Chương 3: S.04 Memory of the Clock 01(03)

Scene 10. Ye-ju was not the only one who had not put on 소복(Sobok_White mourning garments). On the day of 단장(Dan-jang_The Oldest)'s passing, Lim Yeong-min — who had been at The Oldest's quarters — remained at Doe Yu-seok's family estate without bothering to wear mourning garments either. Yu-seok's sprawling estate, once fairly bustling, had shed a great many of its people by the end of the calamity and now held only a desolate stillness.

The fear that staying might mean becoming a corpse and being turned into a 사환자(Sa-hwan-ja_Returnee) was shaking the nerves of even those few who remained. The watchful glances, the momentum dwindling to a fistful of dust — all of it was plain to see. The judgment was clear that continuing like this would lead to nothing, but making a rash move was equally impossible. Three people carrying mere 사류(Sa-ryu_Branch Relic) — Yeong-min, Jeong-hyeon, and Ye-ju — could not break through the situation alone.

Su-jeong had previously taken the lead while carrying 사절단(Sa-jeol-dan_The Envoy's Legion), but forcing 본청(Bon-cheong_Headquarters) personnel to death and converting them into Returnees had drastically narrowed the political footing. The scramble for self-preservation would continue to the end. There was no longer any room for guilt toward Yeon-hui.

Yeon-hui was imprisoned inside the 시간수(Si-gan-su_The Chronostump), unaware of anything, and even if Yeon-hui could operate outside, there was neither reason nor capacity left to worry about someone whose purpose had diverged this far. People passed on the paths now and then, but none bowed to Yeong-min. They simply looked away and went their own way. There was no point blaming them. As long as power could be obtained, it would not matter. The real problem was — Yeong-min: How to obtain it. That's the problem.

Leaving behind the insignificant scraps inside Yu-seok's estate, Yeong-min wrapped up the deep deliberation. Just as the pacing across the wide courtyard stopped and the steps turned back toward the quarters, Ye-ju — who had been watching for quite some time — approached. Ye-ju: Looking comfortable, are we? Brooding all by yourself? At Ye-ju's sour question, Yeong-min halted and glanced over. Ye-ju was also dressed in plainclothes.

Like people who did not belong to Headquarters, everyone staying at Yu-seok's estate went about their business without bothering with traditional garments or mourning wear. Or rather, no one knew what to do, but all were certain they could not return to Headquarters. So they simply stayed. Ye-ju and Yeong-min were no different. Ye-ju: Planning to brood alone again and stab someone in the back? Yeong-min stared at Ye-ju but could not muster even a scornful laugh. Just stared.

Ye-ju: Come on, it's stifling — at least move that mouth of yours. Sis is usually plenty chatty. Yeong-min: Hah. You really are something else. Ye-ju: Just spend the money. That's how you gather people at the very least. Yeong-min: Why would I. Ye-ju: What do you mean why. You strutted around as Director of the Treasury — isn't it time to spend when spending is needed? Yeong-min: I said why. Spend on what. Ye-ju: We need to pull people together at least — Yeong-min glanced around. Yeong-min: Pull together?

To do what? So more eyes can look at us like we're pathetic? Ye-ju: Does that bother you? Yeong-min: It's beneath me. Ye-ju: If you don't want to execute the budget, then step down from the position. Yeong-min: If I step down, are you going to do it? Can you even count numbers? Ye-ju: Are we really going to keep acting like this among second-raters? We're in the same bo — Yeong-min: Hah. Enough. Yeong-min pulled a wallet from the back pocket.

With a contemptuous grimace, Yeong-min fished out a silver card and handed it to Ye-ju with utter indifference. Yeong-min: Go buy yourself some snacks, child. You should at least grow taller, shouldn't you. Ye-ju took the card — delivered with a flick so dismissive it was infuriating — and held a thin, bitter smirk. Ye-ju: Come to think of it, the beanpole is nowhere to be seen either. Off digging through some old man's pockets trying to make it alone.

What, scheming behind my back again, the two of y — Yeong-min: Hey. Yeong-min's sigh-laden bark cut Ye-ju short. Yeong-min: Even if we scheme together, who's going to follow us? Look around. Stop acting like an idiot. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Ye-ju: Then where did the beanpole sis go? Answer that at least. Yeong-min: If I SSibal knew that, I'd have made a move already, you dimwit. Scene 11.

Baek Jeong-hyeon stepped into a rundown apartment building. Moving with practiced ease through the shabby corridor, Jeong-hyeon entered an empty unit. In the two weeks spent surveilling the interior, it had remained exactly as it was — not a single sign of life, the air holding only the stillness of abandonment. Still wearing shoes, Jeong-hyