#obssessed

Give your keys 🗝️

My feet climb one step after another—red, orange, yellow, green, purple. A trail of colors stretches across the staircase, a vibrant detail that steals every ounce of attention from the weathered houses and the garbage bags lining each street.

A ball of orange fur pulls me off course. Fortunately, the cat lets me stroke its ears and back.

Its whiskers are stained, and scratches cover its body. Even with its scruffy appearance, it's pleasantly plump.

A voice makes me stop in my tracks, and I lift my gaze to look for him.

The sun hides behind him as he stands on the top step, both hands tucked into the pockets of his linen trousers.

Behind him, pink hues bloom across the sky, melting into the orange.

I wasn't late, but judging by the way he's standing, it seems he's been waiting for a while. I let the little cat go, watching it disappear into another alley.

I stop and wrap my arms around him. My face rests against his chest, and the familiar scent of fresh laundry envelops me as well. Moonjo's fingers drum lightly against my back while I gently push him a few steps backward so I can finish climbing the stairs.

"Hi, Moonjo."

I look up to find the corners of his lips curled into a smile. He nudges his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose after giving me a small nod.

Our steps fall into sync as we wander down the street—I with sweaty palms, he with a faint smile and the habitual adjustment of his round glasses. He glances at the shops around us, while I catch sight of a silhouette, as though someone were hiding around the corner of an abandoned house.

Then it's gone.

Moonjo tells me about work, about the little boy with cavities he had to comfort. Even as my eyes keep drifting to the streets around us, I picture him holding the child, gently rubbing his shoulder the way he used to do for me whenever I was struggling.

"You really love your job."

We stop at the overlook in the park, leaning against the railing that faces the sea, its waters washed in a muted shade of blue.

"I do." He nods.

I lean back against the railing, turning my back on the view, while Moonjo steps in front of me, close enough for the sea breeze to stir his hair.

"I like it."

I swallow, and I have the uneasy feeling he can hear it.

"I brought you something," he says, and I catch the mint on his breath.

He reaches into his left pocket, takes my hand, and slips a ring onto my ring finger.

It's silver, and at its center sits...

a molar.

"Thank you..."

"You know... I want what's mine to be yours too."

I trace the cold metal of the railing with the tips of my shoes. He doesn't let go of my hand, and I watch him run his thumb over the center of the ring with quiet certainty.

"You have surprisingly good taste when it comes to things like this."

"Told you they're pretty."

I nod.

"I wish I could give you something like this..."

He laughs.

The air grows colder as night settles over us while he listens to me talk about my major. Moonjo gives my shoulder a gentle pat and tells me to take a breath. The way I see my reflection through his eyes makes me look away.

"Hold on to that motivation. It's the strongest thing you have," he says. "I can see it."

I nod.

"Just hang on a little longer. You're almost done. If you quit now, you'll only ever have access to animal cadavers."

I can still remember the rush of euphoria I felt when I examined my cat Yoru's bones beneath the magnifying lens.

"I will. It's worth it."

"I know you can do it. You're so—"

A third person appears behind Moonjo. A young man in a black hoodie and a yellow cap watches us with a deep frown. A half-empty bottle of soju dangles from his hand.

His face is familiar.

"Hey, bitch," he slurs, his tongue tangling over his words. "Is he the new idiot?"

Moonjo raises an eyebrow and shoves him. The man manages to keep his footing, only to swat Moonjo's hand away.

"I think you've got the wrong idea. Leave us alone."

"No! No, I don't! I know exactly who this bitch is!"

Moonjo grabs him by the front of his shirt. The young man struggles, but Moonjo doesn't budge.

In the distance, another young man hurries toward us, stumbling over his own feet.

I slip my hand into my pocket and wrap my fingers around the cold metal object inside.

"You don't want to fight me."

His voice comes out so low and hoarse I can barely hear it. His face remains expressionless, his lips moving only enough to form the words. I place a hand on his arm, but he ignores me.

"No! Please, don't hit my friend!" the other young man says, stepping between them. "I'm sorry—he's really drunk! Please, Yeongsan, don't make a scene. Just forget about her. She's not your problem anymore."

My companion lets him go, and I finally release the breath I'd been holding.

Even then, Yeongsan keeps pointing at me, insisting I'm insane—and that Moonjo must be just as crazy for staying with me.

"I apologize on his behalf."

The young man gives us a quick bow, as much as Yeongsan allows him to, while neither of us says a word.

His friend finally manages to drag him away, though Yeongsan continues shouting into the night.

"Do you know him?"

I tuck my hair behind my ears.

I nod.

"I used to date him..."

"He's a violent person."

"He is. You have no idea."

He nods.

There's something different in his gaze now—less focused somehow. My hands begin to tremble.

Yeongsan. The boy who always interrupted what I loved just to talk to me about gambling and alcohol.

"I'll walk you home."

We leave the overlook behind. I scan the area one last time, relieved to find no familiar faces—especially not Yeongsan's. A dull ache settles in my head. Despite every report I filed, the police never took any action against him. For now, all I can do is take a deep breath and be grateful his shadow isn't lurking somewhere nearby.

The road home is familiar.

I glance at him.

Quiet.

