Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

- The album was almost completely burned and lay in the river. Do you know the person in this photo?

- No..no. I don`t.

— I understand perfectly well how much time you need to write, but we hire your services for the rapid dissemination of news, and you are already dragging your feet with the headline. Again. Can't you come up with something innovative, and something similar to the style of our previous editor?

The man, who was about forty years old, crossed his arms over his chest. The only creases in the fabric were at the bends of his elbows. He must make this gesture so often that even his high-quality suit has developed creases. This thought bothered Dokja. His disinterested gaze rose slightly higher, forcing him to turn slightly from his seated position at the table to the person who had been terrorizing him for the last six months. He fixed his gaze on the bald spot that the man was trying in vain to hide by all possible means — the black patch of dye on the back of his head revealed more than it concealed.

Something resembling a slight apologetic smile appeared on his empty face, softening the man's expression a little and causing him to relax his eyebrows. Whether it was out of sympathy for the journalist's appearance or because he realized that this conversation was pointless.

“I'm sorry, Hyung. But didn't I send you ten headlines three hours ago that would be suitable for this week's news?”

His gaze became somewhat sad. He rose from his chair, towering over the man who was searching for words to describe his emotions. However, he had obviously managed to control them, so he just sighed heavily.

"Dokja, all these headlines are just a banal balance of opinions. And some are too loud. How many times do I have to explain this? People will think we're a horror site or some kind of tabloid journalism that blows things out of proportion!"

Dokja just bowed his head sadly in apology.

“I'm sorry, Hyung. I'll send you the corrected version in half an hour.”

Apparently, this was enough to boost the man's ego, because he left, muttering, “Damn kids...”

Dokja wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear that, but he just looked at his computer. In his opinion, this editorial office had always been a bit of a playground for kids. Most of the sections were about magic sessions, and only a small branch of the editorial office, where up to ten people worked, was actually involved in crime news. Dokja served not only as a news reporter, but also as a headline editor and a guardian of “balance of opinion.” Even if it led to headlines that were banal to them, such as:

“Mutilated body in the river near Asan: words from the victim's family and the police.”

Another heavy breath stuck in his throat, unwilling to escape. He looked at the selection he had sent, which had been so actively rejected, and propped his head up, trying to understand the meaning of his work. Until blond curls appeared at the edge of his field of vision and a familiar voice spoke up:

“In my opinion, they're just too adequate for this editorial office,” the last word sounded with a hint of disgust, which made Dokja smile and raise his head, meeting a familiar face.

Uriel. He couldn't say a bad word about her, because if it weren't for her, he would have lasted much less time at this editorial office. But as happy as he was to see her, she added almost nothing to the conversation.

“If that's all you have to say and you're not going to help, then go to work,” he narrowed his eyes slightly, mocking her expression.

The girl didn't look surprised, but she pretended to be offended. They both knew that such a banality couldn't hurt her pride. She just pointed her slender index finger at the third headline. Dokja noticed her new manicure — a cool peach shade with glitter that reflected the sun shining on the screen.

“Add some intrigue here in the form of a question,” she lowered her finger. “And here you're going into too much detail, the reader won't be interested anymore.” She smiled gently. “How did they even hire you to write headlines? You'd be better off continuing to edit.”

She ruffled his hair as she walked away, leaving Dokja to silently fix his now badly styled hair and change the words to something more appropriate.

Looking around, he noticed that Uriel was wearing a light, short-sleeved shirt, which only made him feel the heat in his turtleneck even more. An unpleasant feeling of heat ran through his shoulders, adding even more irritation to his already overloaded head.

"Too detailed? As if he was there? What's wrong with that?"

His fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, and he propped his other hand under his cheek.

Boredom kills. This version makes no sense. He also needs to look for a new apartment...

He put the mouse aside, picked up the phone, and continued his search.

***

The book quickly falls into a bag that was too heavy for its owner. From the outside, it looked even heavier. Its fullness was evident in the cracked eco-leather and the handle, which had minor damage in the form of stretching and fallen side decorations, creating an unpleasant feeling when touching the bare leather.

A figure in a dark shirt and beige pants emerges from the black car. Slightly overgrown hair falls over his face, but the man brushes the stray strands behind his ear, revealing several deep scars that were visible on his face. The largest scar ran across his eye, as if it had been cut, and the iris of the eye was lighter than his healthy second eye, its light golden-gray hue immediately noticeable. However, it was also noticeable that the man did not look like someone who was ashamed of them, nor did he look like someone who was proud of them. The bag fell onto the grass with a dull thud.

“Joonghyuk, you're finally here,” a voice said nearby, getting closer with every second, and the person being addressed looked away from the bag and at the detective.

Wukong just muttered in surprise, as if he had shown him some unpleasant animal, rather than simply ignoring him. His golden hair was braided into a simple low ponytail, which had become part of his everyday look. Joonghyuk wasn't sure if he had ever seen him any other way.

Joonghyuk, clearly not wanting to say anything to him, glanced briefly into his eyes and began to take things out of the bag: a camera, film, disposable shoe covers and caps, a white suit packed in a transparent bag sealed on all sides, and gloves. All of this was, of course, in the detective's hands.

“You're so rude, you didn't even say hello, and now you're using me as a wardrobe. Is that how you treat your coworkers?!”

He whined ostentatiously, though he continued to hold the items. Not that it changed anything, but Joonghyuk finally threw down the bag, which still contained a bunch of things, and finally turned to the man.

“Not with coworkers, but with you, yes. Let’s go, it’s just one body in the house, I don’t want to spend the whole day on this because you’ll keep dragging your feet.”

The moment Joonghyuk reached for his things, Wukong wanted to yawn with relief, but the only thing they took from him was his camera, which they began to set up as they walked toward the crime scene and passed under the barrier tape. A three-hour job shouldn't take five hours. At least that's what Joonghyuk thought and wanted to do.

There weren't many people. Most of them seemed to be there for the crowd, as if it were easier for everyone to write it off as suicide. How else could you think when you saw a person hanging from a noose in the cafeteria? The bag containing the suit, made of spunbond, was quickly torn open, and in a couple of minutes Joonghyuk was fully dressed, just adjusting his gloves, pulling them tighter.

The building was in the usual Korean style. Neutral, but with added details that could be seen on social media. Nothing that could surprise or alarm anyone. A certain traditionalism that was present in young couples.

This apartment could have been easily sold, but now it would either have to be discounted significantly or would never find new tenants. Joonghyuk frowned slightly at the stench. Wukong suddenly appeared behind the photographer, as if he had asked a question aloud.

“She was last seen a week ago,” he leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

Joonghyuk looked down. It hadn't rained for a week, but there were clearly visible male footprints on the floor, which the prosecutor pointed out. This made the man snort with interest and get to work.

***

The place that matched the address was quite far from the editorial office, requiring almost an hour to get there by two modes of transport. And Dokja only realized this when he finally arrived there and looked at the building. It had five floors and gray paint that was peeling in places, revealing bricks that seemed to scream at Dokja that this was not the place he needed to be.

He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He decided to call the building manager just to be polite and take a look, but he really didn't want to choose it as his home. Something about these peeling facades and the lack of any hint of security was wrong. Something nasty and slimy that settled in his throat.

“Yes, I'm here, when will you be here?'' The last word had not yet been fully uttered when a door opened on the second floor and a man in a suit came out.

He was somewhat suited to this place, even his neat appearance did not change the situation. Behind his clothes and hairstyle was an old, wrinkled face that gave no hint of his love for society. After a brief greeting, on the way to the apartment, he could hear the standard words of managers: about the tranquility of this place, the good neighborhood and good neighbors, that he would not find anything like this anywhere else and that this was the best choice on the market. Dokja just nodded politely and agreed. It wasn't that the words were completely untrue. He noted that only “tranquility” was true of all the characteristics listed. The apartment itself was... normal? Dokja sensed a slight musty smell, which the manager noticed and began to explain that no one had lived in this room for a long time, but it would only take a day for it to air out. Dokja rubbed his temples, trying to accept the fact that he was just walking around here. The renovation itself wasn't bad, it was just there and did nothing, probably only covering up the mold that Dokja saw in the bathroom and near the refrigerator. When the manager finished the tour, Dokja's eye twitched slightly.

The phone rang.

Dokja looked surprisedly into his pants pocket and apologized as he picked up the phone.

The manager, who was trying to eavesdrop, heard only Dokja's quiet dissatisfaction behind the apartment door: "Didn't we agree on a two-week term... No, we did... You can't... Have you lost your mind?" A couple of minutes later, they returned to the apartment, forcing the manager to quickly step aside and pretend to look at the fittings, then turn back toward the man.

“Have you made your choice?” he asked with a slight smile.

“When can we move in?” Dokja's calm face was slightly contorted in a grimace of anger.

All he could think about was the damn owner of his previous apartment, who was violating all the terms of the contract and almost throwing Dokchi out onto the street, without even understanding that he had nowhere else to go.

Three hours of Dokja's life and nerves — and he was already standing at the entrance with a few belongings. The rain, which was beginning to gather, dripped in small drops. This forced the man to do everything faster. The boxes were not heavy, but his lack of strength from fatigue made them seem heavier than they were. As he picked up the last box, he felt a strange sensation. It was as if someone was watching him, but when he looked back, there was no one there. Ignoring the shivers that ran down his spine, he walked faster toward the building until he heard an umbrella close and a door slam.

“What the hell...” He furrowed his brows.

Was that black figure following him? Or is that typical when you see a new person moving in?

 *Balance of opinion is a requirement for materials that cover conflicts. It means that the positions of all parties to the conflict must be represented in the material in approximately equal measure.

Chapter Text

The boxes were carefully stacked in the dark hallway. The rain was pouring down, blocking out any natural light from the apartment. With his lips pressed together, Dokja simply looked around, not knowing what to do. It was several times worse than his previous home, but at least the rent was reasonable. All the he could think about was a possible future move, but all he could do now was take the boxes and open them one by one. Most of the hastily packed items did not match the names on the boxes, and Dokja spent a little more time unpacking than he could have, but at night the apartment looked more pleasant. Even if the moldy parts remained a reminder to Dokja of what this place originally looked like. The vague feeling of disgust for the place where he stood was strange. Only now did he realize how much he regretted the place where he was. However, the question of money was the main issue. The editorial office where he works is not in the best situation due to a scandal involving false information about the investigation. If they really become just an entertainment magazine for fans of controversial sessions, Dokja will definitely go crazy looking for a new job after that. Now is definitely not the time to quit and fall into decline due to the company's poor finances. There is not enough money as it is. These thoughts did not lift his spirits, but only deepened his reflection. He sat down in the living room, ignoring the sofa, afraid of breaking it or whatever was there. At some point, he caught himself thinking that he was probably overreacting and that things weren't so bad, but he decided to go for a walk anyway. The oppressive walls were weighing on his mind, not giving him a second to rest and only adding to his headache. Tomorrow, his job would require him to be more than the tired worker he was now. The rain didn't stop, but it did ease up a little. There was no sign of any food in Dokja. Just a couple of hermetically sealed products, but that couldn't be called a normal snack. 

A minute later, he was standing with an umbrella, looking around, and decided to go up to the top floor, realizing that the house had a furnished roof. He could see pallets that were used as seats and tables. The absence of junk and a couple of beer bottles left near the pallets indicated that this place was not abandoned. However, Dokja was unable to enter the territory. Small stones were soaked with water, which made walking on them not very pleasant. Glancing around the place as if for the last time, he went downstairs and walked down the corridor, leaving the building and opening his black umbrella as he walked to a small store that was open 24/7, which he had noticed on his way here. The familiar sound of the automatic doors opening greeted him, and he walked to the section with daily necessities, picking up water, ramen, and other items. The silence of the neighborhood was even a little alarming. There were almost no people in the building or on the street. The cashier, who was probably working part-time after school, was the third person he met on his way. Of course, there was also a man who really wanted to get money and left when he was refused, muttering something. However, the look he gave Dokja lingered in his heart. It wasn't even angry or disappointed, as it should have been. Somewhat... sympathetic? Dokja didn't understand why the homeless man felt sorry for him and gave him such looks. Ignoring the shivers in his body, he paid for his purchases and took a different route. 

Empty. Only the rain, the sound of which echoed on Dokja's umbrella, was audible. Perhaps it was even better that the streets were quiet; usually, this meant very high markups when renting out housing. Approaching the house, he noticed the same figure he had encountered earlier. But only after he turned the corner and came into view. Something inside Dokja told him not to come out right away, but to watch. Peeking cautiously from around the corner, he was able to see the person standing there waiting, as evidenced by the rhythmical tapping of their foot. A man in black, with short hair, slightly longer on top, and taller than most Koreans. However, he noticed something interesting. Dokja was almost certain that he saw scars on his face. 

Raising his eyebrows, he asked himself a logical question, “Why am I looking at him?” He opened his umbrella, turned the corner, trying not to look, but gave in to his desire and raised his head with the umbrella, meeting the man's gaze. Even though they were looking back at him, he still felt like they were looking through him. The man leaned on the balcony railing, propping his head up with his bent arm, and chuckled somewhat mockingly. This made Dokja frown, and he began to look at him with a questioning expression, but he never got an answer. He just waved his hand in a quick goodbye and disappeared into the doorway, whose number Dokja urgently needed to take down after that. You always need to know neighbors like that, because there are weirdos everywhere. It was the third floor. Climbing up to it, he left the bag of groceries by the stairs. 

Reaching the place where the man was standing, he glanced at the apartment he had entered. Outwardly, it was the same apartment as the others, but the person who lived there made it unusual. 

