7. Jin #2
They come across a hungry stray cat who approaches them. Monroe kneels to let it pick up her scent, then strokes him affectionately behind his ears. Her mother offers a few leftover pieces of a pastry she’d stashed in her purse.
I grit my teeth, irritated by their effortless displays of kindness.
Just more reminders of how weak they both are. They might as well hang signs on their backs welcoming predators to take advantage of them.
Don’t they realize how dangerous it is to move through life like this? Don’t they understand that kindness only makes bad guys view them as easy marks?
If Monroe realizes this, she pretends otherwise.
She acts as if the very mark inking the inside of her left wrist doesn’t exist. It’s as though she’s decided to put it out of her mind for the duration of her mother’s trip.
Once or twice I notice she draws her left hand away when her mother reaches for it. She’s careful to keep her arm pinned to her side, always donning bracelets to disguise it.
They spend Wednesday at the Haedong Yonggungsa Temple.
It’s humid by the sea, the warm air fragrant with the smell of salt. They walk the temple grounds slowly. Her mother is wide-eyed and reverent as she admires every statue.
Monroe humors her every whim, making sure she gets to explore everything.
For a brief moment, she slips away to the rail overlooking the ocean. Her smile is nowhere to be found this time.
She leans forward, elbows braced, and stares at the water like it might hold the answer to a question on her mind.
There’s a weariness in how she looks, finally showing cracks in her facade. She may be bright and joyous around her mother, but deep down, she’s worried about the mark.
…she knows the Baekho Pa will be coming for her.
Thursday, they spend the morning into the afternoon losing themselves inside the Seomyeon underground shopping center.
If there’s one activity these two can do together and never grow bored of, it’s shop. They can shop for hours and hours, like it’s some fucking sport.
I’m half tempted to corner Monroe in a dressing room and end it there.
Just to get out of this tedious surveillance. Just so I won’t be forced to get the sound of her infectious laughter stuck in my head more than it already is.
Monroe holds up a sequined blouse to show her mother, then makes a face and puts it back. Her mother disagrees, insisting she buy it.
When Monroe shakes her head, her mother snatches it off the rack and marches it up to the shop counter, purchasing it for her daughter herself.
They snack on melon ice cream and window shop at more stores.
I catch her reflection in the glass of the store window. She’s adjusting her hoop earrings, checking the glossy stuff she’s applied to her lips.
Objectively speaking… she’s beautiful .
There’s a stereotype that Korean men prefer Korean women. That we do not find American women, especially those with darker complexions, attractive.
But that is simply all it is—a stereotype.
The truth is, most Korean men do find other races of women attractive.
We are curious about stepping out of our comfort zones but beholden to our culture at the same time, which demands that we keep our family lines pure.
Some would consider these beliefs to be archaic, though in modern times, it’s becoming more acceptable to explore.
Most men would look at Monroe and agree she is beautiful. Many men in South Korea would find her looks exotic. She has soft, round features and a bright disposition that makes her even more attractive.
These are things I can admit despite the fact that I am observing her with dark, violent intentions.
It doesn’t matter how beautiful, kind, or endearing she is.
This is the same woman who cried at my feet. Who stumbled foolishly into the alleyway and bore witness to a murder by the Baekho Pa.
She’s marked, which means she must die.
When Friday comes, Monroe takes her mother to eat street food at Bupyeong Khangtong Market.
It’s the hottest day of summer yet. The heat clings to everything.
Her mother fans herself with a folded tourist map, finding it hard to adjust to such high levels of humidity.
They stop at a tteokbokki stand with a large sign that dares customers to survive level five, the spiciest tteokbokki in all of Korea, it claims.
Monroe shoots her mother a wicked grin as she orders a bowl.
As someone who prefers food when it’s extremely spicy, I cock a brow from a distance. Is the little rabbit tougher than I thought? Can she tolerate some of the spiciest food in all of South Korea?
My question is answered only a few seconds later.
Monroe takes one bite then immediately starts gagging. Her large eyes tear up as she coughs and begs for water. Her mother laughs and pushes her bottle of water into her daughter’s hands.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone chug a bottle of water faster. She sucks it down to the point the plastic crinkles, sticking her tongue out like a dog in the heat.
“I think I just burned a hole in my lower intestines,” she croaks.
