9. Jin
My ominous words are met with tense silence from Monroe.
We stand opposite each other for the first time since the night in the alley. It was only two weeks ago, yet it feels significantly longer.
In that amount of time, I’ve gotten to know her more closely. I’ve spent countless hours observing her, following her, learning trivial details few others probably would guess about her.
Monroe must sense this too.
I see the realization flicker in her large, expressive eyes. She’s holding back tears. Her chin quivers, the blinks she takes long and slow. Rather than give into them, she seems to steel herself, swallowing hard and mustering up courage.
It’s honestly admirable given her circumstances.
She’s aware she’s going to die tonight.
For the past couple weeks, it’s been on her mind almost every waking moment. There would inevitably come a moment when she couldn’t outrun the mark inked on the inside of her wrist. The Baekho Pa would come to collect.
She would pay for what she saw that night. A loose thread being snipped short.
“How long have you been following me?” she asks. “From the first night in the alley?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Monroe. Isn’t that why you’ve been looking over your shoulder everywhere you go?”
Surprise widens her eyes. Her full lips part as if to speak, then she swallows audibly instead. Her slender fingers have bawled up into small fists at her side, not out of anger, but to keep from giving herself away.
She can barely stand still. She’s a wreck. On the inside and outside.
My mere presence unravels her, makes her skittish like the helpless rabbit I’ve begun to think of her as.
Now the big, bad tiger has trapped her in a snare, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
“You waited until my mother left,” she says quietly, her tone a notch above a whisper.
“She is not wanted by the Baekho Pa. You are.”
I stick my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and give an indifferent shrug. I step into her room like I’m appraising the place. My gaze scales up and down her walls covered with humble little pieces of scenic artwork and some posters of her favorite books and movies.
Then I glance at the top of her dresser, where she keeps some of her possessions, like a little jewelry box and a stack of books and row of differently shaped perfume bottles.
I’ve been inside her apartment before, of course.
But it’s entertaining to admire her things right in front of her face.
As she’s powerless to stop me.
She doesn’t even try as I step over to the window, where a delicate peace lily plant sits on the ledge.
On her bedside table is a small square lamp with a linen shade. An empty glass of water is beside it, along with the latest book she’s been reading— The White Book by Han Kang, a collection of short stories exploring grief and loss.
It’s a well-known piece of recent Korean literature that’s been translated into many languages.
My curiosity piqued, I reach for the book, picking it up and turning it over to the back.
Monroe edges around me for every move I make, keeping distance if it seems like I’ll come too close. As I step toward the bedside table, she reflexively steps to the right to maintain the eight or so feet that separate us, watching me as close as any dangerous wild animal.
“I hope you enjoyed your time with her,” I say of her mother. “I’m sure she appreciated seeing her daughter one last time.”
One last time.
The menacing words hang in the air between us.
Monroe can’t hide the shuddery breath she takes this time. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask, darkly amused. I set down the book and turn to face her again.
“For letting me see my mother before…” She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence.
“Monroe, you have the wrong idea,” I say coldly, my top lip curling slightly.
“I did not spare your mother or let you live to see her out of mercy. It was not out of the kindness of my heart. There is no kindness, no mercy to be found. Don’t set yourself up for disappointment by expecting differently. ”
“Then… then…” She sighs, shaking her head like she can’t understand. “Then why did you spare me that night? Why did to let me go?”
It’s a fair fucking question that I can’t exactly answer.
The truth is that I originally didn’t intend to kill her. I wanted to spook her. Scare the shit out of her so she knew never to mention what she saw in that alleyway ever again.
The Baekho-je has ordered otherwise.
But I can never tell her that. She doesn’t need to know about the inner workings of the Baekho Pa.
As far as she’s concerned, it’s my decision and mine only.
“What can I say?” I ask instead. “It’s very amusing to watch you in distress, Monroe. You gave me some laughs. But now the fun time is over. The mark has caught up with you.”
A long silence that must be agonizing for her ensues.
We hold each other’s gaze the entire time. Mine burning with cruelty and amusement. Hers dulled by the circumstances of her fate.