“306...okay.” Dokja really wanted to knock and complain about why he was staring, but he just glared at the doorknob, exhaling and almost squeaking when the doorknob suddenly dropped down and he appeared. Now Dokja could clearly see that there were scars on his face, two deep scars that, in a sense, suited him...? Dokja froze in one position, his hand slightly raised, not even knowing what to say. The desire to tell him why he was following him stuck in his throat. Sharp eyes looked at Dokja , eyebrows arched in question.  

“Excuse me?” he asked, stepping out and looking at Dokja with his arms folded across his chest. Recovering from the shock, Dokcha grimaced and turned away. The only question in his head was where this day could possibly end up. 

“So you were standing there?” he decided to ask what was probably the most idiotic question he could come up with. The meaning of this question was evident on the face of the mysterious man, which literally began to scream inside, “Are you fucking serious?” 

Dokja felt ashamed for asking such a question, so before the man could answer, he quickly said, “I'm sorry, someone must be moving in here.” The man nodded, which gave Dokja only one thought: if he stood there for another couple of seconds, he would die of embarrassment.  

So, quickly bowing politely, he left, taking the groceries that were standing by the stairs with him. Probably for the first and only time, his apartment felt like a place of peace and protection. At least he didn't have to be under the gaze of this man, who was probably not very talkative. He didn't want to see him, but he wanted to learn about the area from someone other than the manager. Although at that moment, he didn't look like someone who had descended from heaven to talk to him. He just stared and stood with his arms crossed. A shiver ran down Dokja's spine, making him flinch, but he continued to make dinner. 

The light went out on the small table, and Dokja lay down on the bed. The darkness expanded the space so much that he couldn't even see his hands. The light from the street only deepened this situation. Ignoring the strange premonition, he fell asleep, waking up after a very short time. Opening his eyes, he sat up and tried to see the reason for waking up, but he couldn't get out of bed. A feeling of fear seemed to hold him in place, and then he heard a small creaking sound coming from the hallway, causing his breathing to quicken and his shoulders to rise nervously in an attempt to see or hear what it was. However, the only thing he understood for sure was that it was not someone walking outside or an animal running behind the door or window. It was the distinct creak of a lock in the door. He carefully managed to get up and easily looked out into the hallway. He felt like he was looking at nothing and everywhere at the same time. He wanted to find the light switch, but couldn't find it until he heard the sound of the door unlocking. Dokja felt like a blind person who could only orient himself by sound, and this made the situation even more nerve-wracking. The sweat that appeared on his forehead only deepened his feeling, taking away his main ability to see. The handle slowly lowered, which he could also only hear. Fear paralyzed him, as if hands were holding him in one position, pressing roughly on his chest. A small ray of light entered the corridor, and he could see something for the first time in a while. A hand and the silhouette of a man holding something in his hands. The glass surface of the open microwave allowed him to see what was being held in his hands. 

“An axe?” Dokja thought to himself, not wanting to know the answer to that question. He managed to turn away and cover his mouth with his hand before the shadow entered the apartment. His cautious and quiet steps did not give Dokja a chance to move anywhere. He stood to the side of the entrance, sliding down the wall to the floor, trying not to give any hint of his existence. He listened as the man entered the bathroom first and then the hallway, and only when he stopped near the bedroom did Dokja hear his heavy breathing, which filled the silence that Dokja, covered in tremors of fear, had tried so hard to maintain. The man pushed the bedroom door open wider, and the only thing Dokja could sense was the smell of old iron and something familiar that he had heard before. The axe swung and landed on something soft. A dull sound filled the room. It was not difficult to understand that it had hit the mattress. The man grunted, somewhat disappointed, and opened the blinds that had been blocking out the darkness. Now Dokja could see who it was. 

 “That man... from 306?” Dokja, who had forgotten how to breathe for the past two minutes, made a quiet breathing sound that was louder than it should have been. This made the man turn around, and in the moonlight, Dokja saw his face. A calm expression, but his eyes... His eyes burned with excitement, a broad smile visible in the shadows on his face, reflected by the moon behind him, and Dokcha realized that this was his only chance to rush to the entrance. When Dokja quickly got up and literally flew to the entrance, he felt someone grab his clothes from behind and drag him back into the apartment. A scream stuck in his throat, and his hand was pressed over his mouth, an axe held over him with a swing. 

“You shouldn't have come here... come to me,” he ran his thumb over Dokja's cheek, which was over his mouth, and took the axe more comfortably in his hand. 

Bang. 

The scream echoed throughout the apartment, and the pain in his head felt real. Almost. Wait, almost? Almost felt real? It was a dream. 

However, the way it felt was something irreplaceable. It wasn't that Dokja had dreams very often, but still, it wasn't that bad. He sat up on the bed, pulling his legs up and wiping his wet face. He was only able to get up 10 minutes later, unable to do anything but stare at the wall in an attempt to focus his thoughts. Well, what a wonderful coincidence — his first dream in a new place, and he dreamed of a neighbor who came to kill him with an axe in his hands. He looked partly like some kind of hidden serial killer, but mostly like an introvert who was aggressive towards people. Dokja had seen thousands like him. But such a weak thing as a dream, even if it makes you wake up wet from it, won't take away a single day from him. Getting ready for work was like being in a fog and on autopilot. He noticed that the faucet in the bathroom was leaking a little and promised himself to look at it later. 

The food didn't taste good, and his legs felt like cotton wool from walking on this floor, knowing that he had seen it only an hour ago. However, he found the strength to go to work. The air after the rain was somewhat refreshing and brought Dokja's thoughts into focus, and he finally felt calm as he walked to the bus stop — until he saw something that made his heart grow cold again. In fact, it was just his mysterious killer neighbor sitting next to a cat eating on a bench next to him. His clothes hadn't changed since yesterday or since the dream in which he had seen him. Dokja froze in place, as if making sure it was safe to pass. However, the man only turned to him, standing up and folding his arms in his pockets. They stared at each other for about a minute until he raised an eyebrow, slowly approaching Dokja. Looking at him closely, he lowered his gaze down his face, passing behind him on the path. What kind of freak is this? Dokja had only one question, to which he never found an answer. He regretted that his mother had raised him to be polite, and he was unable to punch this arrogant face, but maybe it was for the best, because he didn't want to ruin his hands. He adjusted his windbreaker and continued on to the subway. 

***

“Are you crazy or do you need a vacation?” Uriel stirred her coffee, adding a little more caramel syrup. Dokja made a dissatisfied sound, throwing his head back. This made the girl laugh softly. However, after laughing, she even thought about it.  

“Dokja came into the office this morning all nervous and acting strange... And then he told me everything.” It all seemed to her to be just some kind of stress-related problem. 

“Dokja, you've been a news anchor for three years. Haven't strange people always been part of your life?” She took a sip from her white cup. 

“Remember even that man who knew about the murder on the bridge, and you went to him for a month to get information.” 

He nodded in agreement. Still, a strange feeling wouldn't leave him alone. After all, Uriel was right and encouraged us as much as she could. All that remained was for Dokja to accept the situation.  

After a short conversation, they sat down to review the articles provided. The hours flew by quickly. However, Dokja already felt pain in his back and shoulders. He didn't want to know who wrote it, but he was forced to rewrite almost the entire article. A bunch of mistakes and even more personal opinions from the journalist — all this began to drive Dokja crazy with anger. Who hires people like this? He spent much more time than he should have, but when he sent it, he was very pleased with his work. He was. Until he was called to the office. From the atmosphere, he understood that there was no point in expecting anything good — and that was not surprising, just annoying once again. He walked in and sat down on a chair opposite, waiting a long couple of minutes for someone to look up at him. 

“Do you know why you're here?” 

“I have no idea, to be honest.” The same man put his glasses on the table, exhaling loudly, trying to start calmly. 

“Because you can't change what those journalists sent us.” he emphasized the last words. 

Dokja just uttered a surprised “huh?”, unable to digest what he had just been told. 

 However, the man continued: "We bought these articles for a lot of money so that you could just correct the mistakes, not rewrite them. Dokja, no one needs your structures and so on. People want news, not something else. Why aren't you listening to me?" It took him a whole minute to digest exactly what he was being told. Just six months ago, he had begged him to become their editor-in-chief. However, the changes that had taken place over the past month did not fit into his head. He was already beginning to suspect something personal about him, but could not find a real reason for it. Returning to reality, he had neither the ability nor the desire to repeat the same mistakes, so he nodded. 

“I checked with the PR manager, and people are complaining about our articles, they pointed out false information and even said that it contributes to tabloid journalism.” 

 The question caught him off guard. It was just two simple words: “So what?” 

He wanted to sit down and write a letter of resignation, but he just took a deep breath. 

 “I'll try to write it the way you want.” 

“Finally, you understand what I want from you. Now go show it.” Dokja returned to his room, suppressing the urge to destroy, feeling that he was betraying himself with these actions, but sat down to rewrite.

Three hours later, when it was already completely dark, he sent the new versions. They made him sick. They were written as if they weren't his. He wanted to imagine that his hand had never touched them and had never seen them. But unfortunately, there was no escaping it. It was no surprise that the director liked them, and he showered Dokja with compliments. The only thing Dokja wanted was for his name never to be mentioned under these articles. Uriel looked at him with sympathy. Fortunately, her job was to adjust the dates and articles for them, as well as distribute them by category — she didn't have to deal with such things. After work, she handed him a cold Americano with tonic. 

“I heard he'll be changing branches soon,” she winked, hinting that Dokja wouldn't have to suffer for long. 

"The girls told me: one of them had to endure his advances last week when we went out for drinks after work." She adjusted her golden hair, looking mysteriously at her transparent cup with a few ice cubes floating in it. Dokja felt that she was hiding something, which made him alert and frown. 

“Is something bothering you?” Uriel raised her head slightly, looking at Dokja. Her usually positive gaze was a little sad, and a strand of hair slowly fell out of her carelessly tied hair. 

“The girls and I are waiting for him to leave because he doesn't always behave professionally with us...” 

Now Dokja really wanted to kill him. He was fine, but Uriel was somehow suffering from it... 

“Damn asshole. I'd beat people like that for such a sick attitude.”  

The way Dokja showered him with profanity made Uriel laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. After talking for less than an hour, they still had to go home to rest. But even though Uriel felt much better, Dokja still didn't. He couldn't believe that these articles would be published tomorrow and that this burden would fall on him. He decided to buy some beer. The furnished roof beckoned Dokja to climb up onto it. Throughout the day, especially after talking to Uriel, Dokja didn't think about his mysterious neighbor at all. Even when he got to his apartment, he threw down his bag and took only his phone and a drink. The way there was quiet, as usual. However, this time he also heard an argument on the top floor. The cool breeze after the daytime heat was soothing as it blew under his shirt. He leaned against the fence, opening the bottle and taking a sip. It was strange how many low buildings there were around, which did not block the view. He was lost in thought until he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he wanted to apologize, thinking that maybe this place had an owner. However, he saw a familiar silhouette. The man behind him was not surprised and showed nothing but calm on his face. 

“Are you deliberately getting in my way, or is it just a coincidence?” A cheeky smile spread across his face as he moved closer to Dokja.  

“Fuck.” Dokja let out a nervous laugh. The man came close enough to make him tense up and squeeze the can a little tighter. However, his excuses were unnecessary — the man stopped a meter away from him, leaning on the railing. 

“You look angry or worried. Are you afraid?” Dokja could see his silhouette reflected in the man’s eyes and froze for a moment. 

“No. You just scared me. I didn’t think anyone would come up here,” he shook his head, looking away slightly. 

“Should I leave?”  

Dokja noticed that the question didn't sound emotional — just a normal question that sounded quite polite in his head. Something made him deny it — even though the man had scared him a few hours ago. 

“No, it's okay,” he stammered, looking at the man, who raised his eyebrows slightly. 

 “Yoo Joonghyuk. Nice to meet you.” 

Dokja couldn't take his eyes off his scars. It was terribly rude to stare like that, but he was really curious — their story, if he could see them. His eye scar was covered by long bangs that were swept to the left side, but the scar on his forehead, probably made by a test tube, was visible in all its glory. Near Dokja's ears, he noticed red marks from the mask, which must have been pressing against his skin from constant wear. Did he take it off before entering the balcony? However, he did not try to hide them from him. 

“I'm Kim Dokja. It's really nice to meet you.” 

His new acquaintance paused for a moment, as if remembering something, and then asked, squinting slightly: “Don't you work at KCLG?” 

Dokja responded with surprise: “How do you know?” 

Joonghyuk clenched his right hand, which was resting on the fence, but did not take his eyes off Dokja. Then he laughed lightly, which brought Dokja to the brink of a nervous breakdown. 

“Sorry. I just heard about you from the prosecutors. One of them really likes it when they write about his investigations. I work there as a photographer.” 

“A photographer?” Dokja's eyes lit up, and his shoulders rose enthusiastically. He began to doubt his initial statements. At university, Dokja had loved the photos they took in pairs for investigative articles. Joonghyuk briefly clarified afterwards that it was about a series of new murders that this prosecutor was working on, and Dokja recognized it. Over the past three months, bodies had been found that were consistently missing one thing. It all started with the body of a man found in a river — he was missing his little finger. At first, this was attributed to possible injuries sustained in the current, but a photo of the finger was found in the body. The next corpse was missing its ring finger, and more than ten were found in this way. It was then that they realized that the killer was photographing each part he took as a trophy. This is happening all over Korea, and the camera is always different. The photos are printed on ordinary paper that can be bought in any store. 

“Oh, you mean that series. Actually, I just described those situations in an article today,” he wanted to finish, thinking that it would be uninteresting, but that attentive gaze, completely focused on his words, forced him to continue. 

