Yang’s Master Chapter 7.1 - Pacifist

The atmosphere of the Soviet Union, still bearing the aftermath of war, was somber. Cheon Yeomyung surveyed the bleak ambiance of Leningrad with his eyes. Unlike the capital, Moscow, Leningrad could not boast of the great achievements that led to victory in the war, yet it was tinged with an undeniable social poverty. The place trampled by socialism inevitably held an insatiable hunger. The notion that everyone could live well was far too fanciful to be spoken to humans.

Cheon Yeomyung stood with his back to the Winter Palace, gazing at the Neva River. The city, gripped by an approaching cold snap, shimmered with vibrant orange lights, and the museum, piled high with stolen treasures, was grand and beautiful but failed to capture his interest in the slightest. A chilly winter breeze seeped under the ankles of Cheon Yeomyung, who was clad in a long, dark gray coat. It was a cold unlike that of Hong Kong. Until just moments ago, rain that refused to freeze had fallen, and Linlin, wearing a sulky expression, had declared it too cold and fled somewhere briefly.

Perhaps his lover, if they came here, wouldn’t last five minutes standing in the cold before retreating to a room. Cheon Yeomyung once again took in the golden brilliance of the shimmering river. His radiant eyes, akin to the rippling surface of the water, sparkled dazzlingly, and occasionally, the trailing hem of his coat swayed toward the white and blue hues of the Winter Palace.

“Boss!”

Linlin came running from somewhere with quick steps. Returning after an hour, she was dressed in a white fur coat, her face adorned with fluffy earmuffs that made her cheeks look like steamed buns, and thick winter boots on her feet. Her hair was cropped round, making her resemble a polar bear. Cheon Yeomyung voiced his impression without hesitation.

“Am I at a zoo?”

“Oh, Boss!”

Linlin recoiled in mock horror, hopping in place.

“Kang oppa reserved a spot at the restaurant, so go eat. You haven’t had a single meal today.”

“I’ll have a cigarette and then go, so start eating without me.”

Linlin pouted again. Cheon Yeomyung reached out and playfully tweaked her nose. At the affectionate gesture, Linlin let out a squeal and jumped in place. Her fluffy white earmuffs, which reached down to her cheeks, tilted askew. As Linlin tried to escape, Cheon Yeomyung caught her and adjusted the earmuffs properly. Linlin pouted again at his gentle touch.

Cheon Yeomyung was always kind. Though there wasn’t much of an age gap between them, he always treated Linlin like a much younger sister, acting like a dependable oppa. When she was younger, she had genuinely called him oppa. Even now, when drunk, she occasionally slipped and addressed him that way. Yet, Cheon Yeomyung never got angry.

In recent years, had Cheon Yeomyung, who rarely lost his temper, ever been this furious? Linlin, with a sulky expression, clung tightly to his coat for no reason. Cheon Yeomyung, who had been reaching for a cigarette, smiled as if to ask what she was doing.

“You said you were cold. Go inside.”

“But Boss…”

“I said I’ll smoke and come.”

“You better come quickly.”

Only after receiving confirmation twice did Linlin return to the restaurant. Cheon Yeomyung gave a faint smile as he watched Linlin, bundled up in her puffy fur coat like a polar bear. It was only after arriving in the Soviet Union that he admitted he had lost the petty grudge he held against Kwon. It wasn’t so much anger as it was an absurd mistake.

Yes, Yang Euijoo’s reasoning was not wrong. The prostitute was too young and didn’t even know whose child she was carrying. Seeing her innocent face, calling him her benefactor, sparked a fleeting sense of pity. However, sparing her wouldn’t resolve his grudge, nor would killing her. So, he chose to let Kwon be the one to rage. Cheon Yeomyung didn’t care if Kwon was furious at him or believed him to be a naive fool who could be crushed at any moment, even if his body was seared twelve times over with a cigar.

If he could destroy everything Kwon had built, how sweet would it be to abandon such trivial guilt? The man who struck a match lit his cigarette.

“Gentleman.”

A child with frozen fingertips called out to him. Cheon Yeomyung, mid-drag on his cigarette, looked down. A shivering girl, her fingertips blue from the cold, held out a matchbox to him.

“Buy some matches, they’re cheap.”

Whether stolen or given in lieu of wages, the girl showed him the matches in her small pouch, each one varied in shape and design. Her apron, barely reaching her waist, was stained and tattered. Her worn-out shoes had collapsed toes. If Linlin had seen her, she would have screamed that she herself was freezing just looking at her.

“You can choose. Take whatever you like.”

The girl stood on her tiptoes to show him the contents of her pouch more clearly. Without hesitation, Cheon Yeomyung reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

“How much?”

The girl, realizing he was a foreigner upon hearing his Soviet Russian, hesitated. Her face, tinged with fear, answered slowly.

“Fifty kopecks each.”

Her small voice was heavy with timidity. Perhaps she was afraid of foreigners. In a closed-off country, hostility toward outsiders was often strong. Cheon Yeomyung took the matches from her hand and asked.

“Do you take dollars?”

“Yes, yes!”

In a place where dollars were worth far more than rubles, the girl’s face lit up as she exclaimed, only to pause belatedly.

