20. Jin
The phone buzzes minutes after five a.m. I’m already awake, having only slept two hours. I’m seated on the floor in the middle of meditation when the buzzing interrupts my breathing exercise. The screen lights up with Sergeant Han Kyung-ho’s name.
A corrupt cop on my payroll, he often helps the Baekho Pa out when we need insider info on police investigations in Busan.
My gaze drifts toward the small lump on the bed. Monroe’s still buried under the blankets, only a few wayward curls spilling out at the top. Other than the buzzing from my phone, the room is quiet with the gentle, shallow sound of her breathing.
I step outside to answer Sergeant Han’s call. The rest of the Shell House is as hushed as my private room with Monroe. Dawn washes away the inky night with pale streaks of lavender and rosy pink while a few black-tailed gulls cry overhead.
“Got a minute?” he asks in greeting.
“You said you’d call if you had something. This better be important.”
“Trust me, Jin, you want to hear this.”
“Talk.”
“They found a mark at the scene.”
“What kind?”
“You’re not gonna like it,” Han says, and I hear the click of a cigarette lighter in the background. “It was found burned into the ground near the utility box where the fire started. It was a reversed Taegeuk… done in crimson ink.”
Tension pulls my jaw tight. “The Bulgeomhoe.”
“It seems like it.”
It’s no surprise the Bulgeomhoe would be behind the fire. It’s only been a couple weeks since our last confrontation at Club Gongshi. My men and I had eliminated Kwon Sang-bae and his crew. We showed no mercy, only allowing for one rat to slip free to send the rest a warning.
They’ve decided to retaliate rather than back down.
“If this was the Bulgeomhoe, Jin, then this was a warning,” Han goes on. He pauses to suck on his cigarette, the smoke crackling over the line as he blows out. “They’ve been watching you. Keeping close tabs. When you come, when you go.”
My eyes flick toward the window of the Shell House that belongs to the room I share with Monroe.
If the Bulgeomhoe have been surveilling me, then they probably know about her. I’m not sure what’s more unnerving—the Baekho Pa being after her or the Bulgeomhoe.
“Has this information been made available in other precincts?” I ask.
“Not yet. The report’s being handled quietly. But it won’t be buried long. The media will get wind of another gang-related incident. Do I inform the Baekho-je?”
“You’re on my payroll,” I grit out, irritated by the question. “This stays between us. If I find out you’re leaking info to other members, prepare for that lit cigarette to be jammed up your ass.”
He clicks his tongue. “You think I’d cross Seo Jin-tae after everything? I know better. I heard about what you did to Seung-min. Or that guy Yeongdo last year. I still have nightmares thinking about it.”
“Good. Remember that.”
I hang up on him and step back inside the private room with Monroe. The air is cool, perfect for a long night of resting. After what she went through yesterday, Monroe needed it. She was furious with me, but I couldn’t blame her.
Her reaction was out of trauma. While attempts on my life do not shake me, the same can’t be said for others. For normal people like her.
I step toward the bed and gently pull the covers from over her head. Her face is half turned up, the soft angles of her features making her look even more youthful than usual. Though I’m only a few years older than she is, it’s easy to forget how young she is.
Monroe has her whole life ahead of her.
Her lashes fan across the high end of her cheeks, her lips parted only just so. They’re colored a natural rosy brown that draws my gaze and makes me yearn to kiss her like this.
But then I notice the scratches and leftover bruises from yesterday’s chaos.
She has a bruise on her throat and a long scratch along her jaw.
Her bandaged hand is curled by the pillow, other smaller cuts nicking her copper-brown skin.
Probably from when I kicked in the balcony door and the glass shattered.
I give her a gentle prod. “Monroe.”
She shifts, barely lifting her eyelids as she hums sleepily.
“Come,” I say quietly. “We have to get moving.”
The house sits crooked at the edge of the coast, half-buried in sand and forgotten by time.
The roof tiles are chipped, the porch sagging with age, the whole structure leaning slightly toward the sea as if it’s been trying to return to it for years.
Salt crusts the corners of the windows. The faded wooden shutters rattle in the wind.
Even from the car, I can tell the hinges are rusted through.
Monroe doesn’t say anything when I kill the engine. She stares out the window, her breath fogging up the glass. Her eyes scan the shoreline as though she’s searching for someone.
Anyone else in the vicinity.
But there’s no one to be found.
