Blood sprays from Dong-chul’s severed jugular and paints the concrete in morbid fashion. He collapses forward, hands clutching uselessly at his throat, choking on his final breaths.
I step back, wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief before tucking it away.
The remaining Bulgeomhoe stare in stunned horror, frozen in place like rabbits caught in the path of a predator.
None of them move or utter a word. They barely dare to breathe.
“Deliver a message to your leaders,” I say. “The Baekho Pa does not tolerate disrespect. Cross into our territory again, and what happened tonight will seem merciful by comparison.”
I turn and walk away without looking back.
My men fall into step behind me, leaving the survivors to contemplate the bodies of their fallen brothers.
The night’s darkness swallows us as we disappear into the maze of alleys, our work complete.
The message has been sent.
Now we wait to see if they’re wise enough to heed it.
5.Monroe
Eleven weeks.
That’s how far along I am, according to Dr. Gong Hae-jin at Busan St. Mary’s Hospital. Eleven weeks pregnant, with a due date in early December—assuming everything goes smoothly between now and then.
Which is obviously what I’m hoping for.
I’ve never been a fan of hospitals. The clean, chemical smell within the air has always made me uneasy, as well as the way every room seems designed to be cold and sterile. Even routine check-ups leave me with sweaty palms and a racing heart.
Thankfully, Dr. Gong has made the experience as bearable as possible.
She’s a petite woman in her early forties, soft-spoken and well-mannered, with a neat bob and round glasses that give her an approachable, almost motherly appearance.
Her English is excellent—she mentioned spending a fellowship year in the States—and she has a way of explaining things that makes even the most intimidating medical information feel manageable.
“Everything looks good so far,” she said during the appointment, her tone calm and reassuring. “Your hormone levels are healthy, and the early ultrasound shows normal development. It’s still very early, of course. The first trimester can be unpredictable. I’m prescribing you some prenatal vitamins for you to begin taking daily. But there’s no reason to worry right now.”
No reason to worry.
It should put an end to any concerns I have, but that’s easier said than done.
Later that same evening when he finally made it home, I told Jin about the appointment, curled up beside him on the sofa while he listened with his usual quiet attentiveness. He asked questions—practical ones, mostly, about follow-up visits and vitamins and what symptoms I should watch for—and when I admitted how nervous the whole thing made me, he pulled me closer and pressed a kiss to my temple.
“You’re not doing this alone, Tokki-ya,” he murmured against my hair. “I’m here.”
More words that should soothe me.
Jin’s been more present and supportive than I ever could’ve expected from a man who spent most of his life avoiding emotional vulnerability.
But there’re still parts of his world that he keeps separate from me. Walls that he maintains in order to be as safe as possible.
Aspects that make me question what we’re doing.
The evening he came home late for dinner after conducting his “business”, I noticed flecks of dried blood on his leather jacket.
I didn’t ask for details. I never do.
But in light of the pregnancy, I wonder if we’re playing with fire. If the life Jin leads—and I do by extension—is too violent for the direction our relationship is headed in.
