#dirty worker

You bolt upright. You grab your phone. Your heart sinks.

9:48 AM.

You were supposed to be in your psychology lecture at 9 sharp.

Double shit.

You throw on a hoodie over your crumpled tee, yank your jeans off the floor (unsure if they’re clean, but who cares), and splash water on your face that does absolutely nothing to wake you up. You skip breakfast. You don’t have time for breakfast. You barely have time to breathe.

The streets of Busan blur as you sprint past vending machines, push through crowded crosswalks, and barrel into campus like a fugitive on the run. When you finally reach the psych building, your chest is heaving and your vision's slightly spinning.

You reach the classroom door, already mid-lecture.

You pause.

Your hand hovers over the handle.

Maybe you can just… skip. Come back later. Say you were sick. Say you—

Knock.

Too late.

The room goes dead silent.

You peek in, sheepish. A wave of faces turns toward you like a synchronized judgment committee. The professor pauses mid-sentence, her glasses sliding down her nose as she gives you a sharp once-over.

You want to melt.

You want the ground to open up and just swallow your sorry ass whole.

She sighs. “No, no, don’t worry. Please. Sit.”

“Ah, Mr. Lee,” she says coolly. “How nice of you to join us. Late. Again.”

You open your mouth, but nothing good comes out. Only a breathless:

“Sorry…”

You exhale.

“But sit at the front.”

Triple shit.

You shuffle down the aisle like a criminal sentenced to public humiliation. Someone snickers. You don’t even look at them. You just lower your head, take the seat right in front of the podium, and try to disappear.

The professor resumes her lecture, pacing in heels that echo across the room.

“We were discussing abnormal psychology,” she says. “The pathology of criminal minds. Specifically—serial killers.”

You blink. That word hits you like a splash of cold water.

“We often ask: Why do serial killers exist?” she continues. “Why are psychopaths among us? Why do they kill—without guilt, without remorse? Is it nature? Nurture? Something else?”

She stops.

Looks at you.

Oh no.

“What do you think, Mr. Lee?”

Your brain freezes. You blink at her like a deer in headlights. Your mouth is dry. You weren’t even here for the first 40 minutes. How are you supposed to—

But something strange happens.

Words leave your lips before your brain can stop them.

“I think…” you begin softly, then stronger, “I think serial killers are people who… broke.”

The room stills again.

You feel all their eyes on you. Listening.

“I think maybe… they were just like us once. But something shattered inside. A trauma. A moment. A realization. Maybe someone they loved died. Or maybe they were hurt too much and never healed. Or maybe they realized the world was fake, and no one would ever really see them unless they made it bloody.”

The professor blinks. You hear someone shift in their seat.

“They kill because it’s the one thing they feel in control of,” you say quietly. “And maybe they even enjoy it. But that doesn’t mean they’re monsters. They’re still human. Just… honest. In the worst way.”

Silence.

Heavy. Still. Unsettling.

Then—

Clap.

One slow clap. Then another. It’s the professor.

She nods, almost impressed. “Well. That’s… one of the more poetic answers I’ve heard.”

You swallow hard. You didn’t mean to say all that. You didn’t even know you had that in you.

But then, a voice from the back of the room.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Slow, deliberate. Teasing.

You glance back.

A girl with long jet-black hair and sharp, almond-shaped eyes is watching you from the back row. She's smirking. Her head tilted slightly, as if she's examining something curious in a museum. The corner of her lips lifts—not mockingly, but knowingly.

Something about her feels… off.

Not bad.

Not dangerous.

Just off.

The bell rings before you can place it.

Chairs shuffle. Books close. The lecture is over.

You stay seated a moment longer, still blinking from the surrealness of what you just said. What you just felt. You shake your head, try to snap out of it.

As you gather your things, you steal one more glance toward the back row.

But the girl is already gone.

You were halfway out the door when her voice stopped you.

"Y/n, wait."

You froze.

Professor Taeyeon—Ms. Taeyeon, as most students called her—stood behind her desk, one brow raised, her hands gently clasped behind her back. You turned slowly, unsure if you were about to get scolded or praised.

She gestured toward the hallway.

“Walk with me for a moment?”

You nodded, still caught in the surreal fog of your impromptu speech. The hallway was dimly lit, cold white fluorescence humming overhead as your footsteps echoed together. Eventually, she led you to her small office tucked into the corner of the psych department. The walls were lined with books. Crime reports. Journals. Old, faded newspaper clippings pinned to corkboards—some of them disturbingly violent in their headlines.

