13. Jin
Her scent permeates the entire apartment. Something sweet and something light and woody, vaguely reminiscent of the springtime.
It’s summer, deep in the midst of our monsoon season, but it’s applicable just the same.
I can close my eyes and take an inhale and know it’s Monroe’s scent. Images of sunshine, flowers, and tall grass come to mind.
Bright things. Pure, happy, warm things.
All in contrast to what I am—dark, cold, violent.
I return stained with blood and there she is, filling up the space of my apartment with her scent. I escape to my room to avoid her, though that doesn’t work when I’m aware she’s on the other side of the door.
My apartment is only sixty-five square meters in size. There’s no escaping the fact that Monroe is only a few paces away.
It’s not as though I can blame her. It’s my fault. I brought her here.
I wasn’t thinking when I did it. Coming out of my blind rage and murder of In-soo, I had to do something .
The Baekho-je was expecting an update the next time I paid him a visit and that fucking nuisance Seung-min was circling her like a vulture. Yet still I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. I couldn’t even bring myself to allow a hitman like In-soo to do it.
The only option I had left was to take her myself. Put her in hiding until I figure out something better.
Over the next couple days, I curate the situation.
Normally, I’d have my men dispose of any dead bodies, but I take care of In-soo myself.
This situation is so delicate that I can’t trust others, not even the men under my command.
It would be too risky, opening the possibility that word could get back to Seung-min, or worse, the Baekho-je.
But I do send some of my men to Monroe’s apartment once In-soo is gone. I direct them there under the guise of cleaning up the mess. They believe it’s from her death. That the apartment was destroyed in the process.
It gives me the corroboration I need to make it believable when I do report to the Baekho-je’s office.
Jae-hyun is all alone for once, reclined lazily at his desk as he enjoys another Cuban cigar. The TV is finally off, no longer playing American porn.
“Jin-tae!” he exclaims jovially. “I hope you have come with good news.”
“I have updates regarding the new weapons supplier as well as the threat from the Bulgeomhoe.”
The Bulgeomhoe are our greatest rivals in Busan. Their name translates to the Crimson Society in English. They come in a close second in terms of their involvement in the drugs and weapons trade, and they have tried unsuccessfully several times to dethrone us from the top spot.
Jae-hyun makes an uninterested humming noise as I explain I’ve secured the weapons we were after from our supplier and that the Bulgeomhoe have been warned about selling their products in our territory.
He’s much more interested in the other update I have for him.
“Tell me about the girl,” he says. “Seung-min mentioned some of the others scrubbed clean her apartment. He said everything was destroyed.”
My jaw clenches.
Of course word got around to Seung-min. My crew is so small that it travels fast. One of the others, like Park Min-gyu or Choi Woo-sik, must’ve told him in passing and he rushed to spill that info to the Baekho-je.
Something will need to be done about his insolence. A beatdown at the gym was not enough.
“She’s dead,” I state plainly.
Jae-hyun chortles, pure joy on his craggy face. “I heard there was blood on the sheets. Jin-tae, you savage bastard. I wish I could’ve seen the look on her face. Seung-min said she was a looker.”
I bite down on my tongue and draw blood to keep from speaking what’s really on my mind. From doing what I really want to do and vaulting over his desk and stabbing him in the throat until his blood sprays out like a faucet.
“Yes, there was a mess. She put up a fight,” I say vaguely instead. “It’s cleaned up now. No traces left behind.”
Jae-hyun puffs on his cigar. “Good, good.”
“I need to address Kang Seung-min at the next club gathering.”
“Oh? For what?”
“Disciplinary retribution.”
Jae-hyun coughs with his cigar between his lips, then sits up in his chair. “You are going to declare Baek-ho-ui Chim?”
His surprise is due to the fact that it’s been some time since someone has called for one.
In the Baekho Pa, we have a strict ranking system that must be obeyed at all times. When a higher ranking individual calls for Baek-ho-ui Chim, it’s no lighthearted matter. It’s a ceremonial punishment where the offender must submit and suffer through retribution for the dishonor within the ranks.
This happens at our private gatherings where everyone in the syndicate bears witness to the punishment.
“I’ve had enough of his insolence,” I answer. “It’s time he recognizes the way of the Baekho and where his place is.”
“Consider alternative means,” Jae-hyun says, his tone one of shock.
He gives a shake of his head and then returns to puffing on his cigar.
