"What a sight," she said, walking into the room. Waistcoat—ah, she really had to learn his name—turned to watch her. She smiled. "Shame you dropped the waistcoat. I was calling you that in my head."
a/n: no promises for how far i’ll take this i’m afraid, but i’m really digging the concept right now, so! here we are, for now. also i think i’ll be putting this up on ao3 later tonight? i saw that someone had apparently started a tag, so we shall SEE
part 1 | part 3 | read on page (not for mobile app, but it’s prettier)
Eleven AM, Sang Sang-i-Sang headquarters, future planning meeting. The sales of Zombie Kid were not bad—her sales never really are—but the negative reviews and the criticism of the artwork are taking their toll.
Her previous book, The Boy Who Fed on Nightmares, had received some of the same criticism. Why did the witch teach the life lesson? Shouldn't her cruelty be punished, rather than the boy having to stand up to his end of the deal? Why the violence in the artwork? Surely just the mention of nightmares would be enough without the screaming fear in the boy's eyes? The blood-strings had been especially gruesome to one reviewer who had left a scathing 4/10 review. Six for the story, minus two for the art.
She had earlier works that were just a little easier to digest, but as time had passed and the name and title of children's author, Ko Moonyoung, had grown, she had stopped allowing any the publishing house's censorship. Unfortunately, that meant that with every new book, someone or the other took fault with her work.
"Why won't Ko Moonyoung do what the public asks?"
Meetings with Sangin were exhausting because they meant—yes, sure, everyone would suck up to her—and yes, Sangin had absolutely none of what it took to stand up to her, especially regarding decisions on her work (her latest renewed contract had ensured that, though it hadn't been necessary)—but they were tedious. Even if she only stayed ten minutes; it was ten minutes she would rather spend anywhere else.
Today, however, Moonyoung walked into Sangin's horrendous glass palace and found—
Crisp white shirt, definitely silk, sleeves pulled up to elbows—wonderful. Black slacks, pressed. No waistcoat, but you couldn't win them all, and his shoulders were perfectly broad even without the added visual line. Were those—well, gold looking rings holding up a signed copy of The Hand, The Monkfish. Sadly, only the display copy. She would so have loved for him to be a fan.
"What a sight," she said, walking into the room. Waistcoat—ah, she really had to learn his name—turned to watch her. She smiled. "Shame you dropped the waistcoat. I was calling you that in my head."
He smiled—ah, but he was handsome. Almost irritatingly handsome. "You should have told me. I would have dressed to match your expectations."
She fluttered a hand as she sidled closer, almost in his personal bubble, if not quite. "Well, you're not meeting any of my other expectations either. I thought you'd be different, but here we are. How much has he offered you?"
He cocked his head, as if not quite sure what she was aiming at, before he raised a hand, clean bandage wrapped around it. "Oh, you mean to compensate me for getting stabbed? You know, ten million or so. Not much for such a successful children's author."
Her smile froze. "Aren't you the CEO of a hotel or something? What's ten million for a CEO?" They'd had an awkward meeting, manager to manager, the previous day as they were leaving. Sangin had been terribly apologetic, offering his manager, a harried looking man, his card. The manager looked at Waistcoat with the huff of a man who had dealt with too much crap—a look she was intimately familiar with, having been on the receiving end far too often.
Waistcoat had raised his bloody hand. "I got stabbed," he'd said, getting—surprisingly little sympathy. Maybe he did that sort of thing all the time. Maybe he was some kind of masochist? He was certainly pretty enough to tie up.
His manager had apologised for him all the same, and he and Sangin had exchanged dramatic 'you too?' stares as they discovered a kindred spirit. Wow. Moonyoung had seen the card in Sangin's hand later, but hadn't seen his name, only the logo of a hotel she wasn't familiar with.
"But does this method always work?" he asked, putting her book away. "Does it make sure no one sullies your reputation?"
She shrugged. "Verbal consolation is useless. Money is the best."
"Is it really?"
Moonyoung gave him the accusatory wide eyes. "What do you want then? Sex?" Maybe he was some sort of masochist—had she accidentally turned him on by stabbing him? She was about to laugh, when—his eyes followed a path down her legs, then back up, just slow enough, just catching on the end of her skirt, just pausing by her mouth. And just when she thought she was right, and he was in fact a creep, he opened his mouth, and said,
"Is that worth that much?"
She couldn't help the scoff, not after that stare. "Then why are you here? Don't tell me. The hotel isn't doing well? Some advertisement to get your name in the papers? Come to our hotel and get the exclusive chance for a free book reading by author Ko Moonyoung? Hotel Blue Moon, right? I've never heard of it. Do you get guests only once in a blue moon, too?"