"Actually, I combine both editing and correct writing, but my boss and I are like different parts of the world" Joonghyuk raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips slightly in a confused gesture. However, the way he looked at Dokja clearly made the owner feel awkward. Dokja put the can on the pallet and continued. He didn't even know what was driving him more — the alcohol that had affected his empty stomach or the opportunity to be heard. 

"He makes me rewrite it all as tabloid journalism, but all I want is to describe crime stories the way they should be. To interest not some small audience that reads tarot cards, but real crime fans. It's much more interesting than anything else possible."

 “What if you could convert that desire into something else?” 

He leaned a little closer to Dokja. There was still a distance between them, the kind strangers usually keep, but at the same time, it was enough to create an imaginary privacy. 

“What do you mean?” Dokja was genuinely interested in the idea of turning his desire into something more. 

“If you can't do anything with what you already have, maybe you should create something of your own? A blog or a book?” Dokja muttered thoughtfully, putting his hand on the back of his head and moving it forward. 

“I can't be poetic in a book. It's too difficult and would take all my energy...” 

But the idea of a blog made him think. It really seemed interesting. His shoulders slumped a little, and he sighed with relief. It was nice to find someone who could understand him in all this chaos. 

“How do you feel about this series of murders? If you like writing about it, you must have your own opinion?” 

“I do, but I can't express it,” he turned away, looking at the city at night. 

“It's really interesting because the killer's style is unique, I've never seen anything like it before. I feel sorry for these people... But, selfishly speaking, I love interesting stories. And whoever is doing this is smart. And, to some extent, has a virtuoso vision in his work.”  

Joonghyuk muttered thoughtfully, as if fixing something in his imagination, and nodded. However, his gaze became a little sadder. When Dokja looked at him, he felt a familiar déjà vu — the same as when Joonghyuk looked through him from the balcony. But this time, he focused his gaze faster than Dokja could ask if everything was okay. 

"I often imagine myself in the killer's shoes, trying to understand his logic. But I can't fully do it — relying only on photographs. Even with their detail, it always feels like I'm missing something. Like sand slipping through my fingers... What do you think? " 

What do I think? I think it's damn interesting to have such logic with such a face. The way your appearance makes you look like a good person with a somewhat naive look... But then — that expression on your face when you imagine yourself as me. You almost merge with me. However, Joonghyuk only nodded thoughtfully.  

***

"Have you seen the new guy who moved in? Joonghyuk, please, we don't need another suspicion just because you couldn't control yourself again," the manager crossed his arms over his chest, looking reproachfully at the man who was a head taller than him. Joonghyuk pulled off his black medical mask, a smile appearing on his face. 

“Did you see his badge, which he still hasn't taken off? Don't you trust me? Do you think I would allow myself to touch someone who documents everything that happens here?” 

***

“I wanted to ask... Would you like to come with me on the next investigation? It would be interesting to hear the thoughts of a crime reporter.” 

“Are you so sure that the photographer's murder will happen again?” Joonghyuk nodded. 

They parted ways after another hour of conversation — an hour that left Dokja with a slight feeling of shame for his dream.

The dream seemed childish, like a nightmare you have when you are five years old and remember it for days, afraid of something that does not really exist. Surprisingly, he was one of the nicest people Dokja had met in recent days, which had been filled with work and various tarot readers who wanted to gain his trust and make him pay them money. During their conversation, he felt as if the air, which had seemed heavy, had dissipated a little. However, his intuition still did not give him complete peace of mind.

He hoped to see him again tomorrow and promised himself to think about a blog that would be dedicated to these murders.

Chapter Text

Dokja hadn't heard from his new acquaintance for two days. Two very difficult days, during which he had gotten to know almost all of the residents. A man with schizophrenia lived on his floor, as he had been told by an old woman from the first floor who constantly grabbed his wrist, as if trying to say something, but changed her mind at the last moment. On the third floor, besides Joonghyuk, there was a married couple whom he had heard recently. His biggest misfortune was to find them almost “eating” each other on the open balcony. In the evening of the same day, when Dokja was sitting on the roof, the same man approached him and, apparently, did not understand at first that it was Dokja, because when he looked closely at his face, he timidly moved to the other corner and lit a cigarette. Dokja noticed that he had not found a single strange person in this house. They were all the same. They were normal among themselves, but when Dokja appeared in front of them, they immediately turned on their fearful gaze and seemed to bite their tongues so as not to say anything. Some of them didn't seem to leave their apartments at all, but just stared at Dokja.

This made Dokja a little wary, but he attributed it to the neighborhood or his own paranoia. However, he was not stupid and was well trained in reading emotions, so he understood that something was wrong and began to listen carefully. The old woman wasn't really that strange; he had seen her in the store talking to a female student. Her voice was even and calm, perhaps even sounding younger than she was. She was calmly having tea with the manager — he saw this when he was returning from work. The couple was actually arguing as if it were staged. Their shouting voices were so theatrical that at one point Dokja started searching the internet to see if they were quotes. Only the man next to him remained stable. Dokja even managed to forget about him. Only his religious inclinations made him shiver a little.

Dokja decided to let the whole situation develop on its own. However, when the fourth day came, he returned home to find the same thing at his door for the third time. Fish that was rotten from the head. Its smell made him want to vomit every time, but he found the strength to throw it over the balcony. In the morning, it was never there, and Dokja was very happy about that. He took a deep breath before opening the door.

“Where has this asshole been for four days?” flashed through his mind, and he slammed the door behind him.

While doing his evening routine, he always noticed that some things were not where he had left them. All these changes drove him crazy with incomprehension of everything that had happened in recent days. The only thing that made him happy was the peace and quiet at work. It was the only calm respite in his life that didn't drive him crazy, so he was grateful for at least something stable in his life.

5:43 a.m. Dokja wakes up to the ringing of his phone. At first, he thinks it's his alarm clock, but no — someone decided to call him at almost six in the morning.

“Morning, I know it's very early, but I wanted to report that a body was found near the Mapo Bridge,” the voice sounded quite agitated.

“Sooyoung, it's a suicide bridge, young people are constantly killing themselves there, it doesn't deserve m...”

"A photo of a tongue was found in the dead man's mouth. You understand that the tongue itself is nowhere to be found."

The girl who called adjusted her coat, which she had thrown on because of the cold from the water and the morning, looking at the prosecutors, then turning away from them, shielding the speaker from the wind with her hand and speaking softly so as not to attract unnecessary attention.

Dokja jumped out of bed, feeling not a bit sleepy. Finally, something that remained from his past life. Even if it meant such a terrible thing.

“I'll be there soon.”

He quickly began to get ready, almost forgetting his tie and lens, but finally sat in the taxi with all the necessary equipment for work, checking that everything was working.

Sooyoung had been his savior in his search for articles for years. Her luck in being in the right places was one of the things that brought them together. This savior met him a few minutes away from the crime scene, her hand patting him on the shoulder, remaining there for a while as they walked. It felt like she had simply decided to rest on him. Her long black hair was surprisingly well styled, despite the fact that she was on night patrol, but Dokja ignored it.

There weren't many people, most of whom were clearly unhappy about being there and drank coffee with their arms folded across their chests. Among the crowd of unfamiliar faces, he saw one that was very familiar. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding his gaze, but his lips were pressed into a thin, curved line. His even build and hands, covered in medical gloves and a black shirt, were adjusting a camera, the strap of which was falling down, completely ignored by its owner. For some reason, his presence was reassuring here, even though there was no reason for it. But only Dokja was glad to see him, so he quietly walked over to him, leaving Sooyoung with a frown and a heavy sigh. He looked over his shoulder and saw the camera settings.

“Do you always work at ISO 400 to 10?” he whispered quietly in his ear, and the man in front didn't even react, just nodded as he checked the settings.

Dokja waited patiently, watching him, trying to catch something new. Something about the way he reacted even shocked Dokja a little. He was so pleasantly calm compared to his neighbors. He talked to him calmly, didn't look intimidated, and seemed somewhat interested. Joonghyuk, who squeezed the camera slightly in his hands, which Dokja noticed by his white fingertips, put the strap around his neck, looking at Dokja and turning to him.

"Here we are again, Dokja. It's funny that our next meeting is at a murder scene," he nodded, smiling slightly but sharply.

These words and gestures brought Dokja back to the reality of what was happening. He felt a little ashamed that he hadn't immediately thought about work and the body, but had approached his acquaintance instead.

“At first I thought it was suicide, but then when they told me about the photo, I immediately realized that it was the work of that maniac,” Dokja tried to explain his presence here for some reason, putting his hand on the back of his neck.

Joonghyuk looked at Dokja for quite a long time, the loud noise of the waves crashing against each other forcing him to speak louder, but even his attempt to do so was swallowed up by the strong icy wind that blew through Dokja's coat, making him shiver slightly from the cold. However, he felt even more shivering from the fact that he was being watched too closely, as if trying to catch him with just a glance. He wasn't even sure if Joonghyuk had blinked even once. A phantom sensation spread through his body, causing him to narrow his eyes in question.

“I guess the person who died had a sharp tongue that had to be cut off,” he finally said, tilting his head to the side.

“Huh?” He blinked, as if he couldn't believe what he had heard.

Joonghyuk stepped a little closer, shaking his head. “Sorry, it's just my guess based on what's there, don't take it seriously...”

But Dokja took it seriously. He remembered other details and began to connect them in his head. “What if the places they choose to photograph are connected?” The wind blew again, almost knocking Dokja over, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a gesture of coolness.

Joonghyuk looked at the camera and adjusted his shirt sleeves, saying, "There's a coffee shop nearby, it's open 24 hours. Then he turned and headed toward the man with long blond hair. Watching his receding figure, he wondered why he was acting this way, but quickly dismissed the thought, not wanting anyone to worry about him. He turned back to Sooyoung, who was on her phone and looked up at him wearily, as if asking if he wanted something.

"Will you go with me for coffee while they start work?"

Her phone quickly fell into her coat pocket, and she nodded. As they walked away, he noticed another brief glance at him from Joonghyuk, which stopped immediately after he was “caught.”

The shop was actually close by, which was a relief. Passing by the signs on the bridge with the hotline numbers for psychological help, they finally reached the shop. It was quite small, with an old man sitting behind the counter, puzzling over something in the newspaper, and when he saw the girl and the boy come in, he only glanced briefly at them.

Standing outside the store 10 minutes later with a light snack and, most importantly, coffee, Dokja finally asked Sooyoung.

“Do you know that photographer I was talking to?” He tried to make his words sound more casual, but Sooyoung's face still wore a strange, suspicious smirk.

“Even if so, when did you start gathering information on people? Are you charmed by him?”

He gave her a sidelong glance: “Don't be ridiculous, he ended up being my neighbor in a house that I would add to crime series.”

The last words seemed to interest Sooyoung, because she turned to Dokja, raising her eyebrows.

“Are your neighbors crazy and murderers, and he's like their boss?” It was an open mockery, and he understood that, but there is a grain of truth in every joke.

Dokja smiled, then laughed: “I wouldn't be surprised if they started telling me that the red on the floor is paint because the couple who argue loudly enough for the whole building to hear decided to do art therapy. Actually, they're all really weird, and I still can't figure out if it's just me or if it's really true.”

Sooyoung, who had been laughing since the beginning of the sentence, quieted down a little, thoughtfully touching her chin with her cup. The steam from the hot coffee dissolved on her face, which Dokja was watching. After thinking for a moment, she replied, “Try taking notes, it might help you balance your thoughts, just don't do it like work or personal notes, but as if you were telling me.”

Dokja nodded, throwing away the empty cup. Sooyoung just raised her eyebrows in feigned surprise and muttered that he was eating way too fast when she still had half a sandwich left. It was time to go back — their break couldn't last forever, and work was still waiting.

Not much had changed in their absence. Joonghyuk and the investigators had marked the area, placed triangles with numbers on them, and begun recording their findings. It was fairly steady, but Dokja still had to wait another twenty minutes. While waiting, he managed to catch one of the officers who had been on night patrol, showing him his press card, which he kept in his passport holder.

“Kim Dokja, correspondent for KCLG. I have permission to film and record. Can I talk to you?” He smiled politely, forcing them to give him everything he needed with that smile.

The young man in uniform nodded to his colleague and turned back to Dokja.

“No problem. What exactly are you interested in?” he asked as Dokja pinned a badge to his collar.

"Your evening patrol."

The body was found at 5:13. At first, they wrote it off as a drunk man, then a suicide, but then they accidentally saw a glint in his mouth and took a photo of his severed tongue lying in his hands. The officer clearly noted that there was no blood around or in his mouth, but the tongue in the photo had a slight blue-purple tint. He had no documents with him, nor any other personal belongings. He was dressed for the weather, so it is believed that this is where it happened.

Dokja wrote down details such as the weather and location for himself. During this time, he was given the opportunity to go to the scene, so after thanking them, he returned to the investigator.

“You're Kim Dokja, right?” He leaned slightly toward Dokja, smiling warmly.

This man gave off a strange feeling. It was as if you could tell him anything, but at the same time, you were afraid to do so. He bowed slightly, showing his ID as proof.

“I am San Wukong, the chief investigator on these cases.”

Dokja looked surprised. He had never seen him before — had a new investigator been assigned? However, he decided that there was no point in asking, he would find out later. Wukong invited him to step behind the barrier tape.

“Look around and do your job, I'll be standing nearby, so I'll be waiting for your questions,” he patted Dokja lightly on the shoulder as he walked away.