She’s so pitiful, I’m half expecting her to tip her head back and offer me her neck. Just to make it easier on me to get it done.
But I couldn’t be more wrong.
Out of the silence and stillness between us, Monroe leaps at her bed.
I realize half a second later what she’s trying to do— she’s diving for her phone .
I lunge toward her, almost not quick enough. If I were any slower, I wouldn’t intercept her. Unluckily for her, I have excellent reflexes, even when I am a second or two late.
As her fingertips brush the sides of her phone, I’m spearing into her, ripping her away from its reach.
She’s light enough that I’m able to pick her up off her feet easily. I toss her to the ground much like my enforcer Min-gyu had the night in the alley. I return to the bed to grab her phone, then drop that too, crushing it under the weight of my boot.
It makes a satisfying crunch as the screen cracks.
I grind my heel into it, doubling the damage, ensuring it’s inoperable.
Monroe’s pushed herself up onto her elbows, peering up at me like I repulse her.
For that brief moment, the fear is gone. I see a flicker of loathing in her dark, emotive eyes.
It piques my interest, like several other things about her have. I’m on the verge of rare laughter at the thought she hates me, only for her to surprise me a second time in mere moments.
Monroe scrambles up and bolts for the door.
She’s running for it.
I sprint after her. I admit, she’s faster than I anticipated.
If I had sent one of my bulkier, heavier Hubaes to kill her, she may have even made it out of the apartment with how quick she moves.
But even as she speeds toward the front door, I easily overtake her, my strides long and efficient. I beat her there by a fraction of a second. She’s grappling for the doorknob as I slam my hand against it and prevent her from even thinking she’ll pry it open.
“You’re a fast one, Tokki-ya,” I taunt. An informal term for little rabbit. “But what have I told you? You will never outrun the mark. You will never escape the Baekho Pa.”
She spins away from the door, arrowing straight for the table against the wall. Her hand closes around a can of air freshener before I can grab it away from her, and she sprays it directly into my eyes.
The sting is immediate and brutal.
I release a howl that almost sounds unlike myself. My eyes clench shut as the chemicals flood me. It feels like I’ve been doused in fucking flames the way the burning pain erupts across my eyeballs.
Monroe takes a page out of my book and shows no mercy.
She jerks her leg up to knee me in the groin. Almost blind and now pissed, I’m barely able to block her hit, only just catching her by the thigh and shoving her backward.
But I’m still in the way of the door. She can’t leave until she finds a way past me.
She grabs a ceramic vase next and flings it at my head.
I duck in time to avoid most of the ceramic shrapnel from cutting up my face. Only one piece nicks me across the brow.
Am I really fucking losing a fight to a weakling like Monroe Ross?
Clearly I’ve underestimated the girl. She may be a little rabbit caught in a snare, but she has teeth. She has enough bite to at least attempt fighting back.
I release another howl, this one throatier and rage fueled.
Her next idea is to go for the kitchen. I match her, racing her to the counter. My eyes are still burning, watering from the chemicals, but I push through the pain and keep them open in a squint.
She’s going for the block of knives resting on her kitchen counter.
I slam into her before she can free the biggest, butcher-sized one. She retaliates by kicking me hard in the gut. I realize by how she moves that she’s practiced these type of moves before. Likely from some kind of women’s self-defense class.
They’re basic and elementary, but probably useful against the average amateur mugger on the street. If I were fighting at my full capability, they’d be easy to predict and outmaneuver.
But half blind with the wind now knocked out of me, she scores another point in the fight.
I grunt and grab her wrists, wrenching her away from the kitchen counter a second time. I shove her up against the cabinets, caging her in.
She fights hard—clawing, twisting, not above fighting dirty by stomping on my foot and even trying to bite me.
Honestly… it’s impressive.
If I were to ever advise a female relative—not that I have any—or a lover how to handle this kind of confrontation, I would tell her to do these things.
Kick, bite, gouge.
Most women are at a disadvantage when forced into combat against men. It’s vital to take any opportunity to gain an upper hand, including moves that would otherwise be considered dirty.
