Chapter 59
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 59
Chapter Title: Monster Tale Specialist Office: Mangnyang Cat (8)
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“How’s his condition?”
Sia, who had been waiting, asked worriedly. Taeju shook his head.
“He’s a bit better than before, but still not good.”
Siwoo was resting in the back room on the first floor.
“Looks like he was hiding even more from us.”
Sia said bitterly. Taeju clicked his tongue as well.
The fact that he had been hiding something didn’t give them grounds to blame the victim. It was simply their own fault for not noticing sooner.
“We thought he was mature enough to handle it, but that wasn’t the case.”
Taeju recapped the situation.
“He was just really good at hiding it. He knew exactly how others saw him. And he knew all too well what they thought of him.”
They had made too hasty a judgment based solely on the child’s mature demeanor.
“We were too rash. We didn’t know Siwoo felt guilty toward his grandfather.”
The moment Siwoo saw Mangnyang, he had broken down completely and begged over and over. Anyone could see it was guilt.
The problem was they didn’t know why Siwoo felt that way.
“Guilt, huh.”
Sia let out a deep sigh. Then she said,
“From what his father told us, Siwoo was a good kid.”
Siwoo was mature. He had his father’s trust, and just from the way he acted around Taeju and Sia, you could tell he was polite and kind.
“Maybe he didn’t like his dementia-stricken grandfather. But would that alone make him feel guilt like that?”
Sia pondered deeply before speaking.
“He must have done something big—something only he knows about. We don’t know what it is yet, though.”
“Probably.”
Of course, some people could feel guilt just for not liking their family. But it wouldn’t manifest in such an extreme reaction.
“That’s a response you only get from doing something truly terrible. The problem is, it’s too late now to figure out what it was.”
Taeju sighed regretfully.
“If we had more time, we could find out why.”
But time was short. After seeing Siwoo in that state, it was hard to believe his father would give them a second or third chance.
“That doesn’t mean we can stop.”
Sia said. It was the right call. Taeju had no intention of stopping either.
“For now, what bothers me is that the name Mangnyang called wasn’t Siwoo. Seongho… right?”
Taeju pulled a business card from his wallet at the mention.
“Seongho is the father’s name.”
“Why would the grandfather…”
“There must have been some incident involving that name with his grandfather.”
“Of course, it’s just speculation. But if the grandfather had dementia, it’s possible he mistook his grandson for his son.”
It was a common symptom in dementia patients. Maybe to the old man, Siwoo had looked like a young Seongho.
Sia suggested that the deceased probably called Siwoo “Seongho” on a regular basis.
“Yeah, that seems likely.”
But that alone wasn’t reason enough for guilt.
“Maybe he did something bad because he hated being called that, or something like that.”
“Who knows. What’s certain now isn’t why—it’s how Mangnyang could call Siwoo by the same name the old man used in life.”
If Mangnyang could mimic not just the old man’s face but his voice and the way he addressed people, it meant Mangnyang’s mimicry was even more efficient. But the face mimicry had clear limits, so that didn’t add up.
“It’s weird. It didn’t seem like it could change its appearance freely.”
Even in that panicked moment, Mangnyang hadn’t chosen a form that would fool people more easily.
It hadn’t turned into the Director’s appearance or the father’s. That meant Mangnyang’s mimicry ability had limits—it couldn’t.
“My take is that Mangnyang can’t move flexibly right now. And one more thing: it seems even weaker to light than we thought.”
Mangnyang had reacted much more strongly to the orb breaking than they’d expected. It hadn’t reacted to Woli’s thrown knife sound, so it was probably startled by the light.
If they could pinpoint the reason and exploit it properly, it would go a long way toward resolving this.
Assuming Siwoo returned to normal and they got one more chance.
* * *
Siwoo’s father, Seongho, was waiting at a café near the office for things to wrap up. The wait, where every second felt like an hour, finally ended with a call from the office.
Making the wait feel pointless, Taeju reported their failure.
Seongho first asked about his son’s well-being. Only after hearing he was okay but frightened did he show his anger.
[We’re sorry.]
Taeju’s voice was full of sincerity. But Seongho suppressed his rage as if he didn’t care about that.
“Don’t do anything. Just wait.”
With that, he immediately drove off.
He hadn’t liked the office people from the start. He’d kept suspecting they might be con artists.
And sure enough, his son’s condition hadn’t improved—it had gotten worse.
Seongho flung open the office door. He spotted Taeju inside and glared at him.
“Where’s my son?”
Taeju stayed as calm as possible and apologized repeatedly.
“Your son is in the back room. He’s resting now.”
Seongho glared at Taeju as if he couldn’t trust him and said firmly,
“I’ll handle that. Bring him out.”
“Maybe it’d be better if you cooled off a bit before seeing him. He just stabilized, and meeting an angry father might scare him again.”