I laugh before I can even think about it.
It’s a rare sound coming out of me. I rarely grin or smile, and laughter is even more unlikely.
Quickly catching myself, I tamp down on the sound, ignoring how a tourist next to me glances over.
It’s irrelevant how many times Monroe Ross does something endearing or accidentally funny.
She only has a few days left to live. As soon as her mother leaves, she dies.
There’s no other way around it.
Later in the evening, the streets of Haeundae throb from all the noise coming from the bars and clubs. I’ve given Monroe and her mother some alone time without my surveillance. Not out of mercy, but because her time is nearly up.
Her mother will be leaving on Sunday morning.
The clock will finally run out. I’ll finish what I should’ve done the night I marked her.
I walk into Club Gongshi and survey the crowded club as possibly the only loner in the place. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume permeates every corner of the club. The music makes the ground vibrate.
It’s dark and dense inside, lit only by neon blue track lights. Everyone looks like a glowing creature, features indistinguishable.
But I have a keen eye when searching for things. I scan the crowd in search of Shin Dae-il.
Tonight is the night he’s supposed to pay up the sixty-seven-million won. He knows what’s at stake if he fails to comply. My men and I will hunt him down like a dog and take the rest of his toes. And his fingers. And his teeth.
Then we’ll dump his body in the ocean.
I order a bottle of soju at the counter but hardly take a sip.
I’m a disciplined man of control, which means I do not like indulging in alcohol often. It strips away any inhibitions and sense of restraint. Two things a strategic, stoic, measured man like me hates.
My eyes sweep the club, picking out the tipsy Korean businessmen who flirt with the young female tourists, and then glancing over to the DJ at the booth, laughing loudly at something his friend says.
Everyone here tonight is even worse than Monroe.
They’re like the Baekho-je, slaves to their vices. They’re obsessed with pleasure and overindulgence with no concept of discipline.
It’s no wonder many of them find themselves in debt and other bad situations.
“Still hunting the girl from the alley?”
Kang Seung-min slides into view beside me, holding a bottle of beer and wearing a boastful grin. He’s almost as tatted as I am, his ink covering both arms and hands. He’s younger than me, with the same level of hunger I had at his age.
It’s no coincidence people routinely compare us. Most recently, the Baekho-je when he offered to give Seung-min my tasking instead.
But I don’t bother responding. I turn my back on him, facing the bar counter.
He takes a sip from his beer bottle and stops beside me anyway, like we’re two friends ordering drinks from the bartender.
“I didn’t realize it took this long to eliminate a teacher and her mommy.”
For once, I don’t think. I just move. Faster than anyone, much less Seung-min, can anticipate.
Speed has always been a strength of mine.
My hand clamps shut on the back of his neck and I drive his face into the bar counter. He collides with the wooden surface with a grunt, his nose slamming directly into it.
A few patrons gasp and flinch. One woman yelps. The bartender goes still mid-pour of whatever drink she’s fixing.
I smash the bottle of soju in my hand and bring the sharpest shard against Seung-min’s cheek, holding the side of his head down against the counter.
“If you speak about my work again,” I say calmly, “I will cut out your fucking tongue and nail it to the Baekho-je’s desk.”
I release him and step back.
Seung-min straightens slowly, wiping blood from his nose and cheek. He checks his palm for how much damage has been done, then looks up at me with a wide smile. He’s not angry or humiliated, but amused.
“Careful,” he says in Hangugeo. “If you keep stalling, this job might go to someone else. The Baekho-je is not a patient man.”
For a moment, my fist clenches shut around the shard I’m gripping, and I almost slash his fucking smile off his smug face.
But instead I find I can’t react so impulsively this time.
…because he’s correct.
I have been stalling. I was given a clear order almost two weeks ago, and I’ve yet to go through with it.
Monroe Ross is still alive and breathing because I have not acted as decisively and promptly as I usually would.
In my own way, I’ve been giving her more time to live.
I turn and walk away without another word.
Anyone in my way quickly scrambles to move. No one dares to make me tell them to. They understand I am not a man to ever be trifled with, but especially in a moment like this.
The truth is inescapable as I walk out of Club Gongshi.
This comes to an end now.
The moment her mother leaves, the job will be done. Monroe will die, and I will feel nothing. Just as I always do.