Dokja watched him go, then returned to his work. After setting up the camera, he began to capture the main shots: the crime scene, the place where it happened, and some of the investigators' notes. Finally, he got to the body — he photographed the corpse and took a picture of the tongue, although he was unlikely to be able to post it anywhere, but he liked to have a complete picture for his work. Looking through the photos, he noticed something peculiar. The group's attention was focused on everything and nothing at the same time. It felt as if the main clues had been overlooked and replaced by noise from various photos.

"Weird..."

“What's 'weird', detective-journalist?” A voice came from behind Dokja, and he shuddered, not expecting such a sudden intrusion into his thoughts.

He turned and looked at the owner of the voice. Dokja took a deep breath — it was just Joonghyuk, although it should have scared him. He wanted to share his thoughts, but Dokja still felt that rotten feeling inside that he couldn't trust him 100%. He blinked in surprise, as if Joonghyuk thought he had said something.

“Huh? What? Strange? No, I'm saying ‘wow’. The shots turned out great,” he forced a smile.

It wasn't obvious that Joonghyuk had fallen for it, so he held his gaze for a split second, which screamed that he didn't believe it, but quickly changed it to his usual expression. Dokja hates that because the look he gives you then is like he's taking your insides out. Joonghyuk moved closer to Dokja, quickly closing the distance, but still maintaining that damn polite distance.

He looked at Dokja with curiosity, folding his arms in his pants pockets: “Don't you want to discuss this case after that?”

Dokja froze, looking somewhere over his shoulder, unable to straighten up and look him in the eye. “Fuck.” He definitely didn't want to go anywhere with him and be alone at this point. He had to come up with an excuse. Any solid one. So Dokja blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“Sorry, I have a date with my girlfriend,” he said in a slightly guilty voice, letting out an embarrassed laugh.

“I'm sorry, Uriel, I'll owe you one,” flashed through his mind. At the same time, Joonghyuk looked surprised, opening his mouth slightly in shock and stepping back a little. This was probably the only time Dokja had ever seen any emotion on his face. The man's lips first twisted in disgust, but quickly changed to a slight smile: “You have a girlfriend? Well, I'm not surprised, you're quite handsome, so that's something you definitely should have,” he patted Dokja lightly on the shoulder. “Then next time.”

Dokja nodded, watching him walk away, catching his breath and taking out his phone. A second later, he was already texting the unfortunate Uriel, whom he had dragged into this.

“Meet today at 3 p.m.?’

The message was read instantly, which he loved about her.

“Dokja wants to hang out? What a blast, no problem!!!!"

He ignored the visible sarcasm and the pile of emojis that followed. Let her do what she wants.

He felt like he was running out of air in this area, so he was ready to go home and work on his stuff. It was about six hours until they met, so he could go home and work on his stuff. Dokja regretted a little that he had dragged Uriel into this — she definitely didn't deserve to be in this drama. When he reached the house, he looked around and quickly entered the apartment. In those couple of hours, only one person had sucked the strength out of him, and he wasn't going to let it go.

Conversation with Uriel will definitely help him. However, no matter how many times he tells people, it doesn't lead to anything. Uriel, who has heard about it, may not tell him anything new, which leads him to believe that no one can give him a clear answer except Joonghyuk. But even he won't tell him anything. However, it was worth moving on to the best part of his plans: creating a blog.

Chapter Text

Two hours later, the material was ready to be created, and an hour later it was already posted under an anonymous name on the Naver website. There was no avatar, the name was fake, but the material looked more real than anything else that had been created, despite the fact that Dokja had to work hard on censorship — leaving only a piece of the body where the face was not showing and a little blood on the hand. It all looked quite presentable. A thousand times better than what the director of the company he was a slave to forced him to write. Although there was one major advantage in the editorial office — a correspondent's license, even when he worked as an editor. It was one of the terms of the contract, and Dokja never regretted how brilliantly he had anticipated the situation.

Smiling smugly, he felt relieved. However, another feeling appeared in his chest... some kind of warmth? The same warmth that haunted him only in his thoughts became a reality. His passion for what he had been wasting years of his life on was finally beginning to take the desired shape. No need to write for someone else, the ability to control the censorship of the text himself and enjoy how he described things. Dokja was too hardworking for this company, and he knew it. He could have worked in a normal editorial office if he had been more courageous. However, his confidence disappeared somewhere when he went through interviews, submitted his work, and so on. It was a fear he couldn't overcome since school, no matter how hard he tried.

He propped his head up with his arm bent on the table, staring at the words and checking for mistakes. However, for several minutes, he caught himself looking through the screen at the front door, near which his desk and laptop stood.

He wondered what that reaction meant when he said he had a date with a girl. Joonghyuk reacted so strangely, as if it upset or annoyed him.

Dokja covered his eyes, continuing his train of thought in a bored posture.

 In fact, he had never noticed the shades of vivid emotions on Joonghyuk's face. However, they were still memorable. It was something that attracted him, sometimes making him shiver from the way he was looked at. Dokja leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes in embarrassment at what he was thinking. Seriously? Yesterday he was afraid, and today he was wondering how Joonghyuk was staring at every inch of his face without hesitation? 

Putting his other hand on his thigh, he slowly began to raise it...

KABOOM.

“Fuck,” Dokja almost fell off his chair in fright. “What the fuck...?”

The sound was as if someone had been thrown against the wall with all their might.

“Someone” because after the dull thud, a loud moan of pain could be heard. He looked up, as if trying to see something other than the white ceiling. After the bang, there was loud muttering, and for a second he thought it was the couple again. But the voices were male. What the hell? He hadn't heard of a single apartment in this building where two men lived. Drunk buddies?

He clicked his tongue, rubbing his face with his hands. This shit scared him a lot. Not a single day of peace for unfortunate Dokja. He looked at his watch and realized that there was little time left before he had to leave. The worst part was that he had to get ready while two men were yelling above his head. He glanced at his watch and realized that there was little time left before he had to leave. The worst part was that he had to get ready while two men were shouting above his head. It was terribly annoying, and he wanted to tell them everything to their faces, but something made him hesitate. The feeling that getting involved in these arguments would clearly not be good for him...

After a long days at work, it was nice to see himself not in the suit. However, Dokja decided to stick to a business style anyway, knowing the style Uriel dressed in. He would have been scolded by her if he had come in just a T-shirt and jeans. A short black linen shirt with small gray lines that created texture was tucked into straight-cut gray pants, and he wore black matte shoes on his feet. Adding small accessories in the form of two thin black bracelets, he took his phone from the charger.

Leaving the apartment, he noticed that the screams from above had died down a few minutes ago. Just as he was about to step outside, he was hit by a familiar stench. Lowering his eyes, he almost vomited: a mackerel with a completely rotten head, covered with mold and pierced with ten toothpicks. He held his breath, quickly took a bag from the apartment and packed this abomination into it, tying it tightly to block the air. Knowing that the trash would only be collected at a certain time, he put everything in a small black bag so as not to show this horror to others. Leaving the apartment for good, he closed the door and went downstairs. He glanced at the apartment from which, in his opinion, the screams were coming. There he saw only a half-open door.

No matter how much you avoid it, it won't go away.

Pursing his lips into a thin line, he turned and went to look for a trash can. He had plenty of time and arrived at the meeting place a little early. However, less than two minutes later, he heard a woman's voice call his name. He turned and saw Uriel walking quickly toward him.

Dokja was right—jeans and a T-shirt would have been a terrible choice. The girl ran up, breathless. Her curly blonde hair was partially gathered at the back with a white rose hair clip. She was wearing a milky white dress. Her style — romantic, vintage — looked too sophisticated. The top was a strapless corset with a heart-shaped neckline and lacing at the front. The fabric was silk, covered with dense lace embroidered with roses, which transitioned into a skirt made of several layers of silk, tulle, and lace. The hem was uneven: the left side was knee-length, while the right side fell down. On her feet were delicate shoes of the same color with low heels. Around her neck was a milky ribbon, and on her hands were light lace gloves.

Dokja raised his eyebrows, smiling and hugging her in response to her usual greeting gesture.

“Uriel, wow, you look like you stepped out of vintage gothic,” he said in surprise, looking at her admiringly as she spun around, showing off her detailed outfit.

He clapped his hands in support of her actions. The girl smiled, giggling softly.

“Thank you,” she folded her arms behind her back, and Dokja turned toward the city, gesturing for her to follow.

The weather had improved and warmed up compared to the morning. The sun was shining brightly, but it wasn't scorching. That meant they wouldn't die of heatstroke, at least for now.

Uriel started talking about one of the places she wanted to go, describing the food, interior, and other details to Dokja. It seemed as if she was persuading him to go there, listing all the benefits, like a child asking to buy a toy, proving its worth. All this caused only a slight laugh, so Dokja couldn't help but smile.

“You know we're going there anyway. Refusing you would be more harmful to me,” he furrowed his brows in a joking manner, causing Uriel to sigh dramatically and roll her eyes.

“Dokja, you know that when you reminisce about the past, you look like a grandfather. Buy yourself some glasses and a cane, and you'll be identical.”

About an hour passed as they discussed light topics, most of them office gossip. During this time, Dokja learned more than he expected. He even learned that one of his colleagues had given birth without going on maternity leave. Honestly, it didn't bother him, but Uriel emotionally recounted how worried she was about her health.

Sitting on a bench in the city center, she crossed her legs and talked, turning halfway toward him. He listened attentively, but his thoughts began to drift away from her romantic dramas.

They had known each other since their first year at university. They were in the same group. She was the class president, whom everyone loved, and Dokja was the guy in the corner who was always reading. He had no friends because he didn't want a large social circle. His conversations were mostly limited to teachers until one day Uriel literally became part of his life. He still wonders why she is so friendly with him. They are like blood relatives who grew up together. However, he was glad that she was on his side, if only because she never showed any romantic feelings towards him. Although he wasn't sure if she ever liked men at all. Yes, she had a few boyfriends, but she quickly broke up with all of them because they couldn't accept Dokja, who was free to stay at her house instead of the dormitory and even make himself coffee.

Dokja snapped out of his thoughts when he felt someone's eyes on him. He nodded in agreement with her words, but his attention was drawn to the crowd. At a distance, far enough away but still visible, sat a very familiar figure. It was not difficult to recognize. He looked up at Dokja, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Is everything okay?” Uriel asked sharply, looking anxiously at Dokja.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he asked quietly.

“Who?”

“My neighbor,” he looked at Uriel, and when she turned to look, there was no one there.

“Where?” She tried hard to see, but saw no one who fit the description.

Dokja blinked several times, as if trying to clear his vision, but there was really no one there, as if there had never been. He began to feel strangely uneasy and continued to stare, trying to see something. Uriel was forced to gently take his cheeks, turning him toward her and forcing him to look at her. The warmth on his cheeks and the feel of lace distracted him a little, and he took a calming breath.

“Uriel, I'm going crazy,” he put his hands on hers, which were on his cheeks, and gently lowered them to her lap, removing his own.

The girl bit her lip, thinking, and stood up.

"If you think something and you want me to believe you, fine, let's go somewhere else. Maybe the large number of people is affecting you.” 

He wanted to shout that he really didn't think it was him. But what did he have? Fatigue, which could easily cause hallucinations, lack of sleep, and the fear he imposed on himself.

“I guess the person who died had a sharp tongue that had to be cut off.”

It flashed sharply in his mind, forcing him to completely ignore Uriel's words until she literally forced him to get up by pulling his hair. It was a gesture she rarely made — when Dokja finally needed to emerge from his thoughts and remember the real world. Dokja cried out loudly in pain, but got up, fixing his hair, which now looked a little disheveled.

“What's wrong?” Dokja asked, a little offended, which made Uriel cross her arms over her chest.

“Dokja, I'm going to have to make you introduce me to him soon, because this is impossible: you're not focusing on the conversation or your actions. Why are we even here?” Her angry gaze changed to a sad one, her furrowed brows softened, forming a very disappointed grimace.

It was as if she wasn't sad, but disappointed in something. This part of the emotional spectrum made Dokja feel like shit. With a heavy sigh, he gathered his thoughts.

“I'll tell you. Maybe we should eat first,” he said, not looking her in the eye.

The girl made an angry sound, saying,

“No, I don't want to go there when something is being hidden from me. Let's go after we talk.”

She grabbed Dokja by the hand, leading him for the first few minutes, but then they walked calmly side by side.

“By the way, I was investigating the killer photographer today,” he decided to soften the blow.

Uriel was silent for five seconds, and during that time Dokja regretted everything he had ever done wrong in his life. But she still asked:

“Weren't you forbidden from using your press card for non-media purposes?”

“Huh? How do you know I'm not going to give it back to them?”

“Because it's you,” she laughed, but her expression showed that she was listening carefully as they walked down the road.

He began to tell her everything calmly: from Sayong's call to the moment of his arrival, still omitting certain details. He said nothing about the blog, did not elaborate on his conversation with Sayong when they were drinking coffee, and did not mention Joonghyuk's phrase. He recounted the story in detail, but omitted the real moments that had upset him.

They finally reached the embankment. The wind here was different from the wind at the murder scene. The cold wind, which screamed of mourning for the dead, was replaced by a warm wind that penetrated their clothes and did not make them shiver. The large number of people going about their lives, oblivious to the events, was a little distracting. He glanced at his watch: <18:37>. Not wanting to sit any longer, they walked slowly across the grounds.

“But why are we hang out?” The casual question brought him back to the sad reality.

“When he came up to me to ask if I wanted to discuss the situation, I was confused,” Dokja began. Uriel's face showed a big question mark, not understanding where this was going. "And I told him I was going on a date with my girlfrend.”