“Sorry, I don’t have change…”

“It’s fine.”

Cheon Yeomyung replied curtly, grabbing a few dollar bills from his wallet and stuffing them into the girl’s matchbox pouch. Her eyes widened in shock. Fearing someone might see and rob her, she tightly tied the pouch and clutched it to her chest, bowing repeatedly.

“Thank you, thank you! May God’s grace be with you!”

“God, huh.”

Cheon Yeomyung smirked at the less-than-welcome gratitude and turned away. Linlin, standing at the entrance of the nearby restaurant, waved at him. Beckoning him to hurry, she gestured, and Cheon Yeomyung wiggled his fingers in response. A subordinate, who had been watching him from a few steps behind, approached and stood close.

“Keep an eye on her until she gets home. It’s late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yang Euijoo might not agree in the slightest, but Cheon Yeomyung disliked violence, was kind, and even a feminist. Of course, his benevolence was a form of adornment, but even learned compassion could be of help to someone.

Cheon Yeomyung patted Linlin’s head as she grumbled about him arriving too late and flipped through the matches he’d bought from the girl. Among the tacky, mismatched designs, one caught his eye. A matchbox with a dark gray background, painted with blue hues and a blazing star, reminded him of someone. To think of someone who had ruined their life plan after coming all this way—how soft had he become? Cheon Yeomyung, irritated, shoved the matchbox deep into his pocket.

“Boss, what do you want to eat?”

“I’ll just steal some of what you ordered.”

“Oh, no!”

Messing up Linlin’s hair and snatching her earmuffs in a playful, childish act, Cheon Yeomyung entered the restaurant. The table was already laden with food. Sogang, who had started eating, commented on Linlin, who was causing a ruckus by clinging to Cheon Yeomyung’s arm. The area around the table soon grew lively. Cheon Yeomyung gave a plausible smile and took a bite of the borscht, which didn’t suit his taste.

Linlin, as always, ate heartily. Complaining to Sogang that it was too cold, she devoured three plates of grilled pork and lamb skewers, fried rice, and dumplings stuffed with mashed potatoes. Sogang and Cheon Yeomyung smoked cigarettes side by side, watching her eat. Sogang, quietly observing his youngest sister, muttered.

“To think that’s her eating less.”

It was somehow amusing. Cheon Yeomyung chuckled and teased.

“Even Father never starved Linlin, so where that appetite came from is a mystery.”

“He wasn’t the type to starve anyone,” Sogang agreed.

Cheon Yeomyung briefly thought of his father. His way of dealing with subordinates was learned from Cheon Homyeong.

“But he starved me.”

“…Boss.”

“It’s fine now. It wasn’t starvation, just strictness.”

Cheon Homyeong wasn’t a bad father. He was just an ordinary man who wanted something special from his youngest son. Cheon Yeomyung exhaled a long plume of cigarette smoke, relaxing his shoulders. Then, he thought of Yang Euijoo.

A pharmacist whose only experience living on the mainland was in Hong Kong—how would he react to seeing Leningrad, a city in the northwest of the Soviet Union, surrounded by harsh cold, snow, and ice? Yang Euijoo would likely be curious about this snowy country. He’d probably explain things like an excited boy, dispelling this gloomy mood in his enthusiasm.

Unsurprisingly, Yang Euijoo was indeed a good listener…

But Cheon Yeomyung had to decide while staying in Leningrad. Should he track Mei’s traces, even belatedly, or devise a new approach? Perhaps he should have spared a few of her children. Cheon Yeomyung grumbled and ordered some sweets for Linlin, who was debating whether to have dessert. Mei’s traces were obscured by the snow. Cheon Yeomyung didn’t know who to be angry at.

After just two days, Linlin whined that she hated this cold country. For Linlin, born and raised in Hong Kong, the northern cold was unbearable. Her excitement at seeing snow and rolling around in the hotel courtyard was short-lived.

“Boss, when are we going back?”

Linlin complained that the food here was tasteless and that she missed Sichuan cuisine. Though, strictly speaking, Sichuan cuisine wasn’t Hong Kong’s, Cheon Yeomyung understood her whining. It wasn’t Sichuan cuisine she missed but the land where she was born and raised. The Soviet winter wasn’t a pleasant place to travel. Cheon Yeomyung patted her round head.

“Just a little longer.”

“Ugh.”

“Linlin, don’t be rude.”

“But Sogang oppa is cold too, isn’t he? Aren’t you cold?”

Linlin grumbled, clinging to Sogang. He adjusted her scarf, shrugging.

“It is cold.”

Cheon Yeomyung knew this climate wasn’t exactly welcomed by his subordinates. Setting down his fork in front of unfamiliar food, he replied.

“We’ll stay a few more days. If it’s too hard, go back first.”

“It’s not so bad that I’d leave you behind,” Linlin said, trying to sound mature.

Though she acted like a young child, she did what needed to be done. True, with Sogang and Rose Rock doting on her and Cheon Yeomyung indulging her whims, she wouldn’t have survived as a subordinate without skill.

With Cheon Yeomyung taking the helm, the organization’s atmosphere shifted. The leader was so young he seemed almost boyish, so his circle naturally filled with younger members. The reason other organizations looked down on them was, ultimately, age.