No neighboring homes. No tire tracks. No footprints or traces of human sound.
Just the beach, the angry churn of the tide slamming against rock, and the slate-gray, overcast sky. We’re on the tail end of the monsoon season, the wind smelling of salt and wet sand. Soon the drizzle will pick up again. More monsoon rain is on the way.
I get out first and then walk around to her side. “This way.”
She doesn’t look at me when she climbs out. Just pulls the hood of the sweatshirt I bought her tighter around her face and follows without a word.
Things are still tense between us. The fallout from the fire hasn’t faded. If anything, I still sense some unresolved feelings on her end, like she hasn’t processed what’s happened.
I sling the bag of supplies over my shoulder—essentials I picked up at a roadside store on the way here. Toothbrushes, changes of clothes, bottled water, ramen. The kind of bare-bones survival items you pack when you’re not sure what the future holds.
The gate creaks as I unlock it and push it open. Overgrown weeds cover the small courtyard. Moss slicks the stepping stones along the path leading up to the house.
I slide the front door open and gesture for Monroe to go first.
The inside smells of dust and cedar. The ondol heated flooring groans beneath our weight, long since cooled. Paper screens frame the walls, some torn at the corners. There’s a low wooden table and a couple folded blankets caked in dust.
Not much else.
Modern luxuries like TVs and appliances aren’t present. Just the main family room and a kitchen and bathroom and windows looking out at the sea.
The wind whistles through the rafters. The water slams the shoreline. Then comes the trickle of the drizzle as it starts up.
All part of the soundtrack we’ll be listening to for the foreseeable future.
Monroe wanders slowly, trailing her fingers over a dusty beam. She still won’t glance in my direction.
I watch her expression as she explores the home. She must hate it. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. She wouldn’t be alone; I hate this place too.
I’ve owned it for years yet never come here.
She walks toward the back door and pushes it open, where she stares out at the water. The sea is even angrier, churning with white caps, making the winds blow harder. She almost seems mesmerized by the sight, like she finds it oddly therapeutic.
I set down the bag and unpack the things we have. Just about the only belongings we have left.
Out of the tense, loud silence between us, she speaks.
“It’s beautiful.”
I stop to look up at her. She’s padded toward me, arms folded across her chest, curls a little damp from the humidity and drizzle. Her expression’s vaguer than usual, though her inflection isn’t antagonizing or sarcastic.
She means what she says.
She glances around the large, empty room again. “Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“But… how?”
“It’s the only thing I have that belonged to my family. Our family home.”
Her mouth opens, then she thinks better of whatever question she was going to ask. Nodding, she turns and wanders toward the back door again. The moment isn’t much, but as I turn back to the bag of supplies, I sense the rough patch between us is healing.
Our future may still be uncertain, but we’re both aware of where we stand. We’re in this together.
Later, as the sun makes its descent for the day, we sit at the low table and do our best to enjoy dinner. Legs folded and backs aching from how uneven the floor feels, we dine over braised mackerel in soy sauce.
The taste is salty and the mackerel itself is cold, but with no heat, no utensils, and no appliances, it’s the best we can do.
Monroe fumbles with the edge of her foil pouch. Her bandaged hand slips against the slick packaging. She doesn’t ask for help, but I can tell how it pains her to do even simple tasks like this.
I lean across and take it from her fingers, tearing the foil open for her. Its sharp, briny smell hits us at once. I pass it back to her and watch her expression as she examines the contents. Her nose wrinkles slightly, though she doesn’t complain.
Mine is gone in a few shoveled bites. It’s not good by any means. Simply food for sustenance.
“How do you like it?” I ask, and then add, “You can be honest.”
She finishes chewing, swallowing her mouthful. “It’s not my favorite,” she admits. “But I’ll eat it. Food’s food.”
My chest tightens at the fact that she’s so understanding. My rabbit is so pure and warm she can’t even bring herself to complain.
I reach for the bag of things I bought at the store earlier and dig out a pack of dried squid. One of her favorite snacks since she moved to South Korea. A piece of info I first learned back when I surveilled her.
“Here,” I say. “Have this instead. You’ll like it better than the mackerel.”
“Jin, it’s fine. We don’t have much right now?—”
“Eat it,” I say sternly. “I want you satisfied with what you eat. I’ll find a moment to get us more food.”