Monroe is obviously operating under the same thought process. She’s doing whatever necessary to fight back against me.
Her elbow catches my chin and she breaks free.
She leads me into the living room, once again trying to evade me.
I’ve gone easy on her so far. I’ve allowed her to get away with shit no one else would, including direct strikes and blows. My mistake for underestimating my opponent.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
I tackle her.
We hit the floor hard enough that it takes a lot out of her. I pin her wrists above her head with one hand and trap her under the weight of my body, pressing hers into the wooden floorboards. She thrashes beneath me, still fighting to the end.
Still holding out hope she’ll be able to slip away and make it to freedom.
Her hope is futile.
There is no escape. No way for her to survive this.
I draw my knife and press it into her throat like I’d done the night in the alley.
Monroe finally goes still.
Her large, dark eyes meet mine, glossed by the tears she’s been keeping in. Her chest rises and falls from the strained breaths she takes, full lips trembling and parted.
I’ve killed many times before. In many instances, in some of the most gruesome ways.
My enemies have been slaughtered by my hand. Pulverized into mush I fed the jindo dogs in the streets.
I didn’t become a feared, highly regarded captain in the Baekho Pa by keeping my hands clean. I bear the many slash marks inked on my body for a reason. For the many kills I’ve carried out.
But as I glare down at Monroe and raise the blade in my hand, her infectious laughter fills my ears. Her bright smile flashes inside my mind from the days she spent with her mother and allowed herself moments of joy.
I think about the afternoon at the orphanage, where she comforted a small boy sobbing over his losses.
Just like I had when I was his age.
I clench my jaw and grip the knife handle tighter.
All it takes is one quick, clean swipe, and she’ll bleed out here on the floor.
Yet I don’t move. I don’t budge as we’re locked into this moment of heavy breathing and charged tension.
When I kill the fools who have wronged the Baekho Pa, it’s easy to dehumanize them. Remind myself why they deserve their grisly fate.
They’ve defied us or run up debts they can’t pay or attempted to double-cross prior agreements. They’ve done something to deserve death.
But as I clench the knife and urge myself to slash Monroe Ross’s throat, I’m well aware of the truth—this woman doesn’t deserve this.
Without thinking, I drop the blade. It clatters on the floor.
An immediate, intense fury rises up inside me like the wave of a tsunami. It’s directed at myself for letting the knife go, for failing to use it so seamlessly against her.
My hand shoots to her throat, clenching shut around the slender width of it. I lower my face to hers and bare my teeth, glaring at her. I take in every fucking detail that’s made it so impossible to do what I need to do.
From her dark, knitted brows to her wide, frightened eyes that are so shiny with tears, I see my reflection.
Her throat tightens against my hold in the most erotic way. In a way I notice against my will.
Her pulse thrums beneath the palm of my hand, beating as fast as mine.
The little rabbit is very much alive… and I’m very much enthralled by her, for reasons unknown.
We’re both keyed up, locked into this tense moment. Neither of us knows what to expect. Least of all me, as I do something I’ve never done before.
I bring my mouth down over hers. I kiss her deeply, hungrily, ravishing her mouth from the first touch of our lips.
Monroe gasps into my mouth. Her body lays flat and rigid under me. It could be fear or shock. Possibly both.
Yet she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t do anything except part her lips wider and let me kiss her more.
My tongue thrusts into her mouth, and I find out what it’s like to taste Monroe Ross. She’s sweet and salty at the same time, lips moist from her tears. The fullest lips I’ve ever kissed, as well as the softest.
Right away, I can’t get enough. I lose control, pouring everything I’ve kept at bay into the moment. The things about her I’ve sneered at and told myself made her weak.
But that really caught my interest and slipped into my subconscious.
My pulse roars in my ears as I let myself indulge for once. I allow my tongue to massage hers, explore her mouth, kiss her deeper, feel how she softens against me.
Then I come to my senses all at once and wrench myself away.
She pops up into a sitting position, equally as startled and surprised.
My breaths heave out of me faster than usual. Though I feel her confused gaze on me, I don’t spare her a glance.
I don’t say a single word. I collect my knife from the floor and walk out the door.