The walk from school to home never took more than twenty minutes, but for her it was never just a road. It was the only time of the day when she could walk slowly, without rushing anywhere, and not think about what was waiting ahead.
While her classmates scattered in a noisy crowd — some to clubs, some to arcades — she turned toward the market. The narrow alley smelled of vegetables, dust, and fried dough, leading to a tiny pet shop that looked like it was held together by sheer willpower.
But it was quiet there. And that was enough.
"Oh, you showed up," the owner was already standing behind the counter, as if he had truly been waiting only for her. In his hand was a bun.
"Fluffy!" She immediately crouched by the cage, and her voice changed — warm, alive. "Were you waiting for me? Come on, tell me, you were waiting, right…"
The kitten, tiny and gray, more like a ball of dust, lazily batted at a sunbeam with its paw and had no intention of acknowledging her existence at all.
"Look at that," the man snorted. "I'm here too, you know."
She glanced back, narrowed her eyes, and smirked. "Well… I come to see you too." Pause. "For the bun."
"You little brat," he laughed, but without malice. "Just take the damn cat already, huh? Why do you come here every day like it's a job?"
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers carefully touched the bars of the cage.
"Mom has allergies…" she said quietly. "But I'll finish school soon. Then high school, then college… I'll take him. I promise."
"By then he'll be a fat lazy cat and won't even remember your name."
"He won't forget," she said stubbornly. "He likes me."
The man hummed but didn't argue. He simply handed her the bun and waved her off. "Go on, get out of here. Before I change my mind about being nice."
She stepped outside, tearing open the wrapper.
"Red bean… seriously…?" she muttered with a grimace. "Who even eats this… after thirty, maybe your brain just falls out…"
She took a bite. Made a face. But still ate it.
Because there was no other way.
Her steps slowed on their own.
"I don't want to go home…" she breathed quietly. "That mess again… God, I'm so fucking tired of all this…"
She said it almost in a whisper, but the words sounded heavier because of it.
She saw the suitcases before she understood what was happening. They stood by the car — neatly packed, as if someone had taken their time.
Her father was bent over, shoving a box into the trunk.
"Dad…?" Her voice cracked on its own. "Where… are you going?"
He turned around. And in that look, the answer was already there. She just didn't want to accept it.
"I'm sorry…" he said softly. "I can't live like this anymore."
She froze.
"What do you mean… you can't…?" Her lips trembled. "You're… leaving?"
He nodded, looked away, then looked back at her — guilty, but already decided.
"It won't be for long. I'll get settled, then I'll come get you. I promise. Just hold on, okay?"
"Hold on."
The word made her want to scream.
"Dad…"
She waited for him to come closer. To hug her. To say something normal.
But he simply got into the car. And drove away.
As if it was perfectly fine to leave her there.
She stood in the middle of the street, holding that stupid bun, and for the first time in her life felt emptiness bloom inside her.
Not sadness. Emptiness.
The house didn't change right away. At first it just became quieter. Then colder.
Her mother lived as if nothing had happened. Only there were more bottles, and the smell in the apartment grew heavier.
And then he appeared.
At first — "a friend." Then — "he'll stay for a bit."
He smiled. Spoke softly. But the way he looked…
That was the worst part.
She felt that gaze on her skin. He didn't just look — he examined, measured, appraised. And it made her want to shrink and disappear.
That evening she knew immediately that someone was home. Too quiet. Too… tense.
The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Him.
Her heart dropped.
She went to her room, closed the door, turned the lock — once, twice. Only then could she breathe.
Headphones. Music. Blanket.
The only way to shut the world out.
She didn't notice when she fell asleep.
She woke up sharply. From a touch.
At first her brain didn't understand. Just a heavy palm slowly sliding up her leg.
Then she realized. Too fast.
Her eyes flew open. It was him…
"What are you… doing…?" Her voice broke, trembling. "Get your hands off me!"
He didn't answer. He only squeezed harder.
A yank — and she was already face-down on the mattress, pinned under his weight. The air was knocked out of her. Her head spun.
The smell of alcohol, sweat, and a stranger's body mixed into one sticky, disgusting mess.
She tried to break free. She really tried.
But he was stronger. Much stronger.
"Shh…" he whispered in her ear. "Don't struggle…"
In that moment her world simply shattered.
Not all at once. But like glass — with a crack that was almost silent at first.
She didn't remember how she got free. The only thing left in her memory was a short flash — the moment his grip loosened. That was enough. She tore off the bed, barely stayed on her feet, and without looking back, bolted for the door.
The living room met her with light and silence.
"Mom…" Her voice came out hoarse, alien, as if it didn't belong to her. "Help… please…"
The woman sat on the couch with a glass in her hand and looked at her like she was a stranger. No worry, no shock — only irritation, as if she had been distracted from something important.
She stood up slowly, almost lazily, walked closer — and slapped her.
Her head jerked to the side, her ears rang.
"Ungrateful little bitch!" The voice was sharp, soaked in anger. "You think I didn't see how you were looking at him?!"
Another slap. Harder this time.
"Little whore!"
