it spreads. Never really cared to find out. I could barely remember when this shit first started making headlines—probably middle school? They called it a rare disease back then, and I just thought, world's full of weird illnesses, and let it slide. But that was over a decade ago, and now the "rare" label was a joke as cases skyrocketed every year.
Get it, and men turn into women. That's TS disease in a nutshell. Cause unknown, no cure. Onset's random—some hit puberty, others change in their thirties out of nowhere. But two things were certain: it only affected men, and once it did, there was no going back. Everything else was fog.
Hell, in Korea, the joke was that if you're born a guy, you either get drafted or turn into a woman—one or the other, no escape. Some guys even wished for TS disease to dodge the military; others enlisted early out of fear. What a world.
"Well, I dodged the bullet there." My mutter dissolved into the air. And it was true. I'd served my time without issue and hadn't so much as brushed against TS disease. Odds dropped sharply after thirty, so I wasn't totally safe, but I was luckier than my college buddy. The poor bastard got hit just a week after making sergeant, spending the rest of his service bedridden in a military hospital.
I still remembered his face from that last visit—jawline slimmed down, shoulders narrowed, army uniform hanging off him as he grinned awkwardly. What'd he say? "Hey, buy me a drink after discharge. Wait, can I even drink now?" He said it so casually that I forced a laugh, but on the bus ride home, I just stared out the window in a daze.
Unlike him, I'd finished my tour clean, and now here I was, chilling in my own living room, gazing at the rain with leisure. Leisure? Maybe too strong a word. Truth was, I was just idle. Had a job, but no real fulfillment. Friends, sure, but none close enough to call on Christmas. Lover? No need to spell it out. Me, alone on the sofa, staring at the TV on this rainy Christmas night—that said it all.
"Should've called some friends over." I scratched the back of my head and mumbled, but it was past nine. Texting now would just scream "desperate loner having a meltdown on Christmas." Still, with time to burn and plenty of people to meet later, I told myself it was fine to savor the moody solitude now and then.
Mood. Yeah, right—in this situation... I chuckled dryly and glanced at the table. A half-filled wine glass sat there alone. Technically, champagne. I'd swung by the convenience store on the way home, grabbing what looked like the classiest sparkling wine for Christmas. But the moment I popped the cork and poured solo, a wave of pathetic self-pity hit, and I'd barely filled it halfway before setting it down.
The bubbles had long fizzled out, leaving flat liquid stagnant in the glass.
At least I prepared for Christmas, right? Got the champagne and everything. Excusing myself to no one, I picked up the glass. Regret hit the second it touched my lips. Flat sparkling wine was just sour grape juice. Awkward to set it down now, I tossed it back in one gulp. Lukewarm alcohol slid over my tongue and down my throat. No freshness, no sweetness—just meh. Like my life, the booze was lukewarm, shattering any festive mood I'd scraped together.
"Ah, fuck." The curse slipped out. I slammed the glass down—clink!—and the last drops splashed up the sides. Decision made in three seconds: screw it, time for bed.
As I rose from the sofa, remote in hand to kill the TV—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang. I froze, remote clutched tight. Who the hell rings a stranger's bell at this hour, in this weather, on Christmas night? Packages came daytime; neighbors were faces I'd never met.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Not once. Short intervals, like whoever was out there knew someone was home and was insistently jamming the button.
"...Who is it?" I stood, heading to the door with a hint of irritation, but no reply came from outside. No footsteps, no coughs—nothing but the rain pounding beyond.
"Who is it, I said?" Still nothing. The bell rang again.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Near-frantic now, my annoyance shifting to unease. Some psycho mashing the bell at midnight? Not a burglar—they don't ring. Card delivery? No way at this hour.
I crept to the door, peering through the peephole. The hallway's flickering sensor light barely held, and beneath it stood a strange woman, head bowed. Tiny. Even accounting for distortion, she was short—maybe 160cm—huddled pathetically in the dim glow.
Soaked head to toe from trudging through the winter torrent. But the outfit: one oversized shirt, way too big for her frame, and thin pants. That was it. Definitely a man's shirt—XL or bigger, sleeves slipping to her elbows. Drenched, it clung transparently, outlining her body. No bra? Her breasts' silhouette showed clear through the fabric. She looked like a drowned ghost.
Logic screamed no virgin ghost walks into a single guy's dingy place, and instinct yelled this was not normal. But then—
She turned her head slightly, wet hair parting to reveal a profile that tugged at familiarity. The line from forehead to nose tip, the eye angle—I'd seen that silhouette somewhere.
Who? Where...? Racking my brain, I peeked again, two, three times. Curiosity finally beat caution.
Click. Unlocking and yanking the door open let in a rush of damp, cold air laced with rain. Her full figure filled my view—worse up close than through the lens.
Wet hair plastered to forehead and cheeks, hiding half her face; droplets—rain or sweat?—dripped from her chin. Lips blue, and barefoot. Bare toes poked from the huge shirt, trembling on the tiles. Hypothermia had hit long ago.
No underwear confirmed: thin, soaked fabric turned sheer, exposing collarbone to waistline. Too abnormal to just avert my eyes.
"...Who are you?"
She slowly lifted her head. Her face: pale, thin skin slick with water, dark eyes—wet and wide—gazing up. Lips parted, closed, repeated. Like she couldn't decide what to say, she finally squeezed out words.
"It's me... Han Junseo."
Small, trembling voice. But that one phrase pierced my ear, freezing me.
"Huh?"
Han Junseo. My buddy who lived nearby. The ultimate insider—way more successful than me, always surrounded by crowds. Never missed a drink, flooded SNS with weekend exploits. And that name came from this tiny, soaked woman at my door.
This chick says she's Junseo? My brain short-circuited. Han Junseo was a guy. Over 180cm. This was barely 160cm, hair to mid-back, curves screaming woman. TS disease flashed—TV'd just mentioned the surge. What I'd dismissed as someone else's problem stood shivering at my threshold.
Yet I didn't slam the door. Wasn't sure if she was really him. Could be a scam, impersonating to break in, or a namesake. But those eyes looking up—some inexplicable certainty surged.
Instead of closing, I flung the door wide. No cheap sympathy or pity escaped my lips. No "Are you okay?" or "What happened?"—nothing normal. Doubt lingered, conviction incomplete. Maybe her drenched, shivering, head-bowed pitifulness got me, or old habits. What came out was:
"Looking like a drowned rat. Get in."
Same tone I'd always used on Han Junseo. Like Friday nights when he'd show up drunk, kicking my door: "Yo, open up, crashing here." Or rain-soaked, puddle-dunked, brazenly demanding: "Lend me clothes, mine's ruined." No suspicion, no pity—just habit. I let the woman in.