Of course, this youth had its advantages. His striking appearance, wealth, and power always placed Cheon Yeomyung at the center of rumors. It was only natural that his lover received attention as well.

Thus, Cheon Yeomyung skillfully used the rumors and attention to his advantage. Showing affection would prompt jealous rivals to target his lover. Since his lovers were often vain, they easily fell for sweet temptations. A ruby necklace or a fine watch was enough for them to spill all of Cheon Yeomyung’s secrets, making them living traps.

Yang Euijoo was the sole exception. His habitually grumpy face, his reluctant expression as if he wanted nothing from him, his impassive lips that neither accepted nor thanked for money…

“You seem troubled,” Sogang remarked quietly.

Cheon Yeomyung, mimicking Linlin by putting a fork in his mouth, mumbled.

“It’s the cold.”

He didn’t like December approaching. The man who felt the slow, snail-like crawl of winter in Leningrad rose from his chair.

“I’ll escort you,” Sogang said, picking up his coat, but Cheon Yeomyung shook his head.

“Go have dessert with Linlin. The hotel café is supposedly decent. Don’t waste money—just put it on my tab.”

“Alright. Cool your head, Boss.”

Ignoring Sogang’s unnecessary advice, Cheon Yeomyung returned to his hotel room alone. Despite his turmoil, being away from Hong Kong felt mentally freeing. He had spent more time in England than Hong Kong during such times, so living abroad wasn’t unfamiliar.

It was nice not to have to think about Yang Euijoo sleeping in a basement beneath his feet. While in the Soviet Union, Cheon Yeomyung pondered trivial matters, like reading the continental trends and whether it was right to continue shady business in a country shouting for socialism.

Places with corrupt governments were always profitable, but they leaked just as much. How strict were the crackdowns in Hong Kong lately? Which lands were under environmental protection regulations? Feeling a headache, Cheon Yeomyung frowned. He had been diligently reviewing reports, but nothing stuck in his mind. With so much to worry about, he had been too distracted lately.

Standing in his room, looking down at Leningrad’s unfamiliar glow, someone barged in without caution.

Since Sogang never forgot to knock, it was surely Linlin. Cheon Yeomyung set down his whiskey glass and turned around.

“Boss!”

“Sold out of dessert? Why are you back so soon?”

Teasing her, Cheon Yeomyung paused upon seeing Linlin’s distressed face. She hadn’t even bothered to pull up her unraveled scarf and shouted.

“The pharmacist is really sick.”

“Call a doctor to treat him. Rose Rock can handle that much.”

At Cheon Yeomyung’s cold reply, Linlin, near tears, grabbed his collar desperately.

“He has a high fever. They’ve given him fever reducers, but it’s not working. Let’s go back.”

Returning was the right choice, even if it wasn’t about Yang Euijoo. There was nothing to gain in this frozen wasteland. But the words to leave wouldn’t come. What did it matter if Yang Euijoo, the treacherous pharmacist, was sick? Yet Linlin pleaded desperately.

“I want you to go back.”

“…If that’s what you want.”

Cheon Yeomyung nodded at Linlin. He often indulged her requests. Staying in Leningrad for a week was merely his lingering attachment, not a pursuit of any real gain. Cheon Yeomyung took another sip of whiskey. His head spun.

Was his neglect finally yielding bad results? Or was he still alive? Cheon Yeomyung thought of Hong Kong’s gray sea. Hong Kong would surely be warm enough not to need a coat. Nothing left in the sunlight would have frozen. As the mild climate of that land suggested…

🐑

They hurriedly arranged a flight and prepared to return to Hong Kong. Cheon Yeomyung boarded the plane. Since it was last-minute, there were no business-class seats. Squeezed into a cramped, uncomfortable seat, he remained silent until they landed at Kai Tak Airport, which felt like it was built in the middle of hell. The low-flying plane seemed to graze illegally tall buildings, and he imagined locking eyes with children on rooftops or through windows.

Somewhere below this plane was surely the chimney house where Yang Euijoo lived. Cheon Yeomyung, still silent, drove to the mansion. Upon arriving in Hong Kong, Linlin tossed aside her scarf and earmuffs, handed her fur coat to Sogang, and ran freely in light clothing. Carrying two large suitcases, her steps were surprisingly nimble.

“Rose Rock!”

Linlin called out to Rose Rock, who managed the mansion. Rose Rock, waiting outside to greet them, hugged Linlin and looked at Cheon Yeomyung.

“What should I report first?”

Cheon Yeomyung pulled his lips downward.

“What’s more important?”

“Business is obviously more important, but the urgent matter is the teacher’s condition.”

Cheon Yeomyung let out an exasperated sound. His choice should obviously be business. He wasn’t a doctor, and whether Yang Euijoo died or became crippled, it wasn’t something he could handle. Lowering his golden eyes irritably, he replied.

“Let’s go to the basement first. Where’s the doctor?”

“I called one for treatment, but the environment…”

At Rose Rock’s cautious reply, Cheon Yeomyung rubbed his fingertips together forcefully. He wanted to vent his anger but had nowhere to direct it. Perhaps he should have drunk some water.