He looked remarkably unruffled, so that was probably not it—or was his face just that good? All he said was, "My hotel doesn't need any advertising."
She cocked her head. "Why not? Is it a motel?"
He smirked at some private joke that she wasn't in on. "Maybe I should invite you sometime, and you can find out."
This got more interesting as it went. "Are you coming on to me right now?" she asked, stepping closer, properly in his personal space. He was unmoved, or simply good at not showing it; he stayed in place, looking down at her—even in her heels—and said,
"Is that what you'd like?" Before she could say something—yes?—no?—both, maybe, he continued, "But no. Take it as goodwill, Ko Moonyoung. I hope you don't come to my hotel for years. I hope you never come there."
That—was unexpected. She raised her chin, putting her blunt jaw between them. "Why not?" He had been flirting a moment ago.
He smiled, and looked over her shoulder, face transforming to something far less. Like this, he almost looked pleasant and boring, but it had slipped off his face so quickly she knew it couldn't be real. She looked behind her, and—sure enough, Sangin, with his little not-so-discreet boxes of cash.
"What's this? I thought you said you didn't need money." And he wasn't going to answer her question now. She was not a person accustomed to disappointment, not these days.
Waistcoat shrugged. "I said it's not the best solution... but I have no problem taking money. I got stabbed, remember?" He walked up to Sangin, took the two boxes from Sangin's hands, and left before anyone else could get a word out.
Sangin looked stunned—just for a moment, though, before he took off running after him with the drink he'd bought him. "Kangtae-ssi!" he called. "Kangtae-ssi!"
Kangtae.
Well, she could at least stop calling him Waistcoat now. Not that it mattered, she supposed. I hope you never come to my hotel. He had taken his money, and left.
All the same. Eleven-thirteen, Sang Sang-i-Sang balcony, as she waited for a meeting delayed by an unexpected gust of wind knocking Sangin and his coffee over. Across the street, Kangtae, shoulders broader than the tree trunks he was walking by, sun glinting off his hair. Maybe his hotel was shit. Maybe it really was a motel. Whatever his hotel was, the man himself was—
"Beautiful."
She could just see it—striding out into the city, heel crushing pavement, picking him up by the collar, asking him what the hell he meant, and—
He looked back over his shoulder, meeting her eye through the pincers she had made with her fingers. Then he winked.
"Oh, am I angry? Are you scared? Maybe you shouldn't have followed me to a dark parking lot. Don't you know not to make deals with witches?"
"Look at me. Do I look scared?"
part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | read on page (not for the mobile app, but prettier)
In the 1980s, literary critic Seung Giljang, nickname Suicide Bomber, became significant after writing the very first review of writer Do Huijae's first crime novel, The Horse's Head. Do Huijae's novels took off in no time at all, and while it was not necessarily because of Seung Giljung's review, that review did put him on the map right alongside her.
Years passed. The man wrote review after review for her novels, even getting some early access copies to create hype for the public for when they were released. Oh, he wrote some others, but those simply did not agree with public opinion or writers’ interpretations the way his reviews of the Crime Queen’s did.
Then, Do Huijae died—and a few years later, the technically-retired Seung Giljang began to write exclusive reviews whenever one of her daughter's books released.
Two days ago, the man had fallen from the stairs at one of those new malls that were done from the front but had open stairwells at the back, full of unfinished mortar and no handles on their stairs. Freak accident. What a tragedy. Such a shame.
Moonyoung wished she could have enjoyed watching him fall.
Since he was so well-known for his connection to both Moonyoung and her mother, she had to make an appearance at his funeral. That seemed fair to her. She donned an outfit all in black, frills all the way down her arms that were just a little too excitable for a funeral—but then, Ko Moonyoung always dressed this way. She was known for her odd dressing sense. Sangin shot her a glare, but didn't bother to say anything—likely he knew that there was nothing he could do to change her mind. If she wanted to dress for a party, she would dress for a damn party.
She brought flowers, too. Wilted. And she walked into the memorial house with her lips not doing what she wanted (she didn't want to look sad, not even for the few odd cameras that had gathered outside the building to see who came or didn't come) and her fists and jaw and head clenching and unclenching and clenching and unclenching.
It wasn't that she regretted it. It wasn't even that she wished he hadn't died. Moonyoung had never been the sort of person to regret her decisions. What use was that? She had done it, it was done; I-didn't-mean-to’s and I-wish-I-hadn't’s meant nothing once you did what you wanted. And she always did what she wanted. And that man had deserved that push—he had been threatening her for years with a fact that was outside of her control, and coming onto her like that had been the last straw.
