Chapter 35

Yet instead of spitting the fingers out, Seo Mu-yeong wrapped his tongue around them. Looking up at Choi Yook with tear-filled eyes, he licked the thick knuckles. The surging satisfaction far eclipsed any feeling of nausea.

Does he think he’s the only one who can sexually harass someone? I can do it too.

Seo Mu-yeong realized there was no need to categorize Choi Yook. If he was a man Mu-yeong could neither hate nor like, someone already hopelessly entangled in his life—

—then such a person was someone he should use however he pleased. Within the boundary of staying alive, humoring him just enough. There was no need to fret beyond that.

In any case, Seo Mu-yeong didn’t know how to engage in complex introspection. Besides, emotions had nothing to do with calculating in one’s head, and they were bound to shift depending on how the other person acted.

Seo Mu-yeong looked straight into the eyes staring down at him. Whenever Choi Yook gazed intently at him, an overwhelming pressure always took hold. It felt like facing off against a monstrous serpent coiled to swallow him whole, sending an unprecedented tension washing through his entire body.

Yet the fact that Choi Yook could see him meant he had no choice but to see him.

Choi Yook clearly perceived what expression Seo Mu-yeong wore. He could not help but be acutely aware of how close they were, or what words and actions Mu-yeong made.

Therefore, Seo Mu-yeong could leave an unmistakable impact on him. Choi Yook would not be able to forget him easily like the rest of the world. Whether it was a fond memory or a fucking wretched one, it would all be branded into his brain.

That was a distinct trace Seo Mu-yeong could carve into this world. It was also a way to prove his own existence. He, who was less enduring than a doodle on a sandy beach, could set a chisel against Choi Yook’s brain and strike it with a hammer.

An electrifying thrill shot straight through his skull. A portion of the hatred seething toward Choi Yook evaporated, leaving a chilling shiver across the nape of his neck. It was the moment a desire he hadn’t even known existed was fulfilled.

Choi Yook did not stop Seo Mu-yeong. He merely kept his gaze fixed on Mu-yeong’s eyes. A look so tenacious it felt as though it was licking his eyeballs seemed intent on stripping away even the thoughts behind his pupils.

His tongue grew slick with saliva, the wet squelching turning distinct. With saliva acting as a lubricant, the fingers slid effortlessly deeper inside. Swallowing the pooling spit, Seo Mu-yeong sucked the fingers in further. Then, slowly drawing his head back, he swept his tongue over the firm fingertips.

His tongue slipped naturally past lips flushed a vivid red. The moment Choi Yook’s gaze dropped to that small, supple piece of flesh, Seo Mu-yeong smiled softly.

“I won’t misspeak again,” Seo Mu-yeong murmured softly.

“…”

Seo Mu-yeong tilted his head with an innocent gaze. “Though… do you really think you need to rip them out after this?”

The gentle voice sounded almost like a dentist offering a clinical opinion. Chuckling softly, Choi Yook pressed down on Seo Mu-yeong’s tongue with his saliva-soaked fingers. Then, curving his fingers, he scraped the microscopic papillae across the tongue with his calloused fingertips.

Seo Mu-yeong involuntarily shrank his neck. It was nothing more than trivial friction, yet a faint electric current seemed to shoot through his entire body. As his focus wavered and his eyes cast downward, a low, muted bass sounded from above his head.

“Gagging on barely two fingers, yet full of greed,” Choi Yook muttered dryly.

“…”

Choi Yook urged flatly, “Drink.”

The fingers bearing down on his sensitized tongue slithered out like a serpent. Seo Mu-yeong blinked hard. He couldn’t possibly be drunk already, yet heat crept up from his neck. Feeling as though he needed to drink anything to clear his head, Seo Mu-yeong hurriedly brought the brimming glass of sake to his lips.

Choi Yook watched Seo Mu-yeong’s bobbing Adam’s apple. There had originally been an issue he meant to address properly tonight: the connection between Seo Mu-yeong and Yang Ui-ju, the shaman revered like a god in the Choi household, known as Taoist Master Myeong-an.