She smiled, offering you the chair across from her desk. You sat, nervous but curious.

“I’ve been teaching for a long time, Y/n,” she said, gently removing her glasses. “And rarely—rarely—do I hear an answer like the one you gave today.”

You blinked. “I… just said what came to mind.”

“Exactly. And it was insightful. Brave. Human.”

She leaned forward slightly, the soft smell of bergamot and paper lingering in the room.

“I have an opening,” she continued. “For a research assistant. Part-time, flexible hours. You’d be helping me go through case studies, profiling, psychological theories. I’ll pay you a stipend—and cover your tuition. Entirely.”

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, you didn’t know if you heard her right.

"Wait—like… I wouldn’t have to pay tuition anymore?"

She nodded, smiling softly. “No more double shifts at that convenience store. No more killing yourself just to stay afloat.”

Your throat tightened.

You blinked once. Twice.

Your vision blurred.

You weren’t the kind of guy who cried. Life had beaten the tears out of you a long time ago.

But this?

This felt like breathing for the first time.

“Thank you,” you croaked, bowing slightly in your chair. “Really, I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“Just say you’ll show up.”

You laughed through the tears. “I’ll show up.”

She smiled warmly. “Good. I think… you’ve got something special in you, Y/n. Don’t lose it.”

You left her office with something you hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Hope.

The walk back to your apartment wasn’t the usual soulless trudge. For once, the city didn’t look so gray. The sky wasn’t just a lid over your head—it was soft, navy blue velvet brushed with stars. The neon lights didn’t burn your eyes—they painted color into your life. Even the honks of cars felt like background music instead of chaos.

You felt alive.

Like something had shifted.

Like the world had given you one rare, precious coin, and for once—you didn’t drop it.

But then…

You remembered.

“Shit.”

You still had your shift.

You stared down at the time.

8:53 PM.

You were cutting it close.

By the time you reached the convenience store, your legs were already tired. The fluorescent lights above buzzed as always, greeting you with their familiar pale glare. You slid behind the counter, scanned in, and began the routine: rotate the snacks, toss the expired egg sandwiches, re-stock the gum, wipe the windows, act alive.

Customers came and went.

Some smiled and thanked you. Some yelled for no reason, complained about prices, and acted like they owned the place.

You’d gotten good at zoning out.

Until the clock neared 11:30 PM.

Your eyes were heavy. You’d barely slept. You rubbed at your temple, scanning ramen cups on the shelves when the soft chime of the bell cut through the silence.

You looked up.

And your breath caught.

It was her.

The girl from the night before.

Short platinum hair with gray-white streaks, softly curled at the ends. Pale skin that seemed to glow under the harsh lights. Black jacket. Beer in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. Same calm presence, but this time—something felt… sharper.

“Hey,” she said, casual.

Your cheeks heated instantly.

“O-oh, hi. You’re back…”

She smiled at that. It made your brain hiccup.

You quickly scanned the items, eyes darting between the barcode and the counter, trying not to stare too long.

As she waited, she tilted her head a little, watching you.

“It’s pretty lonely here, huh?” she asked softly. “Aren’t you bored all the time?”

The question took you off guard.

You glanced up.

Her eyes were soft but curious—genuinely so. She wasn’t mocking you, like some of the other customers.

You cleared your throat, shrugging. “Sometimes. But it pays.”

“That’s it?” she teased. “Just ‘it pays’?”

You chuckled weakly. “It’s either this, or starving.”

She looked at you for a moment longer.

Then nodded, placing her cash on the counter.

“I guess that’s fair.”

As you handed her the bag, your fingers brushed again.

She lingered for a half-second longer than necessary.

Then she turned.

“See you around, midnight boy.”

And with a wink, she slipped back into the dark.

You stood there frozen, heart hammering against your ribs again.

You didn’t even ask for her name.

The rain had stopped.

But the streets still shimmered—slick with water and oil and neon ghosts. Somewhere nearby, a club still pulsed with bass. The smell of smoke, wet concrete, and forgotten sins clung to the city like a heavy coat.

She stood above it all.

High on a rooftop, quiet and still. Just another shadow blending into the concrete bones of Busan. The wind teased at strands of damp, dark hair as she watched the street below with eyes that didn’t blink. Didn’t need to.

