0:39 a.m., the cellar of Malsori
‘Malsori’ hid at the dead end of a pitch-black alley in Euljiro 3-ga, one flight down. Cigarette tar had tattooed a full ton into the concrete walls, and the day’s clientele rarely exceeded four. That night, shards of soju bottle glittered on the stainless sink, and through them drifted my husband Choi Jae-min’s voice.
“I swear—when I saw her lying there this morning, I thought it was a corpse. Eyes open, full of grit, not breathing. So I nudged her with my foot and said, ‘Hey, you dead?’ She blinked, the bitch.”
While he swirled my pain like a single shot of soju for his friends, I swallowed my breath behind the swing door. In my hand, two black shirts and inside them a miniature camera. The blade still rested in the kitchen rack. Not yet.
1:12 a.m., dissection on the rocks
Jae-min said, “Honestly, I’m scared to go home now—what if I find a real body? Haha.” Laughter crawled across the soot-stained wall.
Someone asked, “Hospital? Has she gone?” Jae-min waved his glass. “Hospital? Never. She just lies there play-acting, faking death. You call that depression?”
At that moment I unbuttoned my shirt with my toes by the threshold. Half-forged revenge still pricked my nape like a hook. I said nothing; instead, I tapped play on a video on my phone. March 3rd, two months earlier—Jae-min at the police station, statement sheet in hand, a palm print flaring on his cheek. Only I could see it. Not yet.
1:44 a.m., the deep stick
I slipped behind his friends and tapped Jae-min’s shoulder. Drunk, he squinted half-mast at me. I whispered into his ear:
“Jae-min, I remember every night you traded my depression for drinks.”
While his eyes widened, I lifted his card wallet. Inside, the black card: PIN 0303—our wedding date. I booked a hotel room with it. Name: Kim Si-nae, the same alias he used on an anonymous account in his men’s group chat. Room 1711 tomorrow night, non-smoking double. Confirmation mail sent to his office address.
2:07 a.m., wire in the silence
When Jae-min went to the bathroom, I sat between two friends and spoke softly.
“The truth? I do have depression. And Jae-min sells it for rounds.”
One friend’s eyes widened; the other nodded.
“So I’ll sell him his own fear.”
I showed them the mini-camera screen: last week’s anonymous post titled “Seven-Year Husband Raising a Depression Wife—Burnout”, 2,300 views, 120 comments. One read: “Just divorce her and get a new girl.” Beneath it, Jae-min had replied:
“Divorcing is a loss. I’d end up keeping both dogs. Might as well wait till she dies. LOL.”
2:33 a.m., prelude
Jae-min returned, brushing ash from his jacket. “Let’s call it early. Work tomorrow.”
I smiled. “Good. I booked us a hotel room. Just you and me.”
He blinked. “Who booked it?”
I tilted my head. “Didn’t you check mail? Someone named ‘Kim Si-nae.’”
Color fled his face. He yanked out his phone. There it was: Hotel Reservation Confirmed.
He stared. “You… did you…?”
I clasped his wrist. The tattoo ‘0303’ clear. I whispered, “From now on, my pain is no longer your story. I’m returning everything you stole.”
2:51 a.m., the last shot
After Jae-min left, I raised a glass with his friends. The remaining soju was pitch black.
“Next week he’ll be fired. I blew the whistle on the project he bragged about—anonymously. And tonight’s hotel room? He’ll meet the thing he dreads most there.”
They nodded. I sipped. Bitter, sweet, and faintly triumphant. I smiled, muscle by slow muscle. They wouldn’t know which plan had just ripened behind that smile.
3:12 a.m., the alley outside
Spring night air chilled the backstreets. I drew the blade from my bag—stainless steel, still virgin of blood—and dropped it into a trash bin. Clang. Lid down. Silence.
Revenge was over. Or beginning. Everything that will follow—termination, terror in room 1711, the reprisal for every night he sold my sorrow—will now belong to him.
I said nothing; I simply walked. Euljiro 3-ga, alley walls tattooed with a ton of cigarette tar. There I whispered one last time:
“My pain is no longer yours to steal, Jae-min. What you stole becomes your story, and it will hurt you.”
In silence, revenge bloomed. I turned away. At the alley’s mouth, the spring night was cold.