He looked at her, trying to find genuine understanding. However, Uriel blinked several times and suddenly burst into sharp laughter. Genuine laughter, the kind that made Dokja afraid she would suffocate. He just watched her with embarrassed concern as Uriel nearly hugged the bench, laughing. People passed by, turning in surprise at the laughter, which sounded more like hysterics. It took 10 minutes for Uriel to calm down. Dokja handed her a napkin, and she wiped her tears, looking at her phone.

“Why did you even say you had a girlfriend?” She tried not to fall into hysterical laughter again. “He barely asked you out on a date, and you did that.”

"Uriel, you think too much about me. You and Sooyoung are literally setting me up with the guy who hit me in the head with an axe.”

“Well, dreams don't counttttt” she smiled. "How can you know anything about him? You don't even talk to him normally.”

Dokja looked at her with an angry expression, and she giggled. A rotten feeling of uncertainty in his thoughts spread through his body, weighing heavily on his shoulders. He clicked his tongue and abruptly changed the subject:

“Where's that place? I'm hungry.”

Uriel perked up, grabbed his elbow, and quickly led him to the place. It was nearby, but it gave Dokja time to sink into his thoughts. They talked only a little. He knew nothing about him except his name, where he lived, and what he did for a living.

The establishment had a pleasant white and pink interior with lots of plants. There were artificial vines on the ceiling, but on the walls, tables, and behind the sofas were real, well-groomed plants that created a feeling of freshness with a light scent of vanilla. The absence of kitchen smells added to the pleasant anticipation. They took a table by the window, which didn't please Dokja very much, but he decided not to say anything, not wanting to spoil Uriel's enthusiasm. He remembered their previous conversation and decided that he had to keep the right mood before going out to eat. He had to get away from it, because he was becoming dependent on thoughts about who his acquaintance was. So much so that he was losing himself and others. Right now, he was here, walking with his girlfriend.

The menu was typical of Uriel — lots of different flavors. The money here was probably spent on presentation rather than ingredients. He felt his eye twitch, but let it go.

“What do you recommend?” he asked anyway. Uriel immediately began pointing at a thousand places on the menu, so he didn't even try to read it. “Okay, get whatever you think I'll like.”

He propped his head up with both hands, resting his elbows on the table. There was a sly smile on his face, which made Uriel roll her eyes ostentatiously and call the waitress. The young girl appeared before them in a matter of seconds, and Dokja doomed himself to a sweet coma just because of the name “Dreamy Fruit Garden.”

“How's your vacation to Japan in a month?” Dokja finally changed the subject to something pleasant.

“Good. The girls and I have even chosen the outfits we're going to wear and when. It's a shame you're such a bore and won't be with us.”

“I wouldn't make sense among the girls. People would think I was crazy.”

Uriel leaned back in her chair, raising her eyebrows as if Dokja had made some strange joke, and snorted when she realized he was serious. She never understood that side of him. He was insecure around women, even though they would have taken him off her hands. Only sometimes at work and with her was he bold and himself: eloquent and full of hidden jokes.

Dokja was sure that she was thinking: he is stupid. And he smiled relaxed at her condemning expression.

Finally, the peace he had been longing for. Good weather, a cozy establishment, and company that completely relieved all his anxieties. It seemed that nothing could bother him until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, I hope I'm not disturbing you?” A familiar voice echoed in his ears, sending a chill down his spine.

He couldn't look up, freezing on Uriel's surprised face. She looked at Dokja, then at Joonghyuk, but her face wasn't frightened like Dokja's. She didn't show any emotion at how they were looking at her. She just blinked a few times.

“Good afternoon, who are you?” She tilted her head to the side, smiling warmly.

“Oh, you must be Dokja's girlfriend, I'm sorry for the surprise,” he slowly lowered his hand from Dokja's shoulder, walking around from behind. “May I sit next to you? All the tables are taken."

Dokja looked around in hopes of finding a free table, but indeed, everything was occupied, although when they arrived, there had been plenty of seats.

“What are you doing here, Joonghyuk?” he asked seriously, looking at him as he sat down next to him.

Joonghyuk was acting completely differently, and it annoyed Dokja, who didn't understand the point of his appearance. The man just smiled lightly, covering his eyes from laughter and covering his mouth with his hand for a moment.

“To be honest, I came here completely by accident and saw you and your incredibly beautiful companion,” he nodded toward Uriel, and she smiled politely.

“Dokja must have told me about you. Nice to meet you, I'm Uriel,” she looked at Dokja with an expression that said he now owed her for the rest of his life.

Dokja noticed this and realized that his life was now in her hands. He was incredibly glad that he had told her about his plan before they came here.

“I`m not...”

“Told you? What could he have said about me that was so interesting?” Joonghyuk raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Uriel, don’t raise his egoism,” Dokja interrupted, not letting him say anything else.

He genuinely didn’t understand what was going on. However, ten minutes later, Uriel and Joonghyuk looked as if they had known each other all their lives. Dokja sat and tried to understand why he had been dragged into this situation. Why was Joonghyuk, who usually looked dead and suspicious, now so actively chatting with her? He couldn't even imagine that he could have such a side. It drove him crazy.

When dessert was brought, Dokja stared sadly at the cake — thin layers resembling pancakes, lots of cream with pieces of kiwi, strawberry, and orange. He would have enjoyed it if it weren't for the familiar smell of men's perfume nearby: sandalwood with a slight hint of medical alcohol. It didn't fit in with this place or the atmosphere at all. Just like Joonghyuk's clothes: jeans with cargo-style side pockets with denim straps and a plain black T-shirt.

Dokja glanced at Uriel, who looked cheerful as usual, and stared at his dessert again, finding it more interesting than the two of them. He felt like a child trying to expose someone, but no one believed him. Uriel would not believe a word he said about Joonghyuk now.

“Dokja,” a man’s voice rang out. Dokja shuddered, coming out of his gloomy thoughts.

He looked up at Joonghyuk, who was looking at him with a slight smile, his eyes slightly narrowed. What a jerk. Does he think this is funny?

“You seem distant. Are you upset because I took your girlfriend?” The last word sounded strange, as if he was testing her reaction.

“What? No, I'm not...” He frowned, feeling someone else's shoe press against his leg.

The problem was that it was definitely not Uriel. He needed to say something to cover himself.

“Guys, I'll be right back,” Uriel interrupted their conversation, not making the situation any better. Taking her bag, she went to the restroom. Doccha almost screamed at how treacherous she was.

Taking her bag, she went to the restroom. Dokja almost shouted at her for being such a traitor.

“What do you really want? Why are you putting on this show?” He moved back a little from Joonghyuk.

Finally, the polite smile faded from his face a little, revealing his usual expression. He put his hand on the table, as if leaning on it, and whispered:

“Because I want to. Isn't your girlfriend happy to meet her boyfriend's friend? I'm not trying to interfere,” he put his other hand on the crook of his neck between his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not interested in her. I was just curious about you.”

“Huh?” He blinked, realizing something strange.

This dialogue did not happen.

“What show, Dokja? I just wanted to get to know you better. Don't take it to heart.” 

What was reality and what were the hallucinations that haunted Dokja today?

“Sorry, I'm too tired.”

“Shouldn't you rest then? I don't think Uriel would mind if you rested more.”

Dokja nodded surprisingly. Just then, Uriel returned. She looked at the slightly frightened Dokja, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Dokja, are you okay?” She leaned over his shoulder, looking into his face.

“I think he’s a little tired,” Joonghyuk said calmly, touching Dokja’s forehead as if checking his temperature.

What the hell. There wasn't a single coherent thought in his head, as if he couldn't focus on anything. Uriel called the waitress, and Dokja took a sip of water, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Uriel, I'll pay,” he waved away her objection and paid only for himself and her. There was no point in paying for this scumbag who was ruining the evening.

There was no point in paying for this scumbag who ruined the evening. When the wind touched his face, he finally realized: he was in deep shit. He had to escape from Joonghyuk somehow, because he was definitely planning to ruin his life further.

Uriel, as if sensing this, returned to Dokja after searching for something on her phone (probably a taxi), hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek under Joonghyuk's gaze, ending her performance.

“I have to meet the girls, I'll text you,” she looked at him seriously and bowed slightly to Joonghyuk. “Bye, it was nice to meet you.”

Joonghyuk responded with the same gesture: “Me too, be safe” And she left. His only hope was gone. Dokja wanted to climb the wall, but instead he turned around and walked in the opposite direction from Joonghyuk.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Is something wrong, Dokja?” The sad voice made him turn around abruptly.

But the face remained the same, as did the posture with his hands in his pockets. And yet this time it was real.

“No, I just don't want to burden you,” he lied. In fact, he was scared.

“You refused to come with me to talk because of your girlfriend, but now your girlfriend isn't with you, she went home. Are you busy now?” He pronounces the word “girlfriend” in a strange voice again, and in general his tone sounds somewhat offended.

Does he even know what it means to show emotions?

“I...” Dokja was confused, he had no answer to that.

“Let's go together.”

Dokja froze in place. All these situations were driving him crazy. He wanted to think clearly, but every time he couldn't find a sober point to hold on to. His head hurt just from Joonghyuk's presence. He avoided him not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to. There was a strange feeling that if he stopped avoiding him, he would become part of something bad. But forgetting this rule for one evening wouldn't kill him.

“I'll go, but only if you answer my question,” he stood two meters away from him.

Joonghyuk tilted his head with interest, inviting him to continue.

“Why are you the only one in the whole house who doesn't avoid me?” He bit his cheek. He should have asked something less serious.

Joonghyuk hesitated for exactly 33 seconds:

“I don't know.”

“Then there's no point in me going with you,” he turned and walked away quickly until he was grabbed by the arm and pulled back.

“Dokja, believe me, I really don't know, because they avoided me for a long time too, until I became who I am now,” he made a fairly convincing look of victimhood, so much so that Dokja even believed it.

Or wanted to believe it. Nodding, he sighed deeply and lightly touched Joonghyuk's hand that was holding him, removing it from himself.

“Okay, I'll believe you. But you need to find a really interesting point in the investigation that will interest me,” he smiled lightly, which brought visible relief to Joonghyuk's face.

It turned out that he also noticed that he was being forced to photograph strange things, and he didn't agree with it, but orders from his superiors could not be disobeyed, even though he was trying to help with the case. During this conversation, Dokja confessed that he had started blogging, and it was clear that his interlocutor was very happy with this news. He seemed to be fascinated just listening to Dokja's guesses and ideas about the murder. He expressed so few of his own thoughts that it seemed as if everything was done just so that Dokja would begin his thoughtful monologue under his attentive stare. As they approached the house, they began to hear some screams. It reminded Dokja of the situation during the day.

“Did you hear screams during the day? Around 1 PM?” Dokja asked, looking at Joonghyuk.

Something unpleasant flashed across his face, as if Dokja had said something very nasty. He paused to answer when the building manager came around the corner with a teenager carrying some trash in a black plastic bag.

“Oh, hello, how's your evening going?” the manager asked, while the teenager looked a little scared.

“Great, how about yours? Isn't it too late to be taking out the trash?” Joonghyuk asked, staring intently at the manager, who folded his arms across his chest in a defensive gesture.

“I had to take it out now... These teenagers are just awful,” he rolled his eyes, then looked at Dokja. “I hope it's not like that for you, Dokja?”

Dokja shook his head, replying that he didn't keep trash in his apartment. I remembered the whole collection of fish that lay under his door, and he was constantly looking for meaning in it.

Fish that rotted from the head... Fish rots from the head? The expression that terrible things start with leadership...

“I've had rotten fish under my door for more than three days now?” He looked at the manager with dissatisfaction, whose face showed surprise. “Don't you know who it could be?”

He needed to know the answer before it was too late. If it wasn't already.

Chapter Text

Joonghyuk would call his life boring. Too boring for who he is. He didn't fit into society, but he didn't want to either; he just knew he had to. Is doing something you're not interested in and avoiding unwanted problems something everyone else has to do? Is that what Joonghyuk has had to do since childhood? He says he photographs one thing, but does another. He doesn't say because he's not interested, because he doesn't understand why people are so fascinated by trivial things, because he doesn't understand people. And he doesn't understand why it bothered his former therapist so much. He knew why, but he never understood.

He doesn't think he kills. Should murder make you feel guilty? But he doesn't feel it, so does that mean he doesn't kill? He makes art and creates something new in order to really feel something. He is not a person without emotions, that's impossible naturally, so he cherishes what he feels. He doesn't understand why he pays so much attention to his emotional spectrum, perhaps because he was told to do so.

Joonghyuk doesn't like people, they are complicated and constantly demand something from him. He doesn't hate Wukong, but he doesn't like him either, he just accepts his existence. Wukong doesn't change his life, he doesn't understand him the way he needs to. He doesn't understand his other coworkers and doesn't want to; he is only what they need him to be. He has a habit of attending the funerals of all his works of art and bringing five white lilies. They are all wrapped in delicate gray floral film and black ribbon. He looks at them all the same and gives them equal attention. These are his attempts at gratitude and respect for human existence, which is acquired over the years and which he had the opportunity to take away. He did not cry at any of the funerals, he just stood there for a couple of seconds, looked, laid the flowers, and left. That's his routine.

Joonghyuk is not strange, he is not a problem, he is different, but he is not ashamed of it, he definitely feels boredom. His hobby definitely changed his perception of people, he loved to watch their reactions, their emotions, and their behavior. He loved to read comments under posts on social media. He noticed the styles of the authors who wrote about him for the editorial office, and he found the most interesting one in one of the strange magazines. The writer impressed Joonghyuk from the very beginning; his writing style was so serious among the pile of controversial sessions, and the way he described his art was a masterful adherence to the word, emphasized by the absence of strange and false guesses. Joonghyuk dreamed of knowing what this person looked like, he dreamed of looking into his eyes in an attempt to find the desired mutual admiration. He decided to meet Joonghyuk on his own, probably because the way he read tarot cards while waiting for his articles influenced his perception of the world. He felt the need to feel ashamed. Shame for not recognizing him immediately, even though he had never seen his face before, shame for the thought that flashed through his mind that he was approaching his art. He would never be able to make him part of this hobby.