A predator in the skin of a woman.

Down below, a boy staggered out of a bar. One of those drunk, puffed-up types with a neck full of fake gold and a mouth full of nothing important. He veered from his friends, lighting a cigarette with hands too cocky to care.

She tilted her head.

Yes.

Him.

It didn’t take much to meet him at the corner. Just a few steps into the dim alley. Just enough to look like prey.

“Oh! I-I’m so sorry—” she stammered, colliding with him, almost dropping her purse. Her voice was soft, meek, barely rising above the drizzle that started again.

He cursed loudly.

“The hell, girl? Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

She looked up, startled, eyes wide.

Perfectly afraid.

“I… I didn’t see—here, I’ll pay—if I broke anything, I’m so sorry—”

He waved her off, already scanning her from head to toe, his anger warping into something darker. Hungrier.

She recognized it instantly.

That smug, drooling entitlement. That gleam in his eyes.

Predator.

He smirked, stepping closer.

“Nah. You can pay me back another way.”

She backed up. Just slightly. Trembling fingers clutching her purse tighter.

“Please… I just want to go home…”

He chuckled.

“Sure. After I’ve had some fun.”

He leaned in, reeking of whiskey and arrogance.

“You’re cute when you’re scared.”

Her eyes flicked up.

And in an instant—her trembling stopped.

Her lips curled. Barely.

Just enough.

“…I know.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

Her hand moved fast.

Schlick.

His eyes bulged.

She stepped back. Watched him fumble for the object buried in his gut. Blood soaked through his expensive shirt like blooming ink.

She tilted her head again, voice calm.

“Did you really think you were the predator tonight?”

He gasped, stumbling back.

His hand left a smear of red against the alley wall as he tried to crawl, tried to escape.

It was always cute when they tried.

She followed.

Not running.

Just walking.

Measured. Clean. Inevitable.

He whimpered something—maybe a prayer, maybe a plea—but she was already crouching beside him, blade catching the dim light as she brought it down.

Stab.

A wet sound. A choked sob.

Stab.

His legs kicked weakly.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Until he went still.

Until his eyes were empty.

Until the only sound left was the soft rhythm of her breathing—and the rain.

She stood slowly.

Her coat dripped with blood. Her hands were painted crimson.

She looked at the boy’s broken body, head tilted like she was admiring a painting. A piece of art. A reflection.

Then she smiled.

And whispered.

“You deserved worse.”

She vanished into the darkness again.

No footsteps. No name. Just the gentle hum of the city around her, unaware of what it cradled in its gutters.

Another kill.

Another secret.

Another night blooming red.

The next morning came too fast.

You barely slept again—maybe an hour or two, max—and your body was already paying the price. Your bones felt like they were carved from lead, your head buzzed with static, and even the taste of burnt instant coffee wasn’t enough to kickstart your system.

Still, you made it to Professor Taeyeon’s office.

She greeted you with a warm smile, motioning to a stack of thick files and case studies spread across her desk like a fan of faded crime stories. “Just browse through these,” she said, gently stirring her jasmine tea. “Pick what draws your attention. I want to know how you think.”

You nodded, settling into the creaky old chair. The office smelled like old paper and rain—windows cracked open just enough to let in the gray drizzle rolling over the rooftops of Busan.

At first, it was academic.

The typical monsters of psychology courses: Bundy. Dahmer. Hwaseong.

You flipped page after page, trying to stay focused.

The name.

But then—

You saw it.

Printed in cracked black ink, faded and yellowed with time.

"Another Body Found Behind Convenience Store – Throat Slit, Eyes Removed, Mouth Carved Into Smile. Busan Butcher Strikes Again."

Your fingers froze mid-turn.

It wasn’t an official police report. Just a tabloid clipping. The kind people post on conspiracy forums and pass around in late-night drunken conversations.

But your heart twisted in your chest.

Not just from the brutality.

But from the familiarity.

Professor Taeyeon’s voice broke the silence. “Found something?”

The location. The pattern.

It all sounded too close. Too much like then.

You looked up, startled, then forced a nod. “Yeah… this one. I think I’ve seen it before.”

She leaned forward, intrigued. “Ah. Her. The so-called Busan Butcher.”

“Her?” you echoed, your throat dry.

Taeyeon nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what some believe. Early twenties. Always slips away. No witnesses. No fingerprints. Not even camera footage. A literal ghost. No one knows if she’s even real. Urban legend, some say. Or… maybe something darker.”

