Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: The Suicide Note
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I flip through the book's pages with a soft rustle, letting out a sigh.
I've ended up starting an involuntary digital detox against my will. In the end, I have no choice but to hunt for clues in analog sources. I slide the roughly skimmed book back onto the shelf and pull out a new one, turning its pages.
The rustle of paper, the thud of the shelf closing.
There's probably no clue here after all. I scan the room again. As I've said a few times already, it's stark to the point of being excessively barren.
Not much in the way of interior decor, and it's so neatly organized that it lacks any sense of lived-in warmth.
The floor space is at least twice the size of my room back home, but the furniture is even sparser than mine. No wonder it feels almost three times bigger.
The only things that give off a human touch are this liquor cabinet and the desk.
On the wall-mounted shelves are arrayed all sorts of bottles, including the vodka I sipped a few earlier. Looks like there are over ten in total.
Kang Ji-min must have had home bartending as a hobby. There are base spirits like vodka and whiskey, but plenty of liqueurs too. Signs she's made cocktails often.
Even these little details overlap with my own hobbies.
Parallel theory again?
A thought crosses my mind—maybe there's some connection between Lee Jin-cheol and Kang Ji-min... Nah, that sounds like a pickup line.
Let's drop it. She's dead, after all.
Best to watch my words around here.
I pick up each bottle one by one and inspect them, but nothing stands out.
A few expensive ones tempt me to take a taste, but if I drink more in this state, I'll turn into a total mess. A dog, even.
Ah, this one's duty-free only... Wait.
I shake my head vigorously to clear the temptation—ow, damn, my head's pounding.
Anyway, I shake it off and step away from the liquor cabinet.
The overlap in hobbies extends to books as well.
The bookshelf is pretty substantial. Dozens of volumes, most of them mystery novels—and most of those are ones I've read.
Even our favorite authors match up.
The complete Sherlock Holmes. Essential for any mystery buff. Oh, even the same edition. Then Miyabe Miyuki. Miss her. Stacie Wilkingham. Solid writer. Yokomizo Seishi. This guy's the real deal for mysteries!!
A surge of camaraderie wells up inside me. We might've gotten along great.
I chuckle and squat down in front of the bookshelf.
Checking every inch, even the bottom shelf—and right away, I spot something unusual.
...An album.
"Hm...?"
I pull it out. It's pretty thin, so I hadn't even realized it was an album until I opened it.
It's meticulously curated. Neat and tidy vibe.
Carefully selected well-taken photos, developed with intention.
Like sifting through thousands of shots collected from early childhood, picking only the absolute must-keeps.
Do people make albums like this anymore? Well, family photos are just stored on external drives these days. Hard to appreciate an analog album without that kind of dedication.
I skim through it. Looks like a family of four.
Two young sisters beaming at the camera. Hard to tell which is Kang Ji-min.
The chronological family photos suddenly cut off at some point.
Even though there's still plenty of blank space left.
...My mind starts veering toward dark assumptions.
No need for the parallel theory to extend this far.
I snap the album shut with a smack and slide it back into place.
I move on quickly, almost fleeing, and rummage through the wardrobe this time.
The clothes are just as sparse. Black. White. Beige. Black. Gray.
Solids only, no patterns. Doesn't look like a closet for a woman in her early twenties at all.
Mostly baggy oversized tees. Even the separately stored winter clothes are knits and cardigans.
This is worse than me, and I'm almost pushing thirty...
As I rifle through the hanging clothes, something odd catches my eye.
A paper box inside the wardrobe.
I pull it out and open it. Inside are things like bankbooks and seals.
I'd forgotten amid the bartending stuff and albums, but this is what I set out to search for originally.
I set it on the desk and examine the contents closely.
First, the seals. Nothing unusual.
Then four bankbooks.
I flip them open hoping for some info, but no details at all—not even transaction records.
Seems like they were opened but never used. Makes sense in the mobile banking era; who drags a physical bankbook to the bank anymore? Cards and apps handle everything.
Thanks to the smartphone age, most of the gimmicks in the mystery novels I've read are obsolete.