His persona was so ordinary that Joonghyuk was disappointed at how easily he could continue to disguise himself so that Joonghyuk would not be able to find him for a long time. He would go out into the hallway either for fresh air or because he wanted to meet him. He didn't understand why he was avoiding him and seemed afraid, so he chalked it up to social anxiety, because how could a person who enthusiastically expressed his opinion about his actions, who was inspired to write about his actions, who got angry when his art was misinterpreted, hate him? He almost wanted to tell him, but he held back in time. He wanted him... he wanted Dokja to share his views not as a stranger and author, but as an author and storyteller. Four days of avoidance to meet at the site of his art? “How original, Joonghyuk,” he whispered to himself, watching “him” talk to Sooyoung. He knew little about this girl, but they looked like friends. Despite everything, he wasn't angry that they hadn't seen each other. Was he glad that they had finally met? Was he glad because of his temperament or because of his personal attitude towards Joonghyuk? It caused him to feel a vague anger that prevented him from focusing on his work. He wanted to put his work aside because he wasn't interested in it right now, but he couldn't because he knew people would find it strange.

But would Dokja find his actions strange?

Joonghyukstopped feeling “just different” when he entered Dokja's apartment while he was at work. It was easy to do, the manager just gave him the keys without even thinking. All he had to do was take something from one person to make him do everything for Joonghyuk. Standing in the hallway, he felt a pleasant tingling in his chest from a certain excitement, whether it was from the realization that he was breaking the rules or from the realization that he could understand him better.

However, he found little of interest, except, of course, a laptop, the password for which was easy to guess: his year of birth, not the most secure choice. He glanced briefly at the correspondence, looking at one of the pinned chats, a girl with blonde hair who had taken a photo of herself in a mirror in a gray dress somewhere in a cafe, her face only partially visible, but it was enough for him, and the two pink hearts signed by Dokja made him frown in disgust and close everything. That was enough for today, but he took a photo before leaving, making it look as if he was just sitting at the laptop as a guest, and not really an uninvited guest.

Joonghyuk doesn't consider himself strange. He does what he thinks is necessary: to make Dokja understand him and be his.

“Fish that rots from the head? This is the first time I've heard of that.” He's probably really hearing about it for the first time.

The teenager next to him continues to express his nervousness, especially when he looks at Joonghyuk and Dokja, who clearly notices it, his gaze sliding over the younger boy's face, the way he looks. Only Joonghyuk's face reveals nothing. As usual. But that guy is unlikely to put on a show. However, right now he is more concerned with the question of how to get rid of the terrible smell.

“I'll check the cameras and we'll figure it out,” he looks at Joonghyuk, somewhat dissatisfied and offended, "and you? Have something to say?".

A sly smile appeared on Joonghyuk's face, and he folded his arms across his chest: “Only what's in your bag.”

“Trash, I already said,” he took a loud breath.

“Then why is our little one looking at me so strangely?” he arched his eyebrows questioningly.

Dokja felt that he was probably looking for a fight or something else, but he saw how the manager was holding back his anger, trying to soften the corners, but Joonghyuk cut them off sharply. However, Dokja himself said nothing, allowing himself to watch the show in anticipation of something new. The manager squeezed his hand on the teenager's shoulder, literally dragging him past Dokja and Joonghyuk, bumping into Dokja with his shoulder, who hissed unpleasantly, rubbing his shoulder. Looking up at Joonghyuk, he noticed that he was staring at him strangely, his eyebrows narrowed warily and his eyes seeming to see everything.

“Let's go,” Joonghyuk said, walking further towards the apartments.

“What's the problem?” Dokja remained standing in the same place, forcing Joonghyuk to turn back to him impatiently.

“What was the point of starting a fight?” He tried to restrain himself and replied.

“Weren't you curious, Dokja, about what a teenager was doing with a manager in the middle of the evening with a bag of trash when you told me about the screams 10 minutes ago?” He put his hands in his pockets, looking at Dokja and smiling slightly.

“That's true... but...” He paused for a split second. “That doesn't change the fact that you're making everything into something weird.”

“Weird? Are you saying I'm weird?”

Hearing this, Dokja wanted to exhale loudly. Anger and nerves were pressing painfully on his head. It felt as if he wasn't the victim of the situation, but Joonghyuk was. What he understood for sure was that with or without him, Dokja's head hurt from everything, but between the choice of whether people would get on his nerves with 5 or just one, he would choose one. Although now that one person annoyed him more than all five of them. He ruined his dreams, his thoughts, his hangout with Uriel, and even his trip home, which should have been peaceful. They stood a meter and a half apart, looking into each other's eyes, which were difficult to see because of the falling light from the street lamps.

“You're the weirdest person I've ever met in this neighborhood. I don't even understand what makes me want to talk to you,” he began, slowly approaching Joonghyuk, who stood motionless with his hands in his jeans pockets. “If I had to choose someone to avoid in this building, it would be you.” 

With his last words, he came close enough to him, grimacing in disgust and poking him in the chest with his index finger. Joonghyuk, who listened silently, just watched as Dokja walked away from him quickly, leaving Joonghyuk alone with these words. 

Joonghyuk pursed his lips, looking somewhat sadly after him. He didn't think he had overreacted, maybe just a little, but did he deserve such words directed at him? However, he remained standing for a couple more minutes, giving Dokja space, then turned and walked in the direction the manager and teenager had gone. 

[I don't think he's that weird, just....] 

Dokja quickly read the message on the lock screen, threw his phone on the bed, and changed his clothes angrily. After 30 minutes of staring at the wall, he finally felt the adrenaline rush subside and thought that maybe he had gone a little too far. Or maybe it was just convenient for him to think and somehow transfer his thoughts and fears onto another person. All people are strange, and there was so little reason to be afraid of him that he felt like an idiot. Burying his face in his hands, he exhaled loudly, which turned into a kind of roar. However, he still didn't want to apologize. Something about the way Joonghyuk looked at him when Dokja expressed his opinion was strangely captivating. There was a kind of sadness in his dark eyes, as if he had caught him red-handed. He picked up the phone anyway. 

[I don't think he's that weird, it's just that you described him in such a way that I thought he was some kind of psychopath from the movies, but he seems like a normal, average person, only with a pretty face]. 

Dokja bit his cheek as he read this. For some reason, he didn't like that Uriel called him average and described his appearance positively. It wasn't that Dokja disagreed with the latter; he would definitely agree with that. He even had thoughts that he could only communicate with Joonghyuk because he found him attractive enough, especially when he looked at him with those... 

Dokja woke up from his thoughts. Joonghyuk was not average to him; such people are not the ones Dokja chooses to communicate with, otherwise they would hardly find common ground.  

Uriel was online and almost immediately after Dokja read the message, she continued typing, which was visible next to her nickname, and sent the following message a moment later. 

[What did he say to you when I walked away? You don't think I didn't see you two exchanging glances, hehehe~]

Damn Uriel with her damn shipper instinct. Someday it will be the death of Dokja. He knows exactly where she's going with this and squeezes his phone a little tighter as he types.

[He just wanted to get to know me better. I don't know, we had a fight on the way home.]

The first reply was [OHHHH CUTIIIIE] and a second later [WHAIT WHAT], a strange habit of hers to reply to one thing first and then finish reading the message. Dokja laughed at this, lying down more comfortably on the bed. 

[More likely, I just lost my temper and yelled at him. He's still weird, and I can feel it.]

[Dokja, you're an idiot. He's a good guy. You treat him like he's a murderer.] 

[What if he is...]

[Dokja, you're paranoid. If I were in your place, I would have apologized already, but knowing you, that will never happen!!] 

"If you were in my place, you wouldn't be so calm" These words flashed through Dokja's mind. 

He didn't want to apologize in the morning either. In the morning, when he saw a police car near the building and Joonghyuk standing next to it, talking to a man he knew well. Wukong and Joonghyuk looked a little frowning and were discussing something not very loudly. He couldn't hear the topic of conversation, although it was quite interesting. When Wukong noticed Dokja, he waved at him, but Dokja just nodded and quickly turned away and left when he met Joonghyuk's gaze. Yesterday's anger still weighed heavily on his heart, and his shame at his behavior was even greater. 
Nothing much happened during the day, until in the evening, when he was leaving the office building, he noticed Joonghyuk standing clearly opposite the stairs, smoking. He leaned against a lamppost, his legs crossed casually, and looked directly in his direction. A long-forgotten feeling of discomfort ran through Dokja's body. He froze at the bottom of the stairs, realizing that there was no point in running away, and that he had clearly been waiting there for more than ten minutes.

“Fuckkkk....”
Dokja gripped his bag a little tighter, noticing the camera attached to his belt, which made him swallow nervously. 

What should he do? He wasn't going to photograph landscapes.

Joonghyuk stood and looked at him, holding a cigarette in his hands, smiling in a way that was far from friendly; there was something in that smile that resembled a smirk. . Taking one last drag, he stubbed out the cigarette on the pole and walked slowly toward Dokja. Dokja couldn't take another step and just waited until he was a meter away from him.

“What do you want?” He frowned, meeting those attentive eyes that looked at him as always driving him crazy. 

But now he saw a hint of surprise in them, as if the question made no sense and he was supposed to be there. Joonghyuk snorted and touched Dokja's wrist, pulling him a little closer and starting to drag him down the stairs, holding only his left hand. Dokja tried to pull his arm away at first, but the grip was deathly tight, as was his desire to scream. He wasn't dragging him into some dark corner to kill him, was he? And Dokja was right, but only in the last part. 

Standing in a small dark corridor between two buildings, Dokja was pressed against the cold concrete of the high-rise buildings. 

“Dokja, don't you want to see me?” Joonghyuk asked sharply, sounding somewhat disappointed and angry, squeezing the shoulders with which he was holding Dokja in this position even tighter. 

Dokja blinked a couple of times in surprise, trying to process the information that he was being pressed against the wall and asked such things. He even forgot that he would not consider this normal at any other time, but now those thoughts had disappeared somewhere. All he could focus on was the slightly ragged breathing of the man in front of him and his words. 

“Huh? What did I do?” He was still processing the information.

“What are you talking about...” 

Joonghyuk raised his head slightly, leaving a distance of about 20 centimeters between their faces. 

"Your words yesterday, Dokja, don't say that you think I'm worse than them, I'm not...“ He raised his right hand, touching Dokja's cheek, causing him to flinch slightly. ”I can be anyone to you, but I'm not like them." 

Dokja froze. Words and thoughts completely left his head, which was evident from his face, which screamed two words “WHAT THE...” He tried to blink, but it didn't help at all. That beautiful face did not disappear before him, those words were not what he had heard, he had heard them too clearly and they echoed in his ears, his head, and then in his chest, forcing him to forget the correct rhythm of breathing.

What should he say in response? Push him away? Start screaming? Kiss him? Cry? Faint?  

 “I don't think so,” he barely uttered these words, which did nothing to improve the situation, because now the other hand, which had been on his shoulder, rose to the crook of his neck, squeezing. 

 “Dokja, you're avoiding me, you always find excuses for everything, doesn't that confirm your words, you can hate me, you can do anything, but awoid me,” his words sounded sharp, but there was still something in them that sounded like a plea, “is that what I deserve?”

Dokja felt the numbness in his limbs begin to subside slightly, and he raised his hand, touching the scar under Junhyuk's eye with his fingers, feeling him lean a millimeter closer to Dokja's hands. It was a gesture that could not be seen with the eye, but only felt. He didn't want to respond to the words that were said to him; it wouldn't make much sense, because Joonghyuk was absolutely right, and Dokja was indeed avoiding him. Joonghyuk didn't cry in front of him; he didn't have that pitiful face that is described in similar scenes that he had read about. However, this whole situation was too real. The fear that came from realizing he was not in danger was replaced by a feeling of anger.

 “How long have you been waiting for me?” Dokja asked sharply.
 “What?” 
 “How long have you been waiting for me there, I ask” Repeating the question, it sounded harsher and angrier. 

 “Does it matter?” His eyebrows rose in confusion, and his eyes darted across Dokja's face. 
 “How long?”
The answer did not come immediately. He spent no more than five seconds thinking, and his words did not sound very confident:

“Three hours?” 

After these words, Joonghyuk felt his hair being grabbed sharply, his head thrown back and forced down slightly. The man grimaced slightly in pain, while Dokja only raised his eyebrows. The hand holding his hair was grabbed by one of Joonghyuk's hands, squeezing but not trying to pull it out. 

“Did you seriously wait for me after work just to push me against the wall and start telling me something, without talking normally or behaving normally, what the hell?”  

Dokja almost felt pleasure when he finally saw the familiar features of the face in front of him. Despite the fact that it was always more pleasant to see people like him from a compassionate point of view, he still thought that Joonghyuk looked better in his usual appearance. The man in front of him laughed quietly, removing his hand from his hair with a force that was unpleasant for Dokja. In his mind, he had already lost to him in strength, which was somewhat offensive. This reversal of who was in charge now brought Dokja to the final stage, to be truly cornered with no way to leave. At some point, his brain stopped functioning completely, and the only thing he could feel was his heart beating wildly and his hands trembling from adrenaline and slight fear. 

