Chapter 1: Motive (1)

On stressful days like these, I indulged in binge eating. I could punch a wall or kick down doors, but it was better to abuse my stomach than to engage in violent self-harm.

In fact, binge eating wasn’t something that could be achieved through willpower alone. To start with, the size of the stomach must be sufficient, and the neurons that transmit signals from the stomach to the brain must be somewhat dull for it to be possible.

Even if one had a body capable of binge eating, there were things to be wary of. Binge eating could lead to obesity, gastritis, gastric ulcers, duodenal ulcers, and pesky reflux esophagitis. That last one could make you cough on and on. The coughing could even go on for years.

Summer of 2007, 11:04 p.m.

At my wife’s insistence on rearranging our furniture, I was packing the books on my bookshelf into boxes. I wasn’t in a pleasant mood, as it meant that the only space in the house I could do whatever I wanted was going to disappear.

The top compartment of the bookshelf was decorated with collectibles, and the lower compartments held books I frequently read. This beautiful bookshelf that had caught my wife’s eye had been the source of the conflict.

As my wife stared at the bookshelf for a while, she suddenly said, “This is why Mom worries about you.”

“She’s worried because of the bookshelf?”

“Does this look like a normal bookshelf to you?”

Although the bookshelf appeared impressive to me, I tried to look at it as objectively as possible. At the top of the bookshelf, my collection of seven knives hung side by side in a velvet-lined glass case, and below them were neatly arranged books whose contents were about my areas of interest.

Before hearing my wife’s words, I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. My wife pointed to each book as she spoke.

“The Anatomy of Murder, The Joy of Murder, Serial Killer Psychology, Killer Reports, The Killer Next Door…… Is it normal to have so many combat knives and books on murder?”

The combat knives, I could give her that, but in what world were these murder books? Although the titles were somewhat provocative, they were absolutely just books on criminal psychology.

“That’s just my hobby.”

“Is murder your hobby? Go get a normal one, please.”

Once again, I was only interested in criminal psychology. Wasn’t it much nobler than raising two mammals that shed, smelled, barked, and just slept and ate all day long, like my wife did?

“Get rid of all that. I’m going to decorate the bookshelf with my herb collection.”

I didn’t understand why she was so attached to flowers that would all die in two days, but I couldn’t disobey my wife’s orders. Besides, as an unemployed person, I was in no position to argue.

And so, I took my knives off the shelf. The knives, which exuded power and charisma just from the sight of them, constantly caught my eye. I tried to just put them away, but their beautiful appearance was too captivating. In the end, I moved all the knives to the desk and began to clean them with care.

I oiled the blade with castor oil and wiped it carefully with a cloth. I was drawn to knives not only because of their unique, sharp beauty but also because of their inherently violent nature, born only to stab and cut. It was just something that had to live as it was born. A truly chic fate.

While sharpening the shiny blade, I suddenly had the thought that I should change my profession. A job that could make money, with no time constraints, and most importantly, a job that suited my nature and wasn’t boring—something like a hitman.

Wasn’t contract killing the epitome of free professions where I could make money without any time constraints? Of course, the job had restrictions in other ways, but still.

My strong attraction to such a profession was undoubtedly linked to my current psychological state. After all, there was one person whose neck I wanted to cut off at this very moment.

I had a senior from college. This person had beckoned me, who at the time was doing well in a company.

“I have a great idea, do you want to work with me as a cofounder?”

The title “cofounder” had always excited me because it had seemed to imply that we would suffer and become wealthy together. I’d nodded my head, and with that one nod, I’d ruined the rest of my life. Of course, I hadn’t known it then.

At the time, the CEO and executive director of the company I was working for didn’t want me to leave. They appreciated my challenger spirit, but they thought I was too old to be ambitious and asked if I had any intention of sticking with the company until the end. Unfortunately, I politely declined their objections and followed my senior’s lead.

As a result, I was now unemployed.

I would skip the details for the sake of my health. What could a diligent salesman do among a group of scam artists where various conspiracies abounded? The business that my senior talked about? It never even got off the ground before failing.

By the way, that senior was so mean. The only thing he’d learned from scam artists was how to look good, and he chose to do only bad things. Even though the employees hadn’t been receiving their wages, he’d rented a luxury car, splurged on alcohol, got an apartment for a bar hostess, and purchased a necklace worth 2.5 million won with a company credit card to impress her.

As my senior was doing that, my debt was only piling up while my salary stayed the same.

I endured day by day, believing that everything would change with the M&A that my senior was pushing for. Now, if someone were to approach me and say, “I’m someone who does M&A,” I’d punch them in the face and tell them not to bother me again. Those people were 99.9 percent scammers and conspirators.

When I’d made up my mind to quit, the company was already a mess. I’d lost contact with my senior for a long time and no longer had the ability to pay off my debts. Since then, I’d sent my resume to seven places, but there was no news from five of them, and the other two only called to say that I should know better.

This morning, my senior suddenly contacted me, saying that he would provide me with money. Excited, I went back to the empty office. I left at nine in the morning, but my senior didn’t answer my calls even at ten in the evening. In the end, I’d wasted my time and came back home, angrily eating dumplings and organizing my bookshelf. By now, you could probably imagine why I was thinking of becoming a contract killer. Wasn’t my situation just miserable?

