He’s calm and unhurried, moving like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to go. In his hand, a knife gleams, slick with Sang-cheol’s blood.
My stomach gives another lurch of horror from where me and Kelly have ducked behind a counter.
Hyun-woo reacts faster than I would’ve expected for a brainy lab tech. He grabs a metal test tube rack from the nearest workstation and rushes at the intruder, swinging it like a weapon, trying to buy us time to find another way out.
It’s over in mere seconds.
Black Shell sidesteps the clumsy attack, his knife flashing in the dim light of the laboratory. It slashes into Hyun-woo’s chest as he releases a similar pained howl to Sang-cheol’s.
He crumples to the floor with no fight left.
“HYUN-WOO!” Kelly screams, leaping up toward him, but I grab her arm and try to pull her back down.
It’s already too late.
Black Shell has appeared from the other end of the counter, suddenly moving so fast it’s like a terrifying shadow rushing at us.
He storms over, digging a fist into Kelly’s hair to wrench her back. She screams, clawing at his grip, and I’m desperately reaching to pull her free.
His knife plunges into her stomach first.
Kelly’s scream devolves into a wet gasp. Her eyes go wide, meeting mine for a quick second, then she slumps to the ground as soon as Black Shell releases her.
“NO!” I cry out, backing away, my pulse pounding so fast I’m dizzy. My wide-eyed, horrified gaze slides from Kelly and Hyun-woo bleeding out on the floor and up to the masked man that’s turned to face me next.
He’s back to his predatory slow stalk,inching toward me with his giant knife in hand. Though I already know the truth, I need to hear it from him.
I need to hear it from his own mouth.
“Mr. Noh?” I choke out.
He pauses where he is, staring at me through his eerie, featureless black shell of a mask.
“I prefer Black Shell.”
24.Jin
It’s Friday night,and I’m the only one in the gym at the Claw Lounge.
Sweat drips down my temples as I launch into another series of strikes. My taped-up fists become blurs as I send the heavy bag swinging back on its chain. Then as it bounces back toward me, I’m meeting it with a powerful hook kick.
The bag is sent spinning all over again, the powerful blow enough to cause strain on the chain.
I’ve been at this for over an hour now, working through combinations and drills until my knuckles ache beneath their wraps and my depleted lungs burn.
But this is the only thing that keeps me sane these days.
Fight training is the one activity that preoccupies my mind enough to keep me from spiraling into darker outlets like alcohol or real violence. The kind of destruction that would only accelerate my descent into the monster I’m becoming in the wake of all that’s happened.
When I’m focused on technique and pushing myself to the next level, there’s no room left to think about Monroeleaving for Philly. I’m no longer obsessively fixating on Black Shell’s identity and his last taunting message.
I took your son from the inside out.
These troubles cease to exist when it’s just me and the sandbags in the gym.
I throw out another combination, even harder than the ones before it, channeling all my rage and helplessness into the strikes. The bag shudders under the assault, the chain creaking overhead from more strain.
Yet it’s still not enough of an outlet. I need to go for more strikes. More hits to expend the pent-up energy inside me.