"If you want something normal, when I have to wait for you to say something, because our prince refuses to talk, putting me on the same level as those idiots in that house,“ he leaned toward Dokja's ear, ”then maybe you should stop ignoring me as if I'm just a cardboard cutout in the background of your wonderful journalistic life with an office romance?"

“Office romance... wait, is he talking about Uriel?” flashed through Dokja's mind. He tilted his head slightly away from Joonghyuk's face, which helped for a second, until he buried his nose in the crook of Dokja's neck in defeat. 

 “Then maybe you shouldn't act like a maniac who has chosen me as his victim?” he hissed quietly, but loud enough to be heard.

He heard a snort, which gave him a strange feeling in his neck. The warm hands felt strange on his waist and slightly above, reminiscent of being in someone's jaws. Throwing his head back, he looked at the sky, focusing his breathing. Joonghyuk did not respond to his words, he just stood there, pressing Dokja against him, as if afraid that he would disappear. Dokja calmed his temper too quickly, without responding in kind. The words they say almost never make sense; they talk about something, but until both agree, it will lead to nothing. Dokja, still looking at the dawn, felt a slight uneasiness in his heart, something felt wrong and he knew it, although he couldn't find the points of contact. The breath above his ear prevented him from sinking into his thoughts. He knew that one of them had to do something and be someone when he stopped pressing Dokja against him. Dokja didn't want to decide; he didn't have the strength for it and wouldn't have it even in an hour.

 “Aren't we friends?” Joonghyuk asked quietly. 

Dokja suddenly remembered what was really happening: this was not a romantic drama, but the banal hysteria of a person who was probably not as socially aware as Dokja. For the first time, he felt a strong aversion, not because of Joonghyuk, but because of his own actions. This made him want to throw up everything he had eaten that day, and he pushed Joonghyuk away, keeping his hand on his chest and forcing him to look at him questioningly. Dokja couldn't bring himself to look him in the face, so he looked over his shoulder like an idiot. 

 “We are... no... yes, we are, I'm sorry, let's just drop this conversation,” he managed to hide his hand before it was grabbed and turned behind the first building. 

Okay, Dokja is an idiot. But the main thing is that he admits it. It doesn't matter that he's not doing anything about it, what matters is that he now understands it. Over the past few weeks, Dokja had found someone who understood his strange preferences and desires, almost lost her completely when they tried to talk to him, nearly lost his job, and completely lost his mind. He could no longer distinguish between what was real and what was not, and what he wanted and what he imagined. 

He sat down on a bench, burying his trembling hands in his face and trying not to scream at his own stupidity. Dokja is not a narcissist, but that's how he felt right now. He hadn't been in a relationship for so long that he imagined that if a person with a pretty face was interested in him, it automatically meant that she was in love with him. Trying to convince himself of someone's affection and literally having no reason to do so. Joonghyuk didn't even show any hints of a relationship. Even when it could have been easily confused, Dokja didn't understand if everything that was happening there was real or just his imagination, like when he heard other words in the cafe.  

The problem was not the neighbor, whom he considered a murderer, but Dokja, who fantasized about Joonghyuk being someone he wanted him to be. Dokja was no better than others; boredom and the absence of anything interesting in his rotten office life made him crave something exciting. Shame for such thoughts and actions began to envelop him, only intensifying his feeling of nausea. He began to search for his phone in his pockets, but realized it was gone. This realization even calmed him down. The problem that every other person faced was better than the psychological horrors that were going on in his head. 

He didn't want to remember what had happened or think about what would happen next. Leaning forward in a sitting position, he felt a tremor in his legs, which made him nervously tap his foot on the ground. Unfortunately, none of these actions helped him, because the heat in his neck and body was still phantomly felt from his hands and face. He could almost feel the same breath on his neck, and he was ready to tear his skin off because he was already going crazy. He remembered Sooyoung's words about her advice to keep a diary of his thoughts, but how could he tell her that what he would write there would be scribbled black letters? 

Uriel's words began to make sense; she was always right about Dokja in such moments, and he was learning to understand this precisely in such bitter moments. In the moment where he sat, trembling and with a banal lack of understanding of what to do next. He was so used to avoiding problems, and here, when the problem was always nearby, he couldn't do anything about his nervousness. He can control stress at work because he knows what is going on, he can exist with problems that can be solved because they cannot find him and invade his space. However, he still understood that he did not push him away out of fear, but simply because he did not want to do so, although he could have done so calmly, judging by their last minutes of conversation.

He sensed someone standing in front of him and looked down to see black heels with thick soles and the straight hem of office pants ending between the top of the heel and the middle of the back. He slowly raised his eyes, his tired gaze and glassy eyes meeting the calm gaze of the gray eyes opposite him. Dark hair fell to the bottom, scattering in sparse wavy strands over a vintage-style milk-colored shirt.  

 “Sooyoung?” The word escaped his lips unclearly, as if he had lost the ability to speak clearly. 

She furrowed his brows, running her hand through Dokja's hair, fixing it, and stroking his head to calm him down. In her left hand was a small black notebook covered in leather, and on her shoulder hung a small bag from which papers could be seen. 

 “What are you doing here?” she asked, removing her hand from his hair. 

  “I...” He faltered, not knowing what to say, certainly not that he was almost hysterical because of one person. 

Sooyoung narrowed her eyes, as if looking at a child who was about to cry because she had been refused a toy. She took a deep breath, as if she had been forced to be there. Which was true. She didn't let Dokja continue and held out the notebook. 

 Dokja wiped his eyes as he took it in his hands. It looked like an ordinary notebook, but when he looked at the sides, he noticed that they were slightly damp, as if something had been glued inside and the glue had completely ruined the flatness of the pages. It had a push-button lock. He looked questioningly at Sooyoung, who shrugged her shoulders as if answering his question.   “I didn't open it, if you're wondering,” she folded her arms across her chest and glanced at the watch on her wrist.

“And no one knows who brought it?” asked Dokja, twirling the notebook in his hands.
 Sooyoung nodded her head: “That's the problem. I tried to find out, I even checked the cameras, but it was delivered with the food, and the courier doesn't even know where it came from, it was in a box of pastries.“ She sighed dramatically. ”I wish it had been pastries instead of gifts from your fans." 

Dokja chuckled sadly, and when he was about to say something, Sooyoung glanced at her watch again: “Sorry, I have to run. Text me if something interesting,” she waved her hand, quickly leaving. 

Waving back, Dokja looked at the notebook, leaning back on the bench and unfastening the lock.

“Dear Dokja.  

 I am writing an annotation before this notebook because I want to ask you to continue his work from your point of view. I appreciate your work and how you relate to my art; it is important to me. You appreciate  what I do at the level at which I would like to see others appreciate it, but you are not everyone, and everyone is not you. We have a lot in common, and our fates are intertwined through other people, which makes them connected. I cannot reveal my identity to you because it would ruin everything, but I will always be there for you. I will always help you with whatever you want because I feel a certain debt for your work. I found your little blog, I can't subscribe from my account, but I'll be looking forward to new posts. 

I noticed that you are also interested in photography, so we have a lot in common in our view of art through the lens.  

I ask you to keep this notebook, which I call an album, with care. 

With love, the photographer."

A drop of sweat slowly trickled down his temple. He understood what awaited him as soon as he turned the page. If this was indeed the notebook or diary of the "photographer", then it would contain far more than just photographs that he could see or have. His stomach twisted at just one quick glance as he turned the page...

Chapter Text

At what point did Dokja become who he is now? When did he go from being an ordinary journalist to a person who holds the key to an investigation that could expose everything? Why is he just sitting there and not heading to the police station? Because he doesn't know and doesn't want to.

Turning to the next page made him want to close his eyes and never open them again, but all Dokja felt was that his blinking had almost stopped completely. The notebook, which was respectfully called an album and reverently given to Dokja, looked nice on the outside, although it was clear that it was neatly kept on the inside. The “victims” or “works of art” were divided into spreads. They all had the same style and were even written in the same ink. Their order was the same: “victim-cause-murder-composition.” Between the photographs, in calligraphic handwriting, was a description of the victim and what bothered Dokja the most — the last point. People left without fingers tried to count, people without eyes tried to see. Their distorted and suspended bodies created a certain sense of connectedness, leaving no possibility of not seeing the common picture — bloody and cruel. The killer was neat and did not try to show people from a bad angle; he did not try to demonstrate that he was stronger and that people were pitiful. There was no hint in these photographs of an attempt to show himself as superior to others. It was as if he was showing their beauty through his skills. His fingers squeezed the paper slightly tighter, trying to calm the tremor that settled throughout his body, preventing him from doing anything but looking at “it.” He turned to the fifth spread, noticing the painfully familiar photos. Photos of Dokja from everyday life. These photos, taken with a telephoto lens, only intensified the pain in his temples. The worst thing was that this spread was incomplete: it only contained his usual photos, without even a note explaining the reason for this. The calligraphic letters below them described him by name, measurements, etc., but other notes, which had probably been written in advance, were crossed out with a short “no” above them. This made him cough and sit down more comfortably. “He's not going to kill me?” Dokja said to himself, raising his eyebrows to his nose and running his thumb over the corner of the page.

Why?

He closed the notebook, looking at its black leather cover. Dokja pursed his lips in an attempt to find an explanation for this. What was the point of keeping this notebook, and what would the killer do next? Did he have another one, or had he simply decided to pin this big clue on Dokja? It made him uncomfortably nervous, which manifested itself as a sticky, heavy feeling in his chest. Did he think Dokja would go to the police? Why then did he pass it on through the police, why not just leave it with Dokja, but force Sooyoung to come to him? And why Sooyoung? The almost forgotten feeling of pain in his temples returned from the number of questions Dokja was asking. What had happened before he ended up on this bench now seemed like childish excitement and something ordinary, even if it wasn't. He didn't want to think about what to do with Joonghyuk or the notebook, but the face and the emotions reflected on it still popped into his head. He could still feel the traces on the places he had touched during that time — they burned. It was as if he had a severe allergic reaction or a burn. It was comical even for Dokja — looking at the killer's diary like something out of a movie and thinking about the strange... strange... neighbor or friend? Thinking about “him” who might not be any better.

Too much attention to Dokja as a person was not what he wanted. It was his job to be interested in someone else's personality, not his own.

He wanted to check the time, but his phone was still missing, and it was starting to rain outside. Clicking, he put the album in his bag and headed for the subway. It was good that he had his transit card with him. The door felt unfamiliar when Dokja touched the handle, but when he entered the apartment, he saw a dim light coming from the bathroom. It was a little strange. He never leaves the light on; that's what he's been taught to do his whole life. There was no chance he would do it, even accidentally. Turning on the light in the hallway, he took off his shoes and placed his bag on a small shelf above the shoe cabinet. The forgotten tremor in his hands returned, and he had a feeling of déjà vu. It was then, when things were out of place. He glanced at the bag containing the notebook, its black corner staring at him motionless, causing Dokja to shiver at the mere thought of a sharp allegory — those black eyes that always stared at him intently, making him tremble. Digging into the bag, he saw the phone, feeling the stress leave him for a split second. He grabbed the notebook, entering the room and throwing it on the desk, changing clothes and not taking his eyes off it. Even the feeling of warm clothes did not relieve Dokja of this slippery feeling of cold.

He had never been interested in the killer as a person, only in his work and what brought him "food": content for articles. However, now he needed to know at least something about the person, so he ventured into the scary world of dubious information sites. Despite the fact that Dokja himself was forced to be a part of them, he hadn't read them in a long time. Probably since the time he was doing his coursework at university, where he had to find 100 mistakes in such publications. Of course, he did it with flying colors, but the trauma was inflicted on poor Dokja as a student, which only editors could come up with. He started with a simple search like “Killer Photographer” finding little information. Most of it was the usual descriptions of murders, few of them had real content, and the comments were pretty predictable. Sometimes, of course, he saw familiar theorists speculating on what might have happened, but they didn't have a conclusion to the dialogue.

Dokja buried his hands in his dark hair, almost ripping it out with his fingertips, until he started thinking more. He was searching as a viewer, not as a killer. He had to search based on specific details, so in a second, the ill-fated notebook was lying in front of him. Search by exhibitions? By victims? That could change the search style to the one Dokja needed.

From the way he bit his lip, he began to feel a metallic taste in his mouth, which distracted him for only a second. He had begun to feel crazy a long time ago, but now it had reached its final point, and he couldn't tell anyone. He understood that the only person who could really listen to him was now God knows where, and maybe even hated him already. He pressed the creases of his wrists against his eyes, pressing on his eyeballs, crying loudly from restrained emotions. He wanted to scream from the whole situation, but he couldn't do it. It brought him to an emotional imbalance that only worsened and led him to future hysteria. He took his hands away from his eyes and looked sharply at the screen with surprise, seeing an article that violated all the norms of journalistic writing.

Why does he want him, see him, reach out to him, but only shows fear?

Dokja can't be so thirsty for emotions. He can't want to feel something so new to him in this boring life. Can he? He doesn't want to admit that Joonghyuk is the one who makes him feel alive and is the one who can feel and wants to make him do it?

He wants to.

The last words made him bang his head on the table, trying to knock those thoughts out of his head, but they didn't go away, reaching their apogee in Dokja's wet eyes, which turned into big tears that ran down his nose through his head lying on its side. He felt exhausted from everything that had happened to him, and it was only a matter of time before he broke down in hysterics. That time had now come in the dark room near the screen and the killer's diary, when instead of investigating, he was crying for the boy like a freshman girl crying for her senior. However, he was crying not so much because of who Joonghyuk was and his actions, but more because of his own stupidity and ability to ruin everything. He wanted to be like Uriel and not have problems with society; she always had that magical ability to talk and be adored by everyone. He glanced at the diary, which continued to stare at him. He quickly opened the page on himself, looking over its design once again.

