How about Cosmic Horror? Chapter 9

His hands gripped her shoulders. Irae squeezed her eyes shut and let out a groan. She’d tried to hold it in, but it slipped out. It hurt. It was a fair trade-off, because it felt as good as it hurt. Could he lighten up a bit? Fearing her shoulder muscles would be crushed, she fidgeted and pleaded.

“Ugh, a bit gentler…”

“That hurts? This is bad.”

He muttered in amazement.

She didn’t know what was “bad,” but with tears welling up, she reached out to stop him, grabbing him blindly.

His body was frighteningly solid. No matter how tightly she gripped, her fingers couldn’t make a dent. Shocked that a body made of flesh and bone as hers could be so unyielding, it was hard for her to comprehend the vast difference.

His already taut thigh stiffened further under her touch, turning stone-like. Knowing she’d only hurt her fingers if she squeezed harder, she clung weakly.

“Less strength, please…”

Like magic, his hands stilled. Freed from the pain, she caught her breath. Was this the physical gap between genders? Or was his grip just unusually strong? She had no comparison, never having been massaged by another man.

Realizing she was still clutching his thigh, she quietly let go, just as his voice came.

“Why’re you acting so cute? You’re making this hard.”

He said softly, stroking her shoulder.

“It makes me wanna torment you again, honey.”

“We made a pinky promise! You promised not to torment me!”

She was dumbfounded and pointed it out. Hadn’t he said just yesterday that he couldn’t torment her, even if she asked?

“That’s right. I did.”

He chuckled, conceding, and resumed massaging her shoulders. It still hurt, but was more bearable than before—and relieving. She couldn’t expect it to feel good without any pain, so she settled for this.

“Better now?”

“Yes. It’s bearable.”

“That’s a relief. I’ll have to be careful in the future. You’re weaker than I thought—one wrong move, and it’ll be a disaster.”

His words left her feeling odd. Sure, there seemed to be an uncrossable gulf between their physical abilities, but she wasn’t a paper doll. She was human, made of flesh and bone, not so fragile she’d break if he got careless. Yet his tone, implying a catastrophe if he wasn’t cautious, felt unsettling.

…Does he have a criminal record?

“Yohan, don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever been charged with assault?”

She wasn’t accusing him of beating anyone. But maybe he accidentally pushed someone, and they got hurt, or grabbed them too hard and broke a bone—unintentional incidents that landed him in trouble.

She was internally praising herself for coming up with such a plausible hypothesis when she felt his hands tremble. Then, his head lightly touched her back. He was stifling laughter.

“Don’t worry. I have no criminal record.”

His firm reassurance eased her. She wasn’t open-minded enough to accept someone with a criminal past.

It seemed like he was just an overly cautious person since he didn’t have a violent past.

“Sometimes, I wanna crack open your head and take a look inside.”

His bombshell statement made her tense.

“Don’t even dream of it. I’m aiming for a healthy, average lifespan.”

“Not a long, healthy life, but an average one?”

“I don’t want to live a long life, but I don’t want to die young either. Just an average lifespan, right in the middle.”

“So not a short healthy life or a long one, but a healthy average one.”

He muttered, a mix of sarcasm and amusement. She nodded silently; she meant it. She might change her mind with age, but for now, longevity didn’t appeal to her.

“Oh, if you outlive my healthy average lifespan, I’ll let you crack open my brain then.”

His hands, which had been massaging her lower back, stopped.

“So if you want to see inside my head, you’ll have to outlive me…”

“Stop, honey.”

He cut her off mid-sentence.

“It’s making me feel weird.”

“Oh… I was just joking.”

She craned her neck to look at him, but the eyeless, noseless, mouthless bouquet offered no clues to his expression.

“Did I upset you? I take it back. I wasn’t serious. My head’s precious.”

This guy seemed more imaginative and sensitive than he looked. He must’ve pictured it vividly and gotten queasy or gloomy about death. She wasn’t that delicate, so she hadn’t considered it.

He started speaking, his middle and ring fingers slowly stroking the bottom of the bouquet, where she presumed his chin would be.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that you could live forever without aging or dying. Would you still choose a healthy average lifespan?”

Irae blinked slowly. Not aging sounded nice, but immortality? She didn’t even want longevity—immortality was like a penalty game.

“Even if the shell doesn’t age, wouldn’t the contents wear out?”