Everyone who knew Moonyoung (or her mother) knew not to make her angry. Was it her fault if they forgot that? He knew what sort of person she was; he had been holding it above her and her publisher's head for over ten years. Was it her fault if he thought she wouldn't use that against him when he had been using it against her for so long?
No, she was not regretting anything. But he had died, and she wasn't feeling any better—not an inkling of satisfaction or contentment or happiness or fucking anything that one of the many people intent on bothering her would now stop.
No, all she was—was angry.
She stared at the little message dedicated to Giljang and her lips pulled up—not quite the smile she would like, but they were getting there. A week ago—had it been only a week?—she'd told someone that there were some people in the world that deserved to die. She stood by it; there were many. She had also implied—that she was the some sort of vigilante that killed people. He hadn't bought it, which perhaps was wise—
Moonyoung may be a monster, but she hadn't actually killed anyone before. Not intentionally. Not quite unintentionally, either.
She turned around on a heel, suddenly furious with herself and everyone around her, and marched out of the rooms reserved for this memorial. The people at the center were apparently too focused on their own grief to get in her way so she could snap at someone, so she got down the stairs uninterrupted.
That was when she saw him.
"You!"
Moon Kangtae stood there, in a black ensemble, looking rather unsurprised to see her. She strode to him, anger licking into her hands. "What are you doing here?"
He raised an eyebrow. "It's a memorial house."
"What are you doing here today?" There were other memorials here, but she didn't believe in coincidences. She had been thinking of him, too, just minutes ago. "Don't tell me you're here to visit some—" Before she could finish her sentence, her eyes caught on his blazer pocket. "What the hell is this?"
He blinked, and it may have been momentary, but she saw it in his eyes just then—the feeling of being caught out. Then it was gone, and he was playing dumb. "It's a pen."
"This is Seung Giljung's pen." Black, glossy finish, monogrammed cap, tip sharp enough to take an eye out if you tried. She had tried. She would have liked that better, she decided, to see it pierce through. That was the reason she wasn't satisfied, she decided. People forgot what kind of person she was, even if she did her best to remind them—a fall was simply not enough for that sort of person. "How do you have this?"
Fortunately for him, he didn't try to deny it. Good. She might have stabbed him again. "You're right."
She took a step forward, extremely glad she'd worn heels. He wasn't much taller than her, and four inches put them nearly eye to eye if she tried. "How do you know him?"
Kangtae shrugged, not responding nearly as fast as she would like. He was pissing her off. He was too calm, far too calm, and she was about to scream at him, and damn the cameras outside, damn anything she gave away. "We've had business together."
Business? Ha. She didn't know that man to do anything but write bad reviews. The primary source of all his wealth was—blackmail. "Business," she scoffed. "So is that all you do? Shady deals? Where did you get that pen from?" That pen should, by all means, have been lying at the stairwell where she pushed him, along with piles of cash. She had watched as the ambulance took him away, but no one had bothered to go up the stairs that day.
"It was repayment for a deal," he said.
"He had that pen with him the day he died," she said, too angry to care if he understood what that meant.
"I'm sure he had more than one of the same pen," Kangtae said, ignoring her hint. "Can you wait out here for a minute? I have to go inside."
She scoffed. "Wait here? Why should I wait here? Did we come together? Do we know each other? Do you want to wipe my tears?" She stomped out into the parking lot. Not two seconds after she was through the door, she heard footsteps following, and then—
"Ko Moonyoung!"
She scoffed and got behind a pillar that would be hidden from his view. Ko Moonyoung. Who did he think he was? He had been casual with her the first time they met, but she had been a little preoccupied there. And he had some nerve—after he told her that he didn't want to see her at his hotel ever again—she may be attracted to him, but she wasn't interested in this sort of—
A hand grabbed her wrist, and she startled—but it was only Kangtae.
He tugged her closer. "Breathe," he said. "I don't know why you're angry, but we have to—"
"Oh, am I angry? Are you scared?" A light flickered in the parking lot, almost on cue, and Kangtae's eyes shot up, then glanced around. "Oh, you are scared," she announced, bringing a hand up to his chest, feeling muscle jump underneath as she made contact. "Maybe you shouldn't have followed me to a dark parking lot," she said, words not stopping, just tumbling out, one after the other after the other. "Don't you know not to make deals with witches?"