“It is brutal and only for the highest of disrespect. Seung-min is young and an asset for his brawn. But if, as Ho-gwi, you have no other option, then as Hubae, he must listen. He must obey.”
“I will address it at the next gathering.”
I leave Jae-hyun in a haze of his cigar smoke, staring after me.
Monroe has two bowls of ramen on the kitchen counter when I make it home. She gives a shrug at the stern look I give her, and says, “If you don’t want it, I’ll just have seconds. But you’ve got to eat something eventually.”
“I ate earlier. Outside of the apartment.”
“A man your size? You need more than one or two meals a day, Jin.”
Though she’s right, I consider scolding her. As my captive, it’s not her place to tell me when to eat. It’s not even her place to call me by my informal given name, like we’re equals. Her fate lies in my hands.
I’ve saved her. She should be thanking me.
But then I glance over at her and see the pure intention in her eyes. The sincerity and kindness that I noticed when I spent hours monitoring her.
It doesn’t help that it’s disarming to see her in my clothes.
I’m not the beefiest man. In fact, I’m leaner than most men my height, having crafted my physique around a balance of strength and agility.
But Monroe barely scrapes five feet, which means anything of mine I put her in looks comically big on her. She can wear my shirts as dresses and my shorts almost as pants. My shoes look like clown feet on her.
It’s funny enough that I almost laughed the first time I saw her in some of my clothes.
She’s taken to wearing my t-shirts and nothing else, which means her smooth legs and thighs are well within view, providing a distraction I’ve never had before.
No woman has ever been to my place.
The select women I have been involved with were kept at a distance. They served only one purpose.
It’s a whole new level of enticement to have an attractive woman under my roof. To have her exposing supple brown skin and saving hot meals for me.
I take my seat next to her on the stools, tense and wooden, questioning if this is a mistake. Monroe traps a bundle of noodles between her chopsticks and slurps them into her mouth. She handles the chopsticks well, clearly familiar with them.
I turn my gaze to my own bowl. The spicy, savory smell hits my nose and awakens my sense of hunger.
For having limited ingredients and utensils, Monroe did an excellent job. Even the presentation is impressive.
Steam rises in waves from the broth, the noodles cooked just right with an egg and scallions added on top.
“Where did you learn to cook ramen?”
“YouTube,” she answers candidly.
I cut her a sidelong look, a brow cocked. “You use YouTube for cooking lessons?”
“You don’t?” she quips back. “You can find any kind of tutorial on there. How to open a wine bottle, how to wrap a present, how to change a tire, how to drive your kidnapper crazy.”
She laughs at the expression I give her and returns to her noodles.
“That last one was a joke. But kind of true. I am driving you crazy, right?”
“I brought you here. It’s self-inflicted torment.”
“You could’ve just…” She pauses as if finding the words difficult. “You could’ve just killed me.”
“Yes, I could’ve,” I admit.
“So why didn’t you? And why did you stop the hitman? Why even send him in the first place?”
They’re questions I’m still asking myself.
None of my reactions regarding Monroe Ross have made sense. They’ve been out of character for me. So foolish that my past self would consider it blasphemous to disobey the Baekho Pa way.
I marked her, which meant only one thing. The Baekho-je confirmed her fate.
It was a black and white situation that I’ve somehow added color and nuance to.
Monroe herself did, somehow tapping into my humanity.
“You didn’t deserve it,” I answer, collecting noodles with my chopsticks. “You did nothing to warrant death. You were naive and stupid stumbling into the alley. But not every stupid mistake should be punishable by death.”
“This mark… will it ever…?” she trails off, sounding pained.
We both glance down at the inside of her slender wrist, where the Baekho Pa’s death mark is inked onto her skin. I can sense how much it upsets her just to look at it. She’s spent weeks doing what she can to hide it.
But I’m not in the business of coddling feelings.
“It’s permanent,” I say. “Unless you slice off your skin, there’s no way to get rid of it.”
She sighs, seemingly losing her appetite after that.
We separate once dinner is over. In the week since I’ve brought her here, we’ve developed a routine of sorts. She showers first, then I check to ensure the locks are in place and there’s nothing else needed before my bedroom door closes.
I don’t come out the rest of the night.
Which is why after I twist off the faucet in the shower and wrap a towel around myself, I’m surprised to find Monroe waiting for me in the bedroom.