If he only attracts people like that, doesn't that mean it's his destiny?

Maybe he should have realized this when his first boyfriend went to prison for robbery. Maybe when his situationship ended because he was almost raped. Perhaps when his second boyfriend is in prison for killing two people while drunk. And Dokja... Dokja just exists and tries to build his life, even when you're already a little over 25 and those attempts should have ended long ago. Tears blurred the image before his eyes, which was already unclear due to the low light. He felt his vision darken and didn't even notice when he fell asleep from emotional exhaustion, leaving everything for tomorrow. Tomorrow he would find a solution, fix it, or simply make something up. He wouldn't be able to get rid of it as easily as in the past — these were different times and circumstances. He woke up to the alarm clock and a broken head. He felt the rough material of the table pressing against his cheeks, leaving marks on half of his face. His head hurt so much that the first thing he did was grab it in an attempt to turn off the alarm clock and not want to tear his ears and eyes out. He turned off the alarm clock, but the brief morning silence did not ease the pain. Was what happened yesterday a dream? Really? In fact, he didn't have that conversation with Joonghyuk yesterday, and they didn't give him the diary, so it must have been a funny dream. However, the diary was lying exactly as it had been left yesterday, clearly indicating that Dokja had not dreamed anything. His phone was almost dead, and Dokja not only looked painful on the inside but also on the outside. The small bathroom, where he stood with only the mirror on, unpleasantly highlighted the bags under his eyes, wrinkles, and the same pattern on part of his face. It was the most pitiful sight he had ever seen. Standing and looking at himself was like starting to clean up a pile of rubbish: in both cases, you stand there and don't know what to do. Dokja really wanted to say that the hour he had spent sacrificing his meal was worth it, but he had gone from minus to zero in terms of his appearance. Taking a deep breath, he drank a glass of water mixed with a sachet of painkillers for his headache and threw away the brush.

“It's useless,” he said quietly, leaving and continuing to get ready.

He stared at the diary for a long time, weighing in his mind whether he really wanted to take it, when it was almost the main clue for the investigation. On the other hand, he didn't want to lose it, but most of all, Dokja didn't want to leave it behind, especially knowing that he had literally had an uninvited guest in his apartment yesterday. Excuses began to pop into his head: maybe he imagined that he had a phone, maybe someone who took it asked the manager to give it back to him. Given his situation, both of these thoughts, which were just a drop in the ocean, could be true.

He still put the notebook in his bag. Does he want to write something in it? Absolutely not. He would be happy just to keep it with him and squeeze all the necessary information out of it to publish one big sensational headline that could even change his career. After all, Dokja is not just a person, but a journalist who was trained not to feel stressed about this issue. He stopped taking everything to heart since his internship in military journalism, which he was passionate about throughout his years of study. The only reason he changed his mind was his unwillingness to live on business trips all his life and his desire to have a family. Which, by the way, he still doesn't have, and this serves as an unpleasant reminder in small details, even in the ice cream on two sticks for you and your partner. These thoughts settled in him as he rode the subway when he saw Uriel pretending that nothing had happened yesterday. He tapped his head lightly, trying to dispel them, because he had a lot of work to do. A pile of mistakes weighed on his mind, preventing him from getting rid of this obsessive and nauseatingly irritating feeling. All he wanted during those two days was one simple thing — to get drunk on something. How he wanted to go somewhere or stay at home and just switch off his mind and everything else with a drink or something else. Even beer would have been enough. Although Dokja was not someone who drank because of any problem, the situation, which was not getting any better, now demanded it. When the hundredth mistake in one of the texts from some freelance journalist was corrected, he glanced at the album, which looked easy, wondering why he hadn't noticed any mistakes there yesterday. The thought that pure literacy in Korean journalism existed not only in his dreams made him smile briefly.

“Dokja...” He felt a touch on his shoulder and jumped slightly in surprise.

Standing next to him was a colleague who looked about 25 years old. She had a slightly guilty look on her face for scaring Dokja. She quickly apologized several times and gave a brief, guilty bow.

“I'm sorry again,” it was her fourth apology in 10 seconds, “the CEO is calling you.”

Dokja raised an eyebrow and thanked her shortly. He was tired of being in that office more often than at his workplace. Walking into the office, he noticed a young girl sitting in the chair in front of the director. Her long, curly, raspberry-purple hair fell over her face, covering it until he sat down next to her. Glancing at her, he noticed that she wore glasses and did not look Korean at all, but rather purely European, which she tried not to emphasize by wearing Korean makeup. He really tried not to stare, but he couldn't help glancing at her, and not only because her hair was the only bright thing he saw in the office; even the flowers in the kitchen, brought by one of the secretaries, were not as bright. She was wearing a delicate pink dress that was almost floor-length, with a square neckline and long, puffy sleeves. It was very clear that she lived by the standards of her culture. But he wasn't particularly interested in where she was from or what she was like. It was just a quick journalistic impression and assessment.

“Dokja, meet your new colleague, who will be the co-editor for the English version. Due to staff cuts, you will both also serve as correspondents,” said the man, folding his arms on the table.

Dokja restrained his emotions, but he couldn't keep his eyebrows from rising in surprise. His only question was how on earth he was going to use the already meager finances. They hadn't received grants for long enough to plan and make such changes. His now colleague looked calm. Her slight smile revealed nothing. He couldn't see any real thoughts behind it.

“I hope we can work together, Kim Dokja. I'm Marien, my last name is still European, so it's difficult to pronounce, but it's okay, you can call me whatever you want," she said, squinting her eyes in a smile.

“Ah, yes, it's nice to meet you too,” he stood up, extending his hand to her, and she shook it in response, then sat back down in her chair.

Dokja pursed his lips awkwardly, sitting in his chair as if he were about to be reprimanded.

“At first, I wanted to call you just to introduce you, but I got a call from the station saying they found another body from the photographer, so that will be the first thing you do together,” the director avoided his gaze, constantly shifting it to something else, which couldn't help but alarm Dokja.

“It would be convenient for you to leave right now, right?” She looked at Dokja, raising her eyebrows to her nose and leaning excitedly toward him.

Dokja felt nauseous from this scene, but even more so from the heavy cherry perfume he smelled as soon as he entered the room. His brain refused to get used to the scent, which only made his already severe headache worse. Dokja nodded, saying he only needed five minutes and asking to be excused so he could get ready. When he approached the table, he looked around for his blonde colleague, but couldn't find her. Where did Uriel disappear to when he needed her so badly? But time was running out, and he had to be quick, which he did, saving his work on the computer and packing all the necessary things into his bag. The car was waiting at the office entrance, and the foreign woman he knew was standing next to it, leaning against a pillar and typing something on her phone. Just like yesterday... Dokja shook his head, pushing those thoughts as far away as possible and going down the stairs. His legs felt like cotton wool from exhaustion, but he managed to hide it behind a simple look of calm.

“Everything okay?” Marien put away her phone, tilting her head slightly to one side. Dokja still couldn't read her emotions completely.

He nodded, opening the car door for her and letting her go first. She thanked him as she got in, and Dokja followed her, buckling his seatbelt. He glanced at the girl next to him again. She looked nervous now, which was evident in the way she was scrolling through Instagram without focusing. Dokja felt a twinge of pity for her; she reminded him of himself in new companies.

“I like your hair, it reminds me of the candy from my childhood,” he said with a slight smile, leaning back in his seat.

The girl looked at him in shock at first, then broke into a sincere smile. “Oh, thank you, I didn't think any Koreans would like it, I'm surprised.”

Okay, that was rude. Even ruder than Dokja staring at her. He raised an eyebrow, controlling his emotions in time before she noticed. He didn't really want to talk to her anymore; it wasn't in his desire to have such acquaintances. It sounded a bit racist tho.

They arrived at Banpo Hanhang Park. At the entrance, he saw a familiar face talking to an officer. Wukong. He looked like someone who was waiting, as evidenced by his frequent glances around the area. When he noticed the car Dokja was riding in, he smiled broadly as he walked toward it. When Dokja got out, he immediately fell into Wukong's arms, who hugged him from behind with one arm, looking quite lively for someone who had just witnessed a murder.

“How are you, Dokja? I hope you haven't eaten anything, because you might get sick now,” he laughed, patting him on the back and noticing Marien, who was setting up her phone camera. “Who's that?”

“My colleague, go and meet her,” he said, freeing himself from Wukong's grasp and heading with the police officers to the crime scene.

What did he mean, that Dokja might feel sick? Dokja didn't understand until he saw with his own eyes the clear reason why he had said that. Behind the fence and the people going about their business lay the body of a girl. Her blond curly hair was spread out on the floor, and her long white dress was torn open at the chest. Her sternum was cut in half, her chest was open due to the absence of ribs and damage to her lungs, which was caused by surgical intervention, or at least by what surgeons use to cut bones. The work was careless due to the presence of injuries around it, but the most important thing was that there was no heart in the body — an emptiness filled with blood and... flowers? And this stupid photo. Dokja smelled a slight cadaverous odor coming from it and noticed a bunch of insects above the open wound. He stepped over the fence and stood over the corpse. Now he could see that the girl's bones were stuck in her lungs, forming a kind of arch around her missing heart. Black rose and camellia petals lay inside this arch, covering most of the wounds. The red and white mess gave the impression that pus was beginning to form on the body because the petals were stuck to the organs, soaked in blood.

Dokja felt nausea rising in his throat. That face seems too familiar... Too familiar... He hadn't seen Uriel anywhere since early morning... What if... He was overcome with genuine panic. He lost his footing as he rushed to the corpse and looked into its eyes.

“Stop, what are you doing, don't destroy the crime scene,” a man's voice shouted at him, but he didn't hear it.

Touching her hair and face, he couldn't tell if it was really her. He wasn't sure and wanted to hope that it was her. Realizing that this was his only chance to find out, he tore the clothes off the girl's shoulder and saw... nothing. A smile of relief spread across his face. Uriel has a small tattoo of a bow with little stars on her right shoulder, and this girl doesn't. Then why the hell was this particular girl killed? There was no mention of her in the album.

“It's not her, get away from the body,” Dokja froze, unable to move, but found the strength to turn around and look behind him.

Looking up at the white coat, he saw one of his apogees. However, this time he saw a big change. They weren't looking at him the same way. Joonghyuk, who had called him, stood with the cold stare he gave everyone, and now Dokja. He felt shivers run through his body and his heart stop beating. He looked around and saw that absolutely everyone was looking at him: some with shock, some with anger, some with sympathy, but only Joonghyuk looked at him coldly. Even his new colleague stood with sympathy, covering her mouth with her hand. Dokja jumped up as if from a hot stove, looking at the corpse and then at Joonghyuk, who was standing closest to him but felt like the most distant person.

“I'm... sorry,” he said, walking between them, unable to bear what was happening.

The ground didn't feel real, his head wasn't clear. He didn't feel like anyone at all, he just remembered the moment when they were looking at him. Just as judgmental as before, just as he wanted them not to look. He avoided it so much that he felt it for the first time after a long break. His office pants were soaked in mud, but he didn't pay any attention to it. He got into the car, causing the driver to look at him in surprise, but when he saw Dokja, he turned back to his phone, refusing to deal with him. Opening his bag, he began to rummage through it, noticing that the album was gone. Dokja felt like he was about to pass out from stress, but for some reason, his body didn't want to make his life easier by keeping him conscious. Looking around, he saw Joonghyuk standing at the entrance, waving the album at Dokja.

“What the hell,” Dokja flew out of the car like a dog that had been thrown a ball, almost running to Joonghyuk, who raised his hand with the notebook up. It didn't make much sense because they were the same height, but his mood was too obvious to Dokja.

“Give it back to me,” Dokja tried to say calmly.

“Why should I? I found it on the floor,” he twisted it, hiding it behind his back.

“Because it's mine, Yoo Joonghyuk,” his voice broke with every word.

Joonghyuk was clearly not satisfied with this answer, and now Dokja was met with a cold stare and a raised eyebrow. He let out a fake laugh.

"Do you value this worn-out notebook so much? With the way it looks, you should have gotten rid of it a long time ago, right? Is it too important to you?" he sneered.

“It's none of your fucking business, give it back,” he lunged to grab the thing, but his hand was caught, twisted, and knocked out of him with an angry cry.

"That's not how you talk to friends you abandoned yesterday in the middle of a conversation. I wonder if you would have rushed to this corpse if it didn't look like Uriel.”

Not only did this bastard bring up yesterday, but he also dragged Uriel into it, who was not at fault in this situation. The pain in his shoulder from the hand was less than the pain in his head, so he couldn't focus on it alone, not letting go of his sharp tongue.

“Why do you even care? Give me my notebook back, and don't act like some wife lecturing me for cheating. We can't even call each other friends. Go to hell,” he felt his hand being released, pushing him to the floor.

The grass hit his back unpleasantly, making him groan in pain, and he looked angrily at the person in front of him. Even though one of his eyes was covered by his hair, his  eyes burned holes in him, and he could see Joonghyuk's eyebrows changing between anger and sadness. The album flew into his chest, hitting it with a dull thud and falling to the ground.

“I'll let you get away with this, but only today. Don't think you'll get rid of me so easily, Mr. Journalist.”

He left, and Dokja fell back to the ground, too exhausted to do anything. He wanted to scream, but the scream stuck in his throat. The only thing Dokja could squeeze out was a single tear from his right eye, which he would blame on dust in his eyes.

He hates Joonghyuk for these feelings and hates himself even more for feeling them.

Chapter Text