Despite Taeju’s concerned words, Seongho didn’t hide his anger.
“Doesn’t matter. Bring him out. What kind of rest is this place? We’re going to the hospital, so stay out of it.”
“A psych ward, you mean.”
Taeju said in a grim tone.
“Bring Siwoo out. Or I’ll call the police.”
“You think we’re con artists.”
“Aren’t you?”
Taeju groaned. He couldn’t argue. He’d probably react the same way in Seongho’s shoes.
But even in that moment, Seongho stayed composed. Despite it being a situation that warranted yelling and threats, he didn’t. It was his ingrained demeanor that made it possible.
“Bring my son out right now. And don’t approach us again after that.”
“If we just had a little more time…”
Taeju felt regret even to his own ears—there was nothing to say. It was their fault for failing to earn trust, and they had no way to convince Seongho.
“No. It was a waste of time. We should’ve gone for counseling sooner.”
Seongho said sharply. His glaring eyes were sharp too. They were the eyes of a father protecting his wounded child. That was why Taeju couldn’t push harder.
But really, if they just had one more chance, he was confident this time. He couldn’t give up so easily.
Taeju stood there, unable to act, meeting Seongho’s gaze.
“Tricky situation.”
That was why the Director’s arrival with the chime of the bell was such a relief to Taeju.
Their expressions changed drastically—one delighted, the other confused.
“Director!”
“I had a feeling, so I came by. And sure enough. You could’ve handled this better.”
It sounded like a scolding, but his slick attitude made it hard to tell if he was actually angry.
“Well, Mangnyang is that tricky. Still, you’re within acceptable limits. There’s room for leniency.”
The Director said. Taeju bowed his head deeply.
Then Taeju noticed something odd. Seongho had gone quiet. It could’ve been because a new person appeared, but that wasn’t reason enough to stop demanding his son.
He looked up at Seongho’s face. It was full of shock.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
The Director said bluntly. It could’ve come off as rude, using informal speech, but Seongho didn’t seem offended.
“That time…”
“Yeah, that’s right~ You from back then.”
* * *
A few years ago, there was a minor missing person case. Seongho’s father had vanished.
It wasn’t a kidnapping, of course. He’d walked out on his own two feet. It was common for elderly dementia patients.
But it was unexpected for Seongho. He’d known it could happen, but thought it only happened to others.
Not my dad.
When Seongho got home from work, his father wasn’t there. He figured he’d gone out nearby, but when Siwoo came home from school and said he hadn’t been there then either, Seongho realized his father was missing.
He called the police first thing.
They asked when he’d last been seen. But no one in the family knew. Both parents worked, and the kid was at school before coming home. No way to know when he’d left. All they knew was it had been a while.
The police were reluctant. Without a start time, they couldn’t guess direction or distance.
Seongho despaired. He hated himself for not understanding his father’s condition, and the shock of not being able to find him was overwhelming.
He knew this could happen but hadn’t prepared—that was his fault.
All Seongho could do was wait for contact.
“If I’d known, I should’ve made him a necklace with his contact info…”
Making it felt like admitting his father was beyond help, so he’d put it off.
Stupid. Looking back, he was the world’s biggest idiot for not even doing that.
Seongho waited in his car, ready to go anytime a call came. But none did.
He considered searching himself. But,
‘Where did Dad usually go?’
‘Whose houses did he get along with?’
‘Was there anywhere he always wanted to go?’
Seongho realized he knew nothing about his father.
At his age, only after his father disappeared did he learn how little he knew.
After those hellish hours, word came that someone had his father and he was safe.
Seongho drove there in a daze, not even remembering how he got there.
Only upon arrival did he learn where his father had wanted to go.
Sadang-dong.
Back to the cramped little house from long ago, when the family lived together, his mother was young, and he was still a child.
Even on foot as an adult male, it would’ve taken eight hours. For his elderly father, over ten. For an old man to walk there alone was a miracle.
But he never could’ve found that house. It had been gone for ages.
Thinking of his father like that, Seongho cried. He sobbed quietly, vision blurring, pulling into a nearby parking lot and freezing up.
But he couldn’t keep crying. He had to find his father fast.
He wiped his face with a wet cloth and took deep breaths. He tested his voice a few times to check if the choked-up tone lingered.
“Ah, ah.”
Somewhat calmed, Seongho went to meet the person who had his father. There he was.
His father was exhausted, shoes worn out, drenched in sweat, dusted with exhaust grime. But no major injuries.
A man stood beside his father. Seongho didn’t know how to repay him. Truly, without this man, he never would’ve found him.
But the man said they’d meet again someday and asked for no reward. Still, Seongho couldn’t let him go like that—he asked him to wait and called the police to cancel the report.
By the time he finished, the man had vanished.
It was an unforgettable event.