Cheon Yeomyung tossed his stifling suit jacket to a random maid and, dressed in a shirt and vest, headed straight to the basement. Linlin tried to follow, but Rose Rock tactfully stopped her. Leaving Linlin’s whining behind, Cheon Yeomyung stood before the door of the darkest room in the deepest part of the basement. The door was open. A light was on. Someone was wiping Yang Euijoo’s forehead with a cloth as he lay on the floor.

“Get out.”

The maid nursing him flinched and stood up. Her face was clearly frightened. Cheon Yeomyung, irritated, raised his voice.

“Have you completely forgotten fear? Was a warning not enough?”

The maid shook her head frantically. Cheon Yeomyung roughly snatched the cloth from her scarred hands.

“Get lost!”

At the man’s growl, the maid hurriedly fled the basement, glancing back at Yang Euijoo several times, which twisted his gut. Only after slamming the door shut with a kick could Cheon Yeomyung focus on Yang Euijoo.

Yang Euijoo was supposed to pretend not to care but secretly welcome him. Tormented by fear and silence in the dark, he should have been overjoyed to see even a repulsive face, stirring a sliver of pity in Cheon Yeomyung. But today, the Yang Euijoo he faced couldn’t do that.

His gaunt body was feverish. His frail breathing, unable to bear the heat, suited his appearance better than when his eyes were open. Red fever spots bloomed across his limp hands, face, cheeks, and neck.

The doctor and Rose Rock had said it: Yang Euijoo couldn’t stay here long. This wasn’t a place for a person to survive. A basement, perhaps, but this was a sealed chamber. Cheon Yeomyung slowly bent down to look at him. Struggling with the fever, Yang Euijoo barely breathed, unable to regain consciousness. An IV drip slowly trickled through a needle in his hand.

Cheon Yeomyung roughly pressed the cloth, taken from the maid, onto his sweat-soaked forehead. His closed eyes showed no sign of opening.

“Sleeping?”

Cheon Yeomyung called out to him, rather childishly.

“I’m bored.”

It was an absurd plea. After speaking, Cheon Yeomyung let out a nervous laugh. Yang Euijoo’s job was to wait for him, not to lie sick. He should have been desperately yearning for freedom. Without that, this long, frustrating standoff would continue.

Cheon Yeomyung pressed the cloth harder onto Yang Euijoo’s forehead, wiping it roughly. A faint groan slipped through his cracked lips.

Yang Euijoo was gravely ill. Each sporadic cough felt like it was tearing his lungs apart. His vision flickered on and off throughout his illness. Cheon Yeomyung, acting cold as if he wouldn’t help until begged, visited the basement surprisingly diligently. Unafraid of catching the cold, he stayed close to Yang Euijoo’s side.

Occasionally, someone else wiped his sweaty forehead and neck, holding his hand tightly. It felt like they were sobbing softly. A wrinkled, scarred hand patted him before disappearing. Then, a familiar scent returned.

It was the smell of damp earth and ash. Unlike the scarred hand, this touch was careless, sometimes rough enough to irritate Yang Euijoo. He wanted to protest but couldn’t. He wasn’t healthy enough to open his eyes or speak. Aside from a few illnesses on a ship in childhood, he had never been this sick.

Groaning from the damp pain in his lungs, he tossed and turned. But someone held him, preventing him from moving freely, likely because of the needle in his hand. Even that was uncomfortable, and Yang Euijoo let out a faint, irritated sound, giving up resistance and relaxing his body. A cool collar brushed against his cheek and feverish body. Only then did he feel like he could live. Breathing deeply, Yang Euijoo slipped back into unconsciousness.

When Yang Euijoo finally regained consciousness, the basement’s environment had slightly changed. He was lying on a thick mat, not a bed, and even wore a simple shirt and pants. Opening his eyes, he noticed the needle that had been gnawing at his nerves was gone and sat up with effort.

A pungent smell wafted from somewhere. Yang Euijoo saw someone enter through the basement door. Shorter than Cheon Yeomyung and slimmer than himself, the person wore vibrant, light green clothing. Seeing him, they opened their mouth wide.

“Teacher, are you feeling better?”

Linlin’s hair, which he hadn’t seen in a while, was shorter, giving her a round, cheerful, boyish look. Yang Euijoo stared at her blankly, as if seeing something unfamiliar. At his gaze, Linlin smiled awkwardly. It was a reunion in the silent basement. Even if a sewer rat scurried out, it wouldn’t feel out of place. Linlin forced a shy smile. She looked thinner. With Cheon Yeomyung in a bad mood, it wasn’t hard to guess that Linlin, down here, had suffered too.

“Yes.”

At Yang Euijoo’s curt reply, Linlin opened her mouth but stopped. She looked like she wanted to say something but only lowered her head. Yang Euijoo quietly observed the face of someone other than Cheon Yeomyung, whom he hadn’t seen since arriving in the basement. Linlin tidied up the surroundings with a rustle and placed a meal in front of him. It was greasy noodles with chunks of offal and two orange slices. For Yang Euijoo, who had just recovered, none of it was appetizing. Without touching the spoon, he asked Linlin.

“May I ask what time it is?”

“I’m sorry.”