Your lips parted—but no words came out.

Because you were suddenly drowning in a memory.

A wound that had never fully closed.

You were sixteen. A sophomore in high school. A rainy Thursday.

You remembered it clearly, because you’d forgotten your umbrella.

You had been walking home, annoyed, drenched, muttering curses under your breath—

Until you saw the police cars.

You ran.

The sirens weren’t on anymore, but the lights still flashed.

Your street was taped off.

Your house was surrounded.

No one stopped you.

But you did.

You forced your way through the officers—shoving, screaming—

Until someone grabbed you.

Held you.

Told you not to look.

They said your father was stabbed 48 times. Your mother, 52.

The hallway floor was soaked in red.

Your father’s arm was visible past the corner, blood-soaked.

Your mother’s body was splayed beside the table, face frozen in shock, her throat gaping open.

The killer didn’t just want them dead.

They wanted them empty.

And they left you alive.

You spent the next two years in therapy, flinching at loud noises, jumping at shadows, having nightmares where blood dripped from the ceiling fan above your bed.

The case went nowhere.

No fingerprints. No forced entry. No motive.

You blinked hard, back in the office.

Just blood, and a name whispered behind closed doors:

The Busan Butcher.

Taeyeon was still watching you, her smile dimmed to something gentler. “You alright?”

You nodded, barely. “Yeah. I just… this case. I think I want to study it.”

She smiled softly, like she could see the storm behind your eyes. “Then study it. Dig. Research. Understand. Maybe you’ll find answers others couldn’t.”

But you weren’t thinking of research.

You didn’t go to work that night.

You were thinking:

Was it her?

Was she the one who murdered my parents?

For the first time in months, you texted your manager.

You tossed your phone aside, laying back on your stiff mattress. Your apartment buzzed with the sound of city rain and distant traffic. The overhead light flickered softly.

[You]: “Sorry, Mr. Han. I have some urgent uni work. Can’t come in tonight.”

[Mr. Han]: “Ugh. Fine. Don’t make a habit of this.”

You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours.

Eventually, you opened your laptop and searched again:

“Busan Butcher – timeline of killings.”

The list stretched back further than most knew.

“We’re not ruling anything out.”

Your parents weren’t on any official list.

But you remembered what the detective said at the time.

You clicked deeper. Some victims were stabbed. Others mutilated.

But always in pairs. Always in quiet parts of town.

You opened the old article again.

Read the same line for the fifth time:

But you had seen her.

“Some say the Busan Butcher only kills at night.

Some say she stalks her prey before striking.

But one thing’s certain:

No one sees her twice and lives.”

Twice.

And somehow…

You were still here.

You didn’t know why.

But something deep inside whispered that it wasn’t mercy.

It was interest.

And maybe…

Maybe next time, she wouldn’t just walk away.

You closed your laptop.

The screen dimmed.

But the darkness in your chest?

It only deepened.

The next night, you returned to the convenience store.

The bells jingled overhead as you stepped in, greeted by the dull hum of cheap fluorescent lights and the soft whir of refrigerators lining the aisles. It was the same old graveyard shift routine. A few salarymen wandered in for cigarettes and hangover cures. Drunken students giggled their way to the ramen aisle. A couple on the verge of breaking up whispered angrily near the beer fridge.

But you weren’t really present.

Not fully.

Because your mind kept circling back to her.

The girl with the silver-grayish blonde hair. The one who appeared out of nowhere, then disappeared like a ghost. Her voice still echoed faintly in your mind—“Are you not bored all the time?”

You didn’t even get her name.

Or maybe… she didn’t want to give it.

The hours passed slowly. You scanned items, refilled shelves, and swept the floors with a rhythm carved by exhaustion. Around 11:20 PM, you started packing up some of the end-shift tasks. You were already dreaming about crawling back into bed, when—

Rrrring.

Your phone vibrated violently on the counter.

[Manager - Mr. Han]:

“Stay until 6AM. Day shift worker is MIA. You’re the only one I trust.”

You stared at the message, blinking.

What?

That wasn’t the deal.

You immediately called him.

He answered on the second ring, groggy and half-drunk, probably.

“Sir, I’m only supposed to be here until 2. I have class tomorrow.”

He yawned loudly into the phone. “Look, kid, I’ll pay you double, okay? Just cover it. Can’t reach the morning guy. Probably drunk somewhere.”

You exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“…Fine.”

“Attaboy,” he said, then promptly hung up.

You cursed under your breath and slumped onto the tiny stool behind the counter.

06.00 A.M.

Great.

The next few hours passed in a haze.

You watched some random webdramas on your phone, snacking on expired chips you weren’t supposed to eat. Every time you looked at the clock, it felt like time slowed down out of spite. You yawned endlessly, eyes dry and heavy.

When the screen showed 3:29 AM, you were just about to stretch out your legs behind the counter, maybe sneak in a ten-minute nap, when—

A scream.

Loud.

Piercing.

Female.

And close.

You shot up instantly, knocking over your drink.

The cup clattered to the floor, spilling watered-down cola across your receipt tray.

You didn’t care.

You ran.

Through the narrow stock room, past the mop bucket and the crates of instant noodles, and straight to the back door.

The metal handle felt like ice in your grip as you twisted it open.

The alley beyond was cloaked in cold, foggy darkness—but not silent.

Not anymore.

Because what you saw…

You’d never forget.

The alley was dimly lit by a dying streetlamp that flickered like it was afraid, too.

There she was.

That same girl from the other night. The one with the silver, grayish-blonde hair.

Only now—

She was soaked in blood.

Her blade dripped red as she stood over a writhing man. He was still alive—barely. His arms clawed weakly at the pavement, trying to drag himself away, but his legs weren’t moving. You could hear him choking on his own blood, gurgling out soft, desperate cries for help.

Then she turned.

Her eyes locked onto you like twin obsidian mirrors, reflecting back every ounce of fear you thought you could hide.

And then…

She walked toward you.

Slow. Deliberate. Like she was savoring the moment.

Your feet backed up instinctively, but your heel caught on the mop bucket behind you—and you stumbled.

Before you could regain your balance, she was already in front of you.

You tried to scream. But the sound died before it could leave your throat.

She shoved you back against the wall with one hand—her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size. The other hand held the blade.

Still wet.

Still warm.

She brought the knife up to your face. The tip hovered inches from your skin. The scent of iron and death hit your nose like a punch. You winced, trying to turn your face away—but she wouldn’t let you.

She was smiling.

"You're not calling the cops on me… right?" she whispered.

Her voice was playful.

Teasing.

Unhinged.

She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, her tongue brushing the corner of her mouth like she was tasting something sweet.

Behind her, the man coughed violently, blood pouring from his mouth as he tried to speak.

“P-please… help me…”

You glanced at him, your mouth trembling.

Your hands twitched toward your phone in your pocket.

But you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Your entire body was paralyzed. Not just with fear, but with something more dangerous:

Uncertainty.

What if she really would kill you next?

What if she knew where you lived?

What if she had already decided your fate… and was just waiting to see which direction you’d tip the scale?

Your lips barely parted.

“I-I won’t call anyone,” you whispered.

She giggled—like you’d just told her a dirty secret.

“Good boy.”

And just like that, she turned her attention back to the man.

You wanted to stop her. To yell. To do something.

But your body didn’t move.

You watched as she crouched beside him, her expression almost… tender.

He whimpered again. His body convulsed.

She smiled softly.

Then slit his throat.

Slick. Clean.

“Gkk… ghuhh… a-aughh…”

The sounds gurgled in the air like a dying machine.

His eyes widened one last time—then faded.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t blink.

You just stood there, frozen as his blood crept across the pavement like spilled paint.

The girl rose, stretching her arms like someone done with a workout.

Then she turned to you.

Again.

She walked closer—until she was right in front of you.

And gently… gently… she reached up and caressed your cheek.

Her fingers left smears of blood across your face, but her touch was tender. Delicate. Affectionate, even.

You flinched.

But she just smiled.

“I guess I haven’t introduced myself,” she whispered. “I’m Karina.”

Then she leaned in, her breath warm against your ear.

“Or you probably know me as…”

A pause.

Her lips curled, eyes wild and glinting in the light.

“The Busan Butcher.”

She giggled again, and it wasn’t a sound a sane person would make.

It was sharp.

Childish.

Deadly.

She gave you one last look—eyes filled with something you couldn’t understand—and then walked off into the shadows like she had all the time in the world.

And you?

You collapsed to the ground, heart pounding in your ears, your mouth dry, your skin cold.

You were still alive.

But now you knew her name.

Now you had her scent on your skin.

And worst of all?