I wish I knew what was going through his mind right now. The memories from a few minutes ago churn inside my chest.

I sigh and brush my thumb over the ring on my finger.

No.

I can't leave without taking something of him with me.

I take Moonjo's hand and lead him into the alley beside us.

I can barely make him out, but the dim streetlight casts half of his face in a pale glow.

Not even an inch separates us. The wall is cold against my back, a perfect contrast to the warmth radiating from Moonjo. He traces the line of my neck with his index finger, his eyes fixed there. I don't realize how long he's been doing it; I've been too distracted by the shadows sculpting his features.

"Uvula," he murmurs.

"What?"

"The uvula. I like seeing it..."

He pauses.

"...from the inside."

He smiles when he feels me swallow.

A shiver runs across my skin at the way he's studying me now. It's a look he's never given me before.

The shape of his body keeps my eyes fixed on him.

What would he look like... beneath his skin?

Beyond all that tissue... the nerves...

What would he look like?

The moment his lips meet mine, my eyes close on instinct. Mint and the taste of his saliva flood my senses.

The crickets are no longer alone.

Footsteps and the distant murmur of passing voices drift toward us, but my body remains rigid. I can feel his breathing, the cold glass of his lenses brushing against my face.

Silently, I offer up a prayer, hoping we're hidden well enough within the alley.

Moonjo's hand slides down slowly, pressing me more firmly against the concrete until it comes to rest over my chest.

"Come over for dinner tomorrow."

He nods.

I wish I could give him one of my fingers, hanging from a beautiful necklace.

[ . . . ]

The plates are empty, and my father seems pleased by Moonjo's neat appearance.

He starts talking about fishing, about how much he loved going alone when he was a child. Before I know it, he's telling stories from his childhood, about the days he spent in the countryside with my grandfather. Moonjo listens without blinking.

As for me...

My eyes keep drifting from one thing to another.

The empty living room.

The kitchen bathed in warm light.

My hands.

The dinnerware my mother never uses for us.

And...

Moonjo.

Moonjo again.

He glances at me every now and then. I try, unsuccessfully, to erase the lingering sensation of what happened last night. His lips left a tingling warmth on mine that has stayed with me ever since.

My father turns on the television while Moonjo helps us tidy up. Even though my mother and I tell him to sit down, he dismisses us with a casual wave of his hand.

He seemed... warm.

I found myself wishing he could always be like this.

He begins drying the dishes, his movements slow and unhurried. My eyes linger on the bruise hidden beneath the sleeve of his white shirt—a wound that wasn't there yesterday.

He pauses, his attention caught by the television, which has already stolen everyone else's.

Police tape surrounds a body.

The reporter says that, in the early hours of the morning, the body of a young man in his mid-twenties was discovered at the overlook in the park.

Moonjo keeps drying the dishes, though less absentmindedly now. His eyes never leave the screen. A faint smile lingers on his lips as he swallows.

The report says the victim was stabbed around fifteen times. I realize I've been holding my breath.

"That guy... he looks like the one who's been harassing you," my father says. "Same build."

"Karma..."

Moonjo murmurs.

"...might've gone a little overboard."

My attention shifts to him. He stands to put the dishes away, and my skin prickles as he passes by me.

Only when he looks at me for a brief moment and smiles do my shoulders finally relax. All I do is poke him lightly in the hip with my finger.

There's hardly any softness beneath the fabric.

I can feel the bone.

My parents had become completely at ease around Moonjo.

There was no plan, no destination in mind. Our feet carried us forward at an unhurried pace, and I lost track of how long we'd been walking since we left the house.

The streetlights failed to reach certain corners.

Tonight, after the news, there wasn't a trace of life anywhere.

Beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp, I take hold of his arm.

"Your hand..."

"It looks bad."

He glances at the injury but doesn't react.

"What happened to you?"

"I got hurt at work."

I raise an eyebrow.

He sighs.

"Don't worry."

"I'm fine."

He walks toward me until his shadow completely engulfs me.

My knees threaten to give out. Is he really that willing?

We look at each other in silence. One minute.

Two.

Three.

My nerves refuse to respond to the horror of this situation. I search for remorse...

but there's nothing.

"Why did you kill him?"

My voice trembles, but he hears me.

Even the insects have fallen silent.

He remains perfectly still, and I can't tell what is going through his mind.

"First my university professor... I told you what happened, and then he turned up dead."

"And now Yeongsan."

He nods, barely perceptibly.

My gaze drifts to the cat wandering along the street behind him.

"And you're not afraid?"

I shake my head.

It was like the day I dug up Yoru. I didn't realize what I'd done until afterward.

Not because of my actions—

because of how natural they had felt.

He takes hold of my chin and tilts my face upward.

Deep down, I want to pull away, yet I no longer have any excuse to do so.

I meet his dark eyes.

As though he were silently asking me why.

His grip is firm enough that, if I tried to break free, I wouldn't be able to.

But...

why would I ever want to run from him?

I place my hand over his, over the wound, and roll up his sleeve to reveal the violet bruise beneath.

Even then,

I find more peace in stepping closer to him than in pushing him away.

"With you by my side..."

He pauses.

"...nothing else matters."