Linlin answered with her eyes cast downward.

“The boss didn’t allow any additional small talk…”

With that, Linlin’s voice trailed off again. She brushed back her neatly trimmed hair and looked at Yang Euijoo quietly. Her deep gray eyes were still, without a flicker of movement. Linlin gazed silently at the flickering light bulb. Perhaps a rat had chewed through the wires, as the light was anything but steady. The erratic blinking was maddening.

“Hm, hm.”

I should ask Sogang to check the fuse box leading to the basement. Linlin muttered to herself for no reason, wiping her palm once on her jeans. Yang Euijoo didn’t speak to her anymore. After all, there wasn’t likely anyone in this mansion who would dare defy Cheon Yeomyung.

Linlin looked at Yang Euijoo with an expression that seemed on the verge of tears. The hand that had been teaching him how to shoot briefly touched Yang Euijoo. As he watched the shadow of her hand stretch toward him, as if wanting to hold his, a highly polite and rhythmic knock reached his ears.

Linlin hurriedly withdrew her hand. Her body, crouched into a small ball, was enveloped by a pitch-black shadow. It was a long, elegant shadow, befitting his height.

“Linlin.”

Cheon Yeomyung, who had knocked twice on the door with the back of his hand, called his subordinate’s name affectionately.

“Boss.”

Linlin, who seemed a bit frightened, was beckoned by Cheon Yeomyung. She sprang up from her spot and approached him. Despite her anxious eyes, her movements were brisk. Standing with a disciplined posture, hands clasped behind her back, Linlin looked at Cheon Yeomyung. Instead of scolding her, the man gently patted her round head once. It wasn’t a warning gesture. Rather, it showed affection.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

Watching Linlin shake her head, Cheon Yeomyung slightly raised the corner of his mouth.

“Skipping meals? That’s unusual. It’s fine to do what you enjoy, but make sure to eat. Sogang and Rose Rock are worried about you.”

“I will.”

Linlin nodded obediently at Cheon Yeomyung’s words. Yang Euijoo silently observed their conversation. He saw the light shining behind the man standing at the threshold. It wasn’t much different from the flickering bulb inside the basement, yet somehow it felt a little warmer and brighter. Soon, the sound of gunfire pierced through the soundproofing from the end of the corridor. Cheon Yeomyung gestured with his chin toward Linlin.

“Rose Rock is in the shooting range. Stop by and go up with her.”

“Yes…”

The toe of her sneaker rubbed against the floor. It was the same lime green as her clothes. Dressed in a fresh, sprout-like color, Linlin rubbed her nose with the end of her long sleeve and passed under Cheon Yeomyung’s arm to head into the corridor. She turned to glance at Yang Euijoo but was blocked by Cheon Yeomyung.

Cheon Yeomyung’s golden eyes gleamed as he gestured with his chin once more. It was a sign that his kindness toward his subordinate ended there. Without another word, Linlin left. After hearing her dejected footsteps, Cheon Yeomyung stood at the threshold and looked at Yang Euijoo. Yang Euijoo felt a throbbing in his head. He still had no appetite. Cheon Yeomyung gazed at Yang Euijoo, who sat still in front of his meal, and spoke.

“Not eating?”

His tone was light. It carried the same warmth he had shown Linlin. What a skilled actor this man was. Not in appearance, but in personality—if he’d been an actor, he would’ve been a star. Yang Euijoo responded with a twisted thought.

“I have no appetite.”

After suffering through a fever for who knows how many days, it would be strange to have an appetite. Yang Euijoo even doubted whether the occasional touch he felt in his hazy fever was truly Cheon Yeomyung’s. That’s how different the Cheon Yeomyung from then was from the one now.

“Oh, no appetite?”

Cheon Yeomyung leaned against the thick doorframe with a grin. His ashen eyes glanced at the handsome face. He kicked the door shut with his foot and stepped inside. His pant legs were shorter than usual. Even without crossing his legs, his ankles were visible. The low-top shoes, the slightly short, youthful dark brown pants, and the beige checkered shirt with a pocket sticking out held the glasses he often used.

With his hands shoved casually into his pockets, Cheon Yeomyung looked at the untouched tray of food in front of Yang Euijoo. Perhaps Linlin had taken care, as there was fruit. Oranges. Not a choice his lover would likely appreciate. Cheon Yeomyung smirked crookedly. Yang Euijoo’s hair had grown long enough during his time in the basement to cover his nape and be tied back. But the unkempt, wildly grown hair was far from neat.

Though Cheon Yeomyung was relatively young in this world, his position gave him a rather conservative streak. He disliked hippies and paid no attention to the global rock bands shaking up the music industry. He even got irritated by the noisy guitar sounds that followed. The extent of his tolerance was blues-infused rock or folk, and that was it.

Not that Cheon Yeomyung liked classical music either. To begin with, he wasn’t the type to connect with music. He even found the act of attaching lyrics to music to convey emotions distasteful and trashy. Why go through such childish, exhausting efforts when language existed?

“Morning sickness?”

“What…”

Yang Euijoo muttered with a dumbfounded expression.

“You’ve been so messed up in there, you might be pregnant. If you are, tell me quick, so I can send you to Quan and let that bastard think he’s the one who knocked you up.”