Now, to become a contract killer, I realized that becoming a serial killer was inevitable. Since I hadn’t started a business or done any advertising, it was impossible for clients to come to me with requests. Even if I were to kill someone, without a monetary transaction, I would just be a simple serial killer, not a contract killer.

So, to gain practical experience and promote myself, I planned to offer free services to a few people.

In the movie, Friend, the character Jun-seok, who is addicted to drugs, trembles with fear as he says to Sang-taek, “If you ever come across a person you really want to kill, just tell me. I’ll kill him for you.”

Even for a gangster who was filled with loyalty like Jun-seok, it was difficult for him to kill more than one person, no matter how close his friend was. That was how difficult it was to kill someone, and why the cost of hiring a contract killer was inevitably high. But I was going to offer to do it for free. Wouldn’t that cause a stir in the industry?

I designated myself as the first beneficiary of my services, thinking that I had enough qualifications to receive such exceptional treatment. I would be my first client. The question was, who to kill?

Perhaps some people might think of the senior. Of course, I’d like to, but he wasn’t significant enough to be my first job. Trash only needed to be cleaned before others started to criticize it. There was no rush.

Murder wasn’t simply about taking one person’s life. It also meant the destruction of all the environments affected by that person and the future that person would’ve had. Therefore, greater care and caution had to be exercised with murder.

As a result, I deemed it necessary to test my own abilities. This was both a courtesy to the target and a verification of my own safety. As it would be my first experience, it was important to be very cautious throughout the whole testing process.

Testing should be conducted in three stages: identifying the target, planning, and execution. A motive could be placed before identifying the target, but in fact, a motive was only important from a personal or investigator’s perspective. It wasn’t important from the client’s or murder process’s point of view.

Therefore, I could technically just randomly kill someone passing by, but since I wasn’t a lunatic, I couldn’t simply kill someone who was perfectly normal. Thus, I decided to look for someone who at least deserved to die, but even that wasn’t easy.

I thought there’d be at least one person who was worth hating, but when I tried to recall, I couldn’t remember anyone clearly. There was a school thug who’d hit me in middle school, but I couldn’t remember his face or name very well. Even if I did remember him, I’d look ridiculous.

Hey, do you remember, twenty years ago, when you hit my face in the school bathroom? Because of that, I’m going to kill you. Are you ready to die?

He’d die before he could even remember my face. From his point of view, it would be no different from being stabbed to death by a passing lunatic.

It was quite amazing. I’d only had people I hated around me for thirty-four years, but when I tried to recall them, I couldn’t think of anyone.

Did that mean they were all hateful, but not enough to be killed? I hated the jerks who’d hit me at school and my co-workers who’d procrastinated their work onto others, but it wasn’t easy. None of them had committed a crime worthy of death. Although, it was true that there was no such thing as a crime worthy of death in this world. People just simply killed and got killed due to differences in perspectives.

As I was pondering over who I wanted to kill, my wife told me some news that left an impression on me.

“Do you know Mr. Yang-soo? The old man who made our garden for free.”

Of course, it wasn’t exactly free; he only charged us for the materials. In fact, it was questionable whether he really only received the material cost.

“I heard he passed away.”

Humans died when their time came. Moreover, the comfort of the old man who’d grudgingly made the garden for us as if it were unpaid labor was beyond my concern.

“He was beaten to death by some dangerous people.”

Now I was getting a little interested. It was rare to be beaten to death these days.

“How?”

“Some thugs beat him on the street at night with a bat.”

“For no reason?”

My wife replied while nodding her head like one did when there was big news, “If there was a reason, it wouldn’t be so unfair. It’s entirely the same as ‘going on a killing spree’. He was hit with a bat, and his body was smashed to pieces. His arms and legs were broken and his organs were damaged, so he suffered in agony before passing away on the street. It gives me chills.”

It seemed that besides advertising and TV shows, even crime methods were following in Japan’s footsteps. My wife patted my protruding belly and said, “So, you too, don’t go messing around just because you used to be a special ranger, and keep yourself safe, okay? Ugh, look at this so-called special ranger’s belly.”

“I’ve told you several times that I wasn’t a special ranger, I was in special forces……”

“It’s all the same military stuff. Anyway, if strange people ask you for money, don’t act rashly, just give it to them. It's better than getting injured.”

Oh, my wife takes care of me.

“Give them whatever they ask for?”

My wife paused for a moment before replying.

“Up to 30,000 won.”

That was my worth. By the way, that was the cost of feeding our puppies for two weeks.

“Isn’t that too little?”

“Does your reaction mean that you’re willing to carry around more than 30,000 won in your wallet?”

Opportunity makes a thief. The more money you had in your wallet, the more you’d want to spend it. With such profound meaning in mind, my wife had issued an order prohibiting me from carrying more than 30,000 won in my wallet.

“What if they ask for 31,000 won?”

“30,000 won, I said, and that’s it. What kind of robber would ask for 31,000 won?”

“What if they do?”

My wife made a conflicted expression for a moment, then spoke firmly, “Okay, 50,000 won. But, 20,000 won is coming out of the budget for medical bills.”

Fortunately, it seems she’ll treat me.

Mr. Yang-soo’s death passed without leaving any special impressions on my mind. Then, one day, people who would solve my concerns appeared. Perhaps they were the same people Mr. Yang-soo had encountered, because although the endings were different, what we experienced was one and the same.