Kangtae said nothing—his eyes darted around, here and there, behind her, above her, to the side. She scoffed. What a waste of time. She shoved his shoulder, and he was distracted enough that he almost let her go, before grabbing her by the arm and turning her around. Her heels were high, and his grip was tight; she fell toward him, stopping only when he steadied her.
"Look at me," he said. She was still tugging at her hand, but he had apparently learned not to hold her wrist too loosely. "Look at me," he repeated, just a touch more forcefully. The parking lot lights died for a moment, then returned. She looked behind, but he tugged her back to looking at his face. "Do I look scared?"
Her mind didn't quite work when she was angry. She didn't notice things the way she ordinarily would. Like how he looked serious today—so serious, serious in a way he hadn't been when she had a knife embedded in his palm. His eyes were dark and somber, and his mouth wasn't pulled into a playful little smirk. And there was something dark behind his eyes than there had been the first two times they had met. Something angry—or maybe that was just her. But no fear, no. Definitely not now that he was focused on her, and not on the environment.
The lights flickered.
"Do I?" he asked again. She exhaled.
"No."
He hummed, sound coming from deep in his chest, a low soothing tone. "Close your eyes."
She clicked her tongue. "What is this?"
He looked peeved, and she almost smiled at that—she hadn't expected the hint of irritation in his eyes to look quite so attractive. "I said close your eyes."
"Since you insist," she said, and closed her eyes.
"Good," he whispered, somewhere near her ears. She held back a shiver. Light flickered behind her eyelids, orange and then black and then orange again. She felt breath near her ears. The parking lot grew colder and colder compared to the warmth right in front of her, until the skin of her legs was prickly and only the hand he was holding was warm. The air stirred with something. All sound seemed to fade until all she heard was Kangtae breathing and a slice of heavy silence.
One minute. Two. The only reason she didn't open her eyes was because she could feel him there.
Then, like a vignette in sound, voice fading in from nothing at all, he said, "Open your eyes."
When she opened her eyes, it was bright and warm.
Of course it was warm. It was a warm day, one of those that told you spring was almost here. Why would it have been cold?
"What was that?" she asked him.
He smirked, whatever she had seen in his eyes earlier gone but for a flash, right there at the back. "Telekinesis. I can do wonders to your mind. Are you still angry?"
By the time he returned to the hotel, it was dark, nearly time for the moon to rise. Kangtae was not given to be late, but he knew he had cut it just close enough that Haengja was stressed out, her hands and mouth drawn tight together. Or maybe that was just because of his anger? The hotel tended to be sensitive to his moods, and Mrs. Park was sensitive to things within the hotel.
Every ghost he passed stepped out of his way, and the walls themselves seemed to meld to get him to his destination as quickly as possible. His head staff appeared almost in seconds of his calling for them, almost as though they were ready, expecting a call.
"Who let him out?" he asked.
His staff hemmed and hawwed as they always did, but Kangtae was not in any mood for that today. They had known this morning that it was the day of the critic's funeral, and that holding him until it was through was essential. They had been here for years, knew their jobs, knew what he was keeping them here for. "When I say a ghost must be secured, they must be secured at all costs."
"The ghost had shown all signs of moving on if he got what he wanted," Haengja said, and his jaw clenched. She hadn't seen what the pen had shown him—your mother was also very sexy—I knew you'd come after me—a lech of a smile—I can destroy you with the tip of my pen—a scream. His glass shook in his hand. He hated liars. He hated ghosts who tried to take advantage of the possibilities this blasted hotel was obligated to offer them.
"Do you by any chance want to run this hotel, Mrs. Park?" he asked. She stepped away, hands folded behind her back. "That's what I thought. Now who let him out?"
Chayong raised one shaky hand. "I was meant to watch him, but—"
Kangtae didn't care about but. He finished his drink and banged it on the table, and Chayong shut up. "The next time you let a spirit loose like that and don't make sure it's contained, I'll destroy your soul first," he said. Chayong shook in place. Kangtae huffed, and poured himself another drink, looking up when his staff members didn't leave. "Well? Why the hell are you still here?"
They left in a rush. "He usually does what the guests who'll pay him want," Chayong was whining, making him question—like every other week—why he kept that ghost around.
Kangtae closed his eyes, pressed the cool glass to his forehead, and exhaled, long and slow, until the thunder in his chest had stilled to just a rumble.
Usually. Usually. Usually two boxes of pure cash, cash that no one would know about would mean that ghost got near anything they wanted. Usually he didn't care who got hurt at the end of it—it was usually someone who deserved it.
But nothing about Ko Moonyoung had been usual.
As he'd been leaving, she'd asked: "Do you believe in destiny?"