He looked like a mild-mannered college student, but his words were cruder than a pimp in a brothel. Yang Euijoo wasn’t hurt. Instead, he silently picked up the tray with a bowl of greasy organ noodle soup and two orange slices and threw it at Cheon Yeomyung.

Cheon Yeomyung was a man of considerable physical prowess, but he wasn’t the protagonist of those dreamy movies directors were obsessed with these days. He got completely doused in the pungent, spicy-smelling food. The chain of his glasses, which had slipped from the front pocket, was smeared with organ grease, noodles clung to his chest and stomach, and the sticky, slimy broth dripped down to the floor. Cheon Yeomyung looked at what Yang Euijoo had done and sighed.

For someone who had been on the brink of life and death, his actions were remarkably lively.

Cheon Yeomyung pondered. Did I treat him too well? Despite his complexion looking like he was about to collapse, Yang Euijoo’s anger was fierce. Cheon Yeomyung asked in a very refined tone.

“Are you mad because I said you might be pregnant? Or because I mentioned sending you to Quan?”

“Do I have any obligation to answer that?”

“You do.”

Cheon Yeomyung closed the distance in an instant. His foot stepped on the smelly sheep organs. Probably lamb. The mansion’s chef only used this much spice when cooking lamb. Pork or beef didn’t have this rancid street smell. Cheon Yeomyung enjoyed the natural flavor of ingredients, and the chef knew his master’s tastes well. Something slimy oozed from the greasy organs under his shoe. It felt like crushing a person. Cheon Yeomyung reached out.

“If I’m not going to kill you right now, shouldn’t I at least pretend to hear your reasons?”

Yang Euijoo’s face was slammed into the food-smeared floor. He winced at the violent impact, as if his nose were breaking. The grease stung his eyes terribly. He wanted to wash it off, but the broth-soaked floor made it impossible. He flailed, feeling a burning pain in his corneas. Between his tightly shut lips, the greasy, foul-smelling organs slipped in. It was a revolting taste. Far too harsh a welcome for someone just recovering from a fever.

“You want to act peaceful, but you’re not helping at all.”

Only Cheon Yeomyung’s lips moved. The leather glove on the hand gripping Yang Euijoo’s hair twitched. Yang Euijoo couldn’t chew the organs that rolled into his mouth and was forced to swallow them. They tasted like coarse sand. With a low, cracked voice, Yang Euijoo sneered.

“Talking about peace when it doesn’t even suit you.”

Cheon Yeomyung pressed Yang Euijoo’s face back into the organ noodle mess. This time, closing his eyes spared him tears, but he had to force down the lukewarm, nauseating noodles. He didn’t so much eat as have the noodles and wriggling organ pieces shoved into him. Rubbing his face against the sticky noodle strands inevitably forced them into his mouth.

The taste made Yang Euijoo never want to go near noodles or organs again. He coughed violently, hacking. Thankfully, Cheon Yeomyung didn’t press his head down to eat the coughed-up noodles again. Should he be grateful for that shred of mercy, or curse him for acting like he was granting some grand favor?

In the end, Yang Euijoo managed to lift his face only after nearly rolling his whole body in the spilled food. Whether he’d eaten sand, dust, or noodles, his throat stung. Cheon Yeomyung gazed at Yang Euijoo, whose only redeeming feature—his face—was now a mess. The grease in his eyes made Yang Euijoo cry incessantly.

“Is there a more peaceful man on this island than me?”

Cheon Yeomyung said it with sincerity. Yang Euijoo wondered what part of a man who gutted traitors, stripped their skin to hang on a pole, chased debtors to hell, and planned to kill a pregnant young girl for revenge could be considered peaceful. Cheon Yeomyung seemed unaware of how quiet the chaotic, suffocating streets of Yirang became when he stepped in.

Yirang was crawling with loan sharks and thugs. Anyone with some bulk and a knife in Yirang was in that line of work. There were countless people who tattooed with pig’s blood and threatened to gut others. Wasn’t Yirang itself Hong Kong’s landfill for such scum?

Peace for the scum of the earth? What an ill-fitting word. Yang Euijoo spoke with a hoarse voice.

“You must’ve learned the wrong meaning of peace.”

“No way. As a pacifist, aren’t I at least having this conversation? Even kindly worrying if my lover is having morning sickness.”

If Cheon Yeomyung from a month ago had claimed to be kind, Yang Euijoo might have agreed a bit. Before knowing the truth, Cheon Yeomyung was viciously kind. Even if it was the kindness one showed a dog, it felt like boundless warmth when he didn’t know better. His slightly twisted demeanor, his occasional childish grumbling… they once felt so close. But Yang Euijoo didn’t want to call the current Cheon Yeomyung kind. Even the memory was unpleasant. With a swollen mouth, he mumbled.

“I’d rather have Quan. The thought of carrying your seed is so disgusting I can’t stand it.”

His grease-smeared face had no dignity. He never had much to begin with, but the sharpness was gone, and now it was too pathetic to even laugh at. Cheon Yeomyung felt the same. He gave a hollow laugh, seeing his own outfit—criticized as barbaric by some Parisian salon lady for looking like a lazy, beastly modern youth—now ruined. It looked like they’d fought over who’d eat the smelly organ noodles, grabbing each other’s hair.