Judging from Yoon Hee-sook’s records, the one who had gone to her and asked for the child’s address was unquestionably Yang Ui-ju. For that reason, Choi Yook suspected that he might have secreted the child away and locked her up—whether to blackmail the Choi family by holding their vulnerability hostage, or to use her as a tool to fabricate his clairvoyant divine powers.

Choi Yook did not believe Yang Ui-ju possessed miraculous spiritual power like the rest of his family did. At best, he regarded him as nothing more than a man adept at reading human psychology and possessing superior information-gathering abilities.

It was only natural to suspect a connection between Yang Ui-ju and Seo Mu-yeong, the errand center worker. Mu-yeong’s peculiar presence made it all the more plausible—it seemed entirely possible that Yang Ui-ju had unearthed someone like Seo Mu-yeong, whose condition defied scientific explanation, and exploited him for his own ends.

The fact that Seo Mu-yeong was no innocent babe, coupled with the subtle similarities between him and the missing child from all those years ago, had only deepened Choi Yook’s suspicion. Yook had placed Mu-yeong onto the scales again and again, constantly weighing him. Bringing up religion or shamans, dropping probing remarks about Choi Sijin—it had all been bait designed to uncover Seo Mu-yeong’s true identity.

Yet that seemingly sound suspicion was now losing its footing on both fronts, crumbling with Yang Ui-ju and Seo Mu-yeong alike.

First, there was not the slightest sign that Yang Ui-ju had confined anyone. Tracking the shaman’s movements and monitoring the volume of groceries delivered to his house had yielded nothing out of the ordinary.

Seo Mu-yeong was even more baffling. He had deflected Choi Yook’s pointed questions with nonchalance and handed over Yoon Hee-sook’s notebook completely unedited. Tonight, he had even volunteered the revelation that Yang Ui-ju was once among Gang Shim-soo’s disciples.

It was far too excessive to be a mere ploy to curry favor. Above all, Mu-yeong had raised a crucial question in Choi Yook’s mind.

Did Choi Sijin truly do nothing fourteen years ago? It was a doubt Choi Yook would never have entertained had it not been for Seo Mu-yeong.

Choi Yook recalled the sensation of that narrow, sweltering mouth closing around his finger. Had Seo Mu-yeong been merely innocent, he would have cowered in terror or flared with indignation. Had he been purely servile, he would have groveled on his knees from the start. Yet Mu-yeong fit neither mold.

Those black eyelashes had unfurled wide, blooming like petals. Mu-yeong’s sharply slanting eyes harbored venom beneath a docile facade, and tears had pooled at the reddened rims.

Even Seo Mu-yeong himself had likely never seen such a face reflected in a mirror. That expression was something only Choi Yook could behold.

And yet, that very same man was now sitting here with a blank, vacant face, meekly sipping liquor. Pretending to be drunk to slip out of the situation—it was the survival tactic of someone who had been trampled countless times, someone who stayed alive and clung to a hidden goal. Honor and reputation meant nothing to him; instead, he made himself look lowly and harmless, biding his time to drive a dagger into your back.

Choi Yook could not help but recognize that they were of the same kind. They both buried their sharpest desires deep inside, draping an entirely different hide over the surface. The rot and stench unique to those who festered in singular obsession—it was a scent they shared. The only difference was that his own hide was far thicker and tougher than Mu-yeong’s.

Choi Yook glanced down at Seo Mu-yeong. Before he knew it, Mu-yeong had completely emptied his glass. Even while cautiously gauging Choi Yook’s silence, Mu-yeong seemed intent on filling his stomach since he had come all this way, scooping up three slices of sashimi at once and shoving them into his mouth.

True to a man who melted candies down to nothing over long stretches, he didn’t make a single sound. Had the boss who supposedly taught him to drink disciplined his manners to that degree as well? A faint irritation pricked at Choi Yook as he looked at him.

“You may go now,” Choi Yook ordered.

“Understood.”