One from childhood has minor records, but nothing useful.
The last one seems to be her main account...
Balance shows about 4 million won, but who knows if that's accurate.
Kang Ji-min just turned twenty. Fresh out of school or a newbie in the working world.
No big income, but I wasn't discouraged.
Rummaging further through the box, as expected—when you dig, something turns up.
An old notebook.
A worn-out one she probably hadn't used in ages.
I open it to find childish, crooked handwriting.
Faded paper, scrawled in a small hand.
Excitement surges as I flip through the pages rapidly.
This notebook dates back to Kang Ji-min's childhood.
And it has exactly the kind of things you'd expect in one like this.
Does it?
Does it?
It does..!!
A triumphant grin spreads across my face unbidden.
Of course. Why else would she keep an old notebook like this?
Contacts, old addresses—useless.
xMarble ID. Hanxlim ID. xNight ID.
Yes. This was it.
All sorts of passwords from accounts she'd made as a kid were listed here.
The IDs and passwords elementary-school Kang Ji-min created followed a consistent pattern.
Simple codes, flimsy security. A little brainpower, and cracking one lets you bust through the rest.
Normally, you outgrow these passwords for accounts made later in life. Too risky for internet banking or shared certificates.
But how much security does a computer password really need?
These are usually familiar numbers, the kind you type a lifetime on the keyboard until they flow automatically!!
Especially with frequent sleep mode, you'll pick something quick to punch in.
The clacking of keys echoes for a while.
Five failed attempts lock it—sixty seconds of silence pass.
More key clacking.
Another sixty seconds of silence.
After several tries like that.
The lock finally releases.
"...Haha."
A trembling laugh escapes my shaky throat.
I won. The promised day has finally arrived. My head fills with that single thought.
What to do first? Check the Asgard account? Probably gone. My 10,000 hours of playtime vanished too?
Screw that, who cares?!
The important thing is that Hel: Odin's Son is installed on this computer—nothing else matters!!
Out of my way!!
Time for heroes and legends!!!
Prepare the booze and doghouse!!
"..."
My excitement-boiled brain cools in an instant.
The moment I cracked the lock, clutching my head in victory, I was greeted by a vicious trap.
"Wha... wha-wha-what the... wh-wh-wha..."
Kang Ji-min's desktop was as barren as the room.
Default Windows wallpaper, just three icons.
Web browser.
Recycle Bin.
And one text file.
"Ngh...!!"
The problem was the name of that text file.
[Will.txt]
Its vibe.
Was just too violently ominous.
Concise,
Destructive,
And brutal.
The title alone packed a devastating punch.
That violent name, smack in the center, on the PC of a woman who'd downed a handful of sleeping pills for a suicide attempt.
Unlucky premonitions stirred, but I couldn't just ignore it.
Mesmerized, I clicked the file open.
It loads, revealing the last will.
The note wasn't long. Roughly 500 characters, I'd guess.
This short memo was her final words.
Not much about her own life. Mostly greetings to various acquaintances.
Faded gratitudes, meager apologies.
Resignation permeates every character, making my eyes narrow involuntarily.
Neat yet sharp sentences.
Polite yet seething with resentment.
A sense of loss peeks from every corner of the brief text.
It feels unnervingly like my own dark history shoved in my face.
The will, which gives a glimpse of who Kang Ji-min the person was, ends with addendums like [I hope my legacy goes to a good cause. If there's legal dispute, Red Cross preferred.] or [Cash in my wallet separately—I want it to go to whoever has to deal with the body.]
"Hoo..."
I wearily raise a hand to close the notepad file.
For a moment, I consider dumping it in the Recycle Bin to erase all trace, but my hand won't move.
After agonizing, I decide I can't delete it. At least get it out of sight—I drag it into a random folder and exhale the breath I'd been holding.
She's gone now. No one will read this will again.
What a bitter truth.
Just that one notepad file on the desktop.
The meager will scribbled there—now it'll never be read by anyone.
I open my mouth with a wry expression.
"...Let's just install Odin's Son!"
Sorry for saying this...
But.
But we're basically strangers today...!!