A fight requires equal footing. Cheon Yeomyung hoisted Yang Euijoo up. Yang Euijoo let out a short scream, but Cheon Yeomyung didn’t loosen his grip. Carrying Yang Euijoo, slick with grease, he headed to the bathroom. Yang Euijoo resisted fiercely along the way, making their journey to the bathroom somewhat arduous. As Cheon Yeomyung turned on the light and searched for soap, Yang Euijoo looked at the bathtub with a fearful expression. The empty tub was unsettling just to look at.

“You’ll regret this.”

Euijoo, still unable to tear his eyes from the empty tub, retorted.

“Why, planning to dunk me in soon?”

“Cleaning the grease off the tub would be a hassle, so no.”

It was a jab that the maid cleaning the tub was more valuable than Yang Euijoo. Yang Euijoo almost said he’d clean it himself but shut his mouth, knowing it’d only earn mockery. The grease and broth seeped into the scratches on his body, causing pain to flare up.

“You’ll regret choosing Quan.”

Cheon Yeomyung tossed aside his shirt and pants, rubbing the grease off his hands with soap, and said belatedly. Unbothered, he kept his gloves on. Yang Euijoo frowned instinctively.

“He’s worse than me.”

It seemed everyone in this place was competing to be the worst human. Yang Euijoo stared at Cheon Yeomyung’s absurd claim. The grease had seeped through his shirt, staining his bare skin. As Cheon Yeomyung wiped off the red, glossy grease, his torso, scarred with various marks, was still visible. The newest was a red dot on his waist. A burn scar on one side of his abdomen bore the exact shape of a cigar. Yang Euijoo had similar scars on his thigh, given by Cheon Yeomyung himself.

“What makes him worse?”

“Because torture and murder are his hobbies.”

Yang Euijoo let out a hollow laugh at Cheon Yeomyung’s response, gagging on the rancid meat smell.

“Are you introducing yourself?”

Cheon Yeomyung didn’t respond to the sarcasm. There wasn’t much wrong with Yang Euijoo’s remark. Cheon Yeomyung was fairly objective. He refrained from explaining to his lover that Quan’s torture and murder were entirely different from his own.

Silently, he wiped the grease off his body and tossed the soap to Yang Euijoo. The cheap soap, stained with grease, barely lathered. As Yang Euijoo slowly rubbed it under cold water, the man carelessly wiped the water off his chest with his palm. In the dimly lit basement, only his golden eyes gleamed ominously.

“Shouldn’t have saved you.”

The refined man grumbled about the cost of medicine and doctor’s visits for Yang Euijoo. Yang Euijoo blankly watched Cheon Yeomyung take back the soap. Soon, the wet leather glove touched Yang Euijoo’s forehead. It felt both warm and cold. Yang Euijoo’s heavy body slumped. Cheon Yeomyung remained silent even as his freshly cleaned body got dirtied by Yang Euijoo’s grease. He washed Yang Euijoo, almost embracing him, and carried his shivering body out.

Cheon Yeomyung opened the basement door and called out.

“Clean up inside.”

The maid waiting outside gasped, startled by the sight of two half-naked men. Cheon Yeomyung’s sharp glare silenced her grating noise. Fearing her master’s tyranny, the maid buried her face in the floor and crawled in to clean. Cheon Yeomyung opened a bamboo basket prepared nearby, pulling out a spare towel and clothes. Yang Euijoo, as if unconscious, remained limp, unmoving as Cheon Yeomyung wiped him down.

He had no luck. To finally step one foot outside the basement he so desperately wanted to escape, yet he couldn’t even open his eyes. Cheon Yeomyung looked at Yang Euijoo’s heavily closed eyelids and tossed the wet towel aside.

This was just a war of attrition. It shouldn’t drag on. Cheon Yeomyung hesitated, holding Yang Euijoo.

🐑

Cheon Yeomyung handled Yang Euijoo with relentless persistence. His visits to the basement became a source of dread. The man’s visits were cloaked in silence. Cheon Yeomyung didn’t speak, and Yang Euijoo trembled in deathly anxiety.

There was no pattern to the fear. Cheon Yeomyung came to the basement irregularly. Sometimes he returned quickly, sometimes he left Yang Euijoo alone for long stretches. The ambush-like visits made Yang Euijoo lose his sense of time. He tried counting on his fingers to track time, but the unpleasant bulb never turned off.

One out of three times, Cheon Yeomyung had sex with him in the basement room; the other times, he dragged Yang Euijoo to the bathroom to torment him.

In the bathroom, two out of three times, Yang Euijoo was submerged in water for torture; the other time, he writhed on the cold tile floor, groaning. Neither was better. Cheon Yeomyung remained silent even as Yang Euijoo screamed and cursed.

It was as if Yang Euijoo’s voice didn’t reach him. Yang Euijoo felt like his existence had been erased, leaving only his body. He knew Cheon Yeomyung was doing it on purpose.

