Seojun’s noble determination to save the girl dissipated like a puff of smoke within three minutes of venturing into the cornfield. The towering stalks, which had seemed intimidating from afar, now loomed over him, making him feel as insignificant as an ant. As a man of above-average height, he wasn’t used to feeling this small.
A blue pickup truck barreled down the dusty highway, its exhaust fumes mixing with the sand and dust that clung to the breeze, as if they were permanent residents. Upbeat country music poured from the half-lowered windows, the tarp-covered truck bed pulsing with the twang of guitars and banjos.
“When I got this toolbox, I thought we were going to be secret agents or something like in a spy movie. But things have been pretty quiet lately.”
So, Seojun was discharged. He left the hospital with a temporary eye prosthesis and an eye patch, looking like a teenager who’d just had a run-in with a pesky sty. Instead of the refreshing scent of grass, a strong whiff of city smog greeted him as he stepped outside.
Seojun leaned against the railing of his hospital bed, his arm wrapped up like a mummy’s. His attempt to sit up straighter was almost comical, given the awkward fumble of his bandaged hand.
Christina skidded to a stop before Seojun, gasping for air, her complexion deathly pale and her skin gleaming with sweat—a clear reflection of Seojun’s own bone-deep fatigue. Her hands twitched at her sides, as if she was resisting the urge to cover her mouth, while she gazed at the motionless figure on the ground.
Fred’s gas mask slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground, leaving a bloody imprint on the earth.
“Sorry? What do you mean by ‘Sorry’, Fred?”
Seojun’s body betrayed him in the most unsettling ways as he fought for survival. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, each click sharper than the last, and a sudden icy chill swept through him, as if he’d been plunged into an icy river. His hands and feet went numb, while his head burned with a feverish intensity that threatened to consume him.
Seojun abruptly snapped his mouth shut and stared at Johan in a daze. Slowly, the pieces began to fit together, and he felt like a complete idiot for not seeing it sooner. Granted, he wasn’t exactly the smartest person around, but with all the clues staring him in the face, how could he have been so oblivious?
From the moment six-year-old Seojun saw Christina, her exceptionally familiar cute and adorable face sent a jolt through him. Her smile, bright and full of dazzling teeth, made him feel suffocated. As she effortlessly mastered the alphabet, his unease grew, and when she progressed to numbers and telling time, his world spun.
Bobby’s face crumpled like a discarded tissue, and the dam of his emotions burst. Tears gushed down his cheeks in torrents, and his shrill cries shattered the silence like a shrieking banshee. Bobby worked himself into a frenzy, making sure every molecule of air in the vicinity knew that he was very much alive and kicking.
If the stench had a color, it’d be blood red. The closer they got to the door, the more intense and sickly sweet it became—like rotting meat dried to a crisp, the odor seeped through the cracks of the cabin… It was no laughing matter. They were right on top of the Hamon Production Workshop, which was surprisingly close by.