Seo Mu-yeong set down his chopsticks without the slightest hesitation. Slinging the backpack he rarely parted with over his shoulders, he rose to his feet and bowed at the waist.

Bowing once more, Mu-yeong added, “Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

Seo Mu-yeong slipped out of the private room without a sound. Remaining in his seat, Choi Yook stared at the firmly closed door.

That farewell, so polite it was devoid of charm, resembled an elementary schooler demonstrating the etiquette he had learned in class that afternoon. It was impossible to reconcile with the conduct of a man who had feigned submission just moments ago, reddening at the eyes while sucking on another man’s finger.

An intensely contradictory, convoluted creature. It was hardly surprising that such a man stirred something inside him.

People were inevitably drawn to riddles. What was more, Seo Mu-yeong was a fresh, singularly rare existence, one who even conferred a sense of exclusivity upon Choi Yook. After all, Choi Yook was the only one in the world who could see him.

Yet even if it was a desire he had never felt before, it was likely nothing more than a simple, fleeting curiosity. Choi Yook knew all too well that the physical act itself would never amount to anything extraordinary.

Choi Yook looked down at the half-emptied platter of sashimi. The first time he had ever eaten raw fish was at fifteen, before Choi Hak-gyun. Choi Hak-gyun had ordered Choi Yook to clean off everything Choi Sijin, a notoriously picky eater, had picked at and left behind.

Beside the mound of tuna sashimi—easily weighing a full kilogram—there was no wasabi, no pickled ginger, and no radish sprouts. It was a greasy, extravagant platter comprised almost entirely of fatty belly and collar meat.

At first, a visceral revulsion had surged in his throat at the unfamiliar texture and flavor. The humiliation and self-loathing that came with submitting to Choi Hak-gyun’s orders were no less sickening. In the end, overwhelmed by the greasy flesh and cloying richness, he had vomited it all up.

Choi Yook’s first sexual encounter had been much the same.

Raw fish no longer carried any shock value for Choi Yook. Having shoved it down into his stomach countless times over the years, gagging now would have been strange. Yet neither did it evoke the slightest thrill. Regardless of how the skin was dressed, how the marbling was distributed, or how delicately the meat was aged, it remained nothing more than raw fish.

Choi Yook shoved another piece of sashimi carelessly into his mouth and chewed. After repeating the motion several times, he reached for the sake bottle, only for the glass Seo Mu-yeong had left behind to catch his eye. A faint film, like dried rainwater trails, clung to the inside.

Choi Yook picked up the glass, set it before himself, and poured the sake. The clear liquor rose, washing away most of the earlier traces—save for the rounded smudge left where Mu-yeong’s lips had touched the rim.

Rubbing his thumb over that smudge, Choi Yook dialed a number with his other hand. It was blindingly clear whom he needed to question to resolve the lingering doubt.

“Yeah, my Sijin,” Choi Yook drawled into the receiver.

He used the pet name like an empty quotation, devoid of genuine affection. He drained the sake in the glass in one long draw.

“I’m heading to your place,” he stated languidly. “Right now.”

As the night deepened, Choi Yook stood before the elevator in Choi Sijin’s apartment building. When he pressed the button, the floor numbers steadily counted down. Fourteen, thirteen, twelve… as if rewinding his years, tumbling back into the past.

Choi Yook traced back to his earliest memories. Even as a child, he had sensed that something about his household was profoundly warped.

A mother who never left the house and treated him with icy detachment; a father who dropped in only occasionally and struck out with heavy hands if anyone drew too close. The reason behind that unsettling dissonance became clear only much later.

His mother had been sold to his father. It was not because of her striking beauty, nor her talent with the violin.

Choi Hak-gyun had been hunting for an aekbaji—a scapegoat to absorb misfortune. Yang Ui-ju had prophesied that marrying Kim Jeong-seon, the woman he cherished, right away would leave them unable to conceive. Driven by that omen, Hak-gyun had resolved to sire a child with another woman first before binding himself to Kim Jeong-seon.