Knowing didn’t make it any less awful. It was a brutal war. Yang Euijoo dropped his heavy head, pressing his eyes shut. A tear slipped out. He didn’t want to admit that the man was an excellent conversationalist, keeping him conscious, but the basement itself destroyed him.

After one-sided sex, Cheon Yeomyung tossed his semen-stained, dirty shirt onto Yang Euijoo’s body like a donation, then changed into a clean white shirt delivered to the basement. Sometimes he left a tie, used to bind Yang Euijoo’s wrists or ankles, but never untied it. What a bastard. Yang Euijoo, sprawled out, had to use his teeth to untie the tie from his wrist.

He pressed his heel on the shirt and tie Cheon Yeomyung left behind, leaning his head against the wall. The headache didn’t fade. Lately, Yang Euijoo felt seasick every day, as if trapped under a ship’s deck. He pressed his temples and closed his eyes. Sticky semen dripped between his legs, but he wasn’t in the mood to wash. He couldn’t even move a finger. Coughing sporadically, Yang Euijoo forced his eyes open. I want to know the time. He imagined the impossible.

This mute bastard, dawdling again!

Curled up in the darkest corner of the basement, Yang Euijoo was yanked out by someone. He let out a rough scream, startled. It was a hairy-armed helmsman who groveled to the deck officer daily. What was his name?

“Can’t you snap out of it?”

The rough voice was followed by a harsh slap. As Yang Euijoo took the hit, he compared it to Cheon Yeomyung’s gentler strikes and laughed. The helmsman raged. Has he lost his mind, laughing like that? Get out here! I’ll teach you a lesson today.

The helmsman dragged Yang Euijoo out of the basement. Among those napping during shift changes, some grumbled at the disturbance, while others looked at Yang Euijoo with pity.

“Ugh, how long did he sleep? Let him rest…”

An old cook tried to intervene. It was futile. The helmsman, angrier at the cook’s words, kicked Yang Euijoo, who couldn’t move quickly. Yang Euijoo fell with a thud, his hand landing on a crawling insect’s corpse. His hand looked tiny. He looked at the helmsman, who seemed twice his size.

Oh, it’s a dream from when I was a kid. Yang Euijoo realized it was a dream. Since it was a real childhood memory, he accepted the violence and insults numbly, as if watching someone else. The helmsman beat the barely ten-year-old Yang Euijoo, dragging him outside.

“Clean this up.”

He handed Yang Euijoo a few rags. It was a swimming pool. Yang Euijoo feared water and pools. He was terrified of the still-full pool, but no one helped. Cleaning the pool was the hardest task. Experienced workers didn’t help as Yang Euijoo struggled.

To clean the pool, the water had to be drained, which required entering the pool to turn on the drainage pump by the wall.

The adult pool was so deep that it reached over young Yang Euijoo’s head. Scary. Clutching the foul-smelling rags, he sobbed. But no one entered the cold, dirty outdoor pool, made filthier by rain, to turn on the pump for him.

How did I clean the pool that day? Did I fall in? In the dream, Yang Euijoo sobbed, trying to recall.

Then he remembered. With great resolve, he entered the pool and fell in. Just before drowning, someone pulled him out. It was the cook who had shown concern earlier.

“Cough…!”

Yang Euijoo snapped awake as icy water hit his body.

“…”

The man behind him was silent, unlike the cook who had held young Yang Euijoo and asked if he was okay.

“Cough, cough…!”

He must’ve been submerged while unconscious. Yang Euijoo spat out cold water from his nose and mouth. His throat stung. His bloodshot eyes stared at the tub full of water, so cold it seemed to glint sharply.

The man behind him, holding his hair, wordlessly pushed the sleeping Yang Euijoo back into the tub. Cleaner than the pool but far colder, Yang Euijoo thrashed in the water. His toes scraped the slippery tiles loudly as the chilling cold enveloped him.

Cheon Yeomyung watched the veins rise on Yang Euijoo’s foot, boredly twisting his wrist. He deliberately turned his watch inward, its second hand ticking slowly. Without moving his lips, Cheon Yeomyung calculated Yang Euijoo’s endurance limit precisely before pulling him out.

The main cause of Yang Euijoo’s torment was this torture. Usually, Cheon Yeomyung had sex with him, but if something irritated him during the act, he dragged Yang Euijoo to the bathroom. Yang Euijoo sweated coldly and trembled at the sight of the tub, but no matter how he resisted, it was futile. Cheon Yeomyung silently dunked him in, pulled him out, and dunked him again before he could catch his breath, repeating endlessly.

The torture usually ended only when Yang Euijoo passed out in the water.

“Ugh!”

Yang Euijoo collapsed on the slick tiles, vomiting water. It flowed back up his throat, spilling messily. Gasping, he wheezed. His ears hurt. Thrust from a filthy dream into a filthy reality, his body was shoved back toward the tub. The cold water touched his nose. Even though the water only reached his knees, it felt impossibly deep.

Cheon Yeomyung didn’t push him in right away. He kept Yang Euijoo’s nose and lips just grazing the surface, heightening the fear.

The man behind him remained silent. In the quiet, the shallow tub’s surface rippled ominously.

Yang Euijoo regretted again. Why had he told Cheon Yeomyung he was afraid of water?

“Bastard…”