She doesn’t bother arguing, sensing it isn’t up for debate. She takes the pack with her good hand and starts nibbling on the dried squid like I knew she would.
The sky’s darkened by the time we finish dinner. The last light fades behind thick clouds, leaving the world dipped in ink and sea spray.
I extend my hand to her. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We leave our shoes by the back door and venture barefoot onto the sand. The air is damp and briny. The beach is a narrow strip with dark stones and broken shells and waves lapping at the shoreline.
For a while, we walk in silence.
Her hand rests in mine, soft and warm, almost soothing. But my mind keeps drifting to the Bulgeomhoe and what may come next. No matter how far we go, the danger coils tighter. Every quiet moment feels borrowed. It feels as if it’s leading up to something deadly like yesterday’s fire.
We have no idea when the breath we take will be our last…
Monroe squeezes my hand, earning the glance I give her.
“Whatever happens next, I’m just glad we have this time,” she says perceptively.
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, me too.”
“I know what’s on your mind, Jin.” She stops on the spot to turn and tilts her head up at me.
“You bear the weight and you don’t say a thing.
But you don’t have to carry it alone. I wish you wouldn’t torture yourself like that.
I’m here to be your partner, aren’t I? Isn’t that what we are now? What we mean to each other?”
“Tokki-ya…” I trail off with a single shake of my head.
“I know why you cuffed me. I know you didn’t do it expecting the fire would happen.
You wouldn’t put me in danger like that.
You were trying to protect me—from myself, from everyone else.
I was frustrated when I blamed you. But you risked your life to make it up to that balcony and get me out of there. Thank you, Jin.”
“That means a lot, Tokki-ya. You … mean a lot.”
The wind tousles her curls the same way it does my hair. We come together as if pulled by the tide, drawing long breaths, collecting sea air into our lungs.
I clip her chin between my thumb and forefinger and place a tender kiss on her mouth. She tastes of her usual sweetness but salt too. My lips linger on hers, savoring the taste and how her soft mouth feels against mine.
When we part, I notice something laying at our feet. The shoreline fizzes and then recedes, washing something up on the sand. The moonlight halos it as if hoping we’ll notice.
It’s a seashell unlike any of the others.
It’s pale pink and almost translucent, curled around the edges like a misshapen heart. It looks too fragile to have survived the tide, yet here it is washing up at our feet.
I stoop to pick it up and offer it to Monroe.
She takes it slowly, turning the shell over in her hand. The way she studies it makes it seem like it’s the most precious gift she’s ever received.
“I’m going to keep this,” she murmurs. “And whenever I look at it, I’ll remember this night.”
We kiss again, more lazily, taking our time. I slip my tongue into her mouth and flick it against hers, kissing her with everything I feel.
The depth of what I do still takes me by surprise. It hasn’t been long. Only a matter of weeks. The summer was just beginning when she stumbled into that alley and everything changed. Monroe Ross came into my life, and now I can’t let her go.
Eventually, our walk continues. The waves inch higher, brushing against our ankles. Even the summer wind has turned cooler, making Monroe shiver at my side. I sling an arm around her to keep her close.
“This house… it feels so peaceful. It feels like the kind of place you can raise a family,” she says, running her bare foot over the tiny grains of wet sand. “Did you grow up here?”
“I inherited it when I came of age. I hadn’t even known I would.”
“So your family lived here?”
“A long time ago.”
“And you?”
I hesitate a second, pushing back against the memories. “I suppose I did. When I was very young.”
“Do you remember anything? Any special memories?”
The question is innocent and curious, like Monroe tends to be. But it’s difficult answering when the truth is the opposite. The real answer is soaked in memories of blood and screams of terror.
I was a young boy sniveling in a wardrobe when my family was slain. They dropped one by one to the ground, never to get up again.
Monroe is at my side cradling the shell I’ve given her in her palm. She gazes thoughtfully at the sea and the starlit sky and resembles some princess from a fairytale. Telling her what’s really on my mind would ruin this special moment for her.
After all that she’s been through in the last twenty-four hours.
I swallow hard, forcing the memories back to the dark recesses of my mind where they belong. Where they’ve lurked for the last twenty years.
“I don’t remember,” I answer instead. “Anything before the orphanage has been wiped out.”
She nods in sympathy and then rests her head on my chest. I curl an arm around her and hold her close as we stare out at the waves rolling inland.
Only I know the truth.
This place is haunted… and the reason I became the man I am.