“Contents?”

“The mind. I’m not especially strong-willed, and I don’t have some grand purpose to live forever for… I’d get bored. Most people would go crazy, not just me.”

“Really? But you might be stronger than you think.”

He responded ambiguously and continued massaging her silently. It was a genuine massage, free of ulterior motives.

The earlier pain felt like a distant memory. Once he found the right pressure, his skill was astonishingly perfect, satisfying her completely.

This is paradise. Melting like roasted rice cake, becoming one with the sofa.

“Feel good?”

“It’s amazing. You could do massages as a side gig. You got a sports massage certification or something?”

“No.”

“Then you must be naturally gifted.”

“I’m good with my body.”

She was genuinely impressed. That was something she could never say about herself. As someone with zero body coordination, she admired anyone who could say things like, “I can mimic anything I see,” or “I’m confident in anything physical.”

“That’s so cool.”

“You’re the one enjoying it more.”

For a moment, she froze—but quickly regained composure.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. But three times? No way.

After being fooled twice before, she now knew for sure: the rotten one was her own imagination. This man was as wholesome as could be. He must have meant: “(Since I’m good with my body and can give great massages like this,) you’re the one enjoying it more.” The omitted part couldn’t possibly be anything inappropriate.

“Ready for dinner?”

“Uh, yeah. But this time, let me—”

“The patient should rest.”

Cutting her off, he headed to the kitchen. Feeling awkward sitting alone in the living room, she followed him.

Since her discharge, he’d handled every meal. Not elaborate traditional Korean cuisine, but simple one-dish meals—porridge, pasta, brunch-style food.

“I’m fine now. I can cook.”

“Was my food bad? Inedible?”

The bouquet-head figure holding a frying pan tilted to the side in confusion. His tone wasn’t hurt or insecure, but purely curious, like, What’s the issue?

Staring blankly at his shirt, taut around his muscular forearms, she shook her head.

“No. It was delicious.”

She wasn’t lying. His dishes were consistently excellent. But the type of “delicious” was a little different. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it wasn’t homey. Nor was it restaurant-quality… maybe laboratory-quality? Like he’d meticulously measured ingredients, conducting an experiment to achieve the desired result. The complete opposite of the so-called “mom’s touch”—almost mechanical, though she felt bad saying so.

Still, it was tasty, just… odd. She once saw a painting online by a congenitally blind artist. It was shockingly realistic, as if the artist had seen the scenery with their own eyes. His food somehow reminded her of that painting.

On impulse, she asked, “Yohan, do you not like food?”

He stopped tying his apron.

“If I had to say, it’s not about liking or disliking… I just don’t feel the need for it.”

Irae clapped a hand over her mouth. To think she’d meet someone like this. A specimen who only ate to survive. If meal-replacement pills were mainstream, he’d ditch food without hesitation and live on them forever. His bouquet head was less shocking than this. She even felt a strange sense of betrayal.

How can someone not care about food? Isn’t agonizing over what to eat one of life’s joys?

“No wonder it tasted soulless.”

“You can sense that in the taste?”

He sounded intrigued. As he spoke, he chopped green onions, the knife hitting the cutting board with a rapid tak-tak-tak-tak. It felt five times faster than her own cutting speed. His knife skills alone made her admit his cooking was leagues above hers. Eyeing the ingredients, she guessed what he was making.

“Are you making fried rice?”

“Yes. I know it’s going to taste soulless, but I’ll try my best to make it good, so go wait at the table.”

“Come on, I said it was delicious.”

“You said it tasted soulless.”

“Does it need a soul to be tasty? If it’s technically perfect, it’s good without one.”

“Perfect imitation is as good as the real thing. Hmm, not bad.”

Muttering something cryptic to himself, he cracked two eggs into the pan. Watching his aproned back for a moment, she went to the dining table to set out water glasses and utensils.

The tuna kimchi fried rice, topped with a sunny-side-up egg, seaweed flakes, and sesame seeds, was as flawless as his other dishes.

She poked the yolk, letting it ooze onto the rice, then cut the egg white and ate it with the yolk-mixed rice. Suddenly, she noticed something at the window.

A massive figure, glowing faintly white in the moonlight. Bulging eyes and a scale-covered body resembled a fish, but unlike a fish, it had hands. Human-like hands, but webbed, gripping the window and peering inside.