And that was when something inside her finally cracked.
Not loudly. Not sharply. It just… disappeared.
After that, days stopped mattering. They dragged on the same way, thick and sticky, as if someone had poured heavy resin into her life and forced her to move through it. He came. Her mother either pretended nothing was happening or took it out on her. Attempts to explain ended quickly. Words no longer changed anything.
Neither did tears.
At some point she simply stopped crying. As if the tap inside had been turned off, and there was nothing left to cry out.
And then the thought came.
It didn't burst in. It didn't scare her. It didn't cause hysterics.
It simply appeared.
Quietly. Calmly.
"Why should I have to endure this?"
She lay there staring at the ceiling, and the thought wouldn't leave.
"Why should I suffer… when I can just solve it?"
The longer she thought about it, the less impossible it seemed. On the contrary — it started to look… logical. Almost right.
The decision came without drama. Without doubt.
As if it had always been inside her, simply waiting for the darkness to become deep enough.
She entered the room barefoot, almost soundlessly, as if afraid to startle the moment she had been walking toward all this time.
The floor was cold, but she didn't feel it.
He didn't wake up right away. At first he only stirred, then cracked his eyes open. Seeing her silhouette in the half-light, he slowly spread into that same disgusting, smug grin.
Like always. As if nothing had changed. As if everything would continue.
"Can't sleep…?" he muttered hoarsely, already reaching for her.
She didn't answer.
She only pressed a finger to her lips — quietly, almost playfully.
And in that moment he relaxed completely. He thought it was a game. That she had "given in." That he had won.
She moved closer, slowly, never breaking eye contact, and straddled him. He exhaled in relief, not even trying to understand why her movements today were different — too calm, too… precise.
"That's better…" he muttered, running his hand along her thigh.
She looked at him.
For a long time. A little longer than necessary.
Memorizing.
Her palm gently touched his cheek. He even closed his eyes for a second, enjoying the touch as if he had any right to it.
And it was exactly then that she said softly:
"Thank you."
He didn't understand. Didn't even have time.
The blade sank deep and sharp, slicing his throat in one precise motion. Blood burst out immediately — warm, thick, mixing with his breath into a gurgling, choking sound.
His eyes flew wide.
Not from pain. From shock.
She didn't look away. Not for a second.
She watched as it hit him. As he tried to breathe. As he understood.
The pillow came down almost immediately, muffling the sounds but not the process.
He thrashed, grabbed at her, tried to do something, but his strength left too quickly.
She held him.
Calmly. Confidently.
Until the body beneath her finally went limp.
Only then did she lift the pillow.
And for a few more seconds she stared at his face.
Checking. Recording.
As if it was important to make sure this was really the end.
With her mother it was different. No games. No pause.
She walked into the living room, and the woman had already started saying something — irritated, angry, with that familiar tone that used to make her want to shrink.
But she wasn't listening anymore. Not a single word.
The movement was sharp. Short.
And that was enough.
The woman didn't even finish her sentence. She only opened her mouth in surprise, as if wanting to object — and couldn't.
Blood flowed slowly, almost lazily, contrasting with how quickly everything ended.
The girl watched her calmly. Without anger. Without relief.
Just… like a task that needed to be solved. And which had finally been solved.
And that was perhaps the only thing she felt — not pity, not rage… but a strange, brief emptiness.
The smell of alcohol spread through the room, soaking everything. She poured it on the floor, on the furniture, on the walls, on the photographs where something real had once existed. Now they looked foreign.
Standing at the door, she lit a cigarette. The first inhale was sharp and burning, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she took another, deeper.
The lighter slipped from her fingers and fell inside.
The fire flared up almost immediately. Greedily. Quickly.
She closed the door and didn't look back.
Not even when she felt the heat behind her.
A sharp gasp tore her from the dream.
The room. Darkness. Silence.
Her heart was beating too fast, as if it didn't understand that it was already over.
"Just a dream…" she whispered, running her palm over her face. "Fucking dream…"
But her body wasn't ready to believe it.
A knock at the door sounded unexpectedly sharp.
"Rhea, are you awake?"
She got up, threw on a robe, and opened it. So Min-jae stood on the threshold — composed and calm as always, but his gaze lingered on her a little longer than usual.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she answered without pause. "Everything's fine."
He nodded, though he clearly didn't believe her.
"Assignment from Director Park."
The folder was placed in her hands.
"Deadline — three days. If you need weapons or anything else, you know where to get them."
He paused briefly, softening his voice a little:
"Though you always manage anyway."
The corners of her lips twitched in a faint smirk.
"I understand."
He turned to leave, but right at the door, almost under his breath, he added:
"Try to come back."
She didn't answer.
The door closed.
The fire in the fireplace crackled softly as she opened the folder. Her eyes skimmed the lines — quickly, without unnecessary attention. When she finished, she tossed the documents into the flames without hesitation.
The paper caught fire instantly.
She watched as the fire devoured the words, turning them to ash, and there was something… right about it.
The warmth touched her face, but inside everything remained empty.
Not painful. Not scary.
Just empty.
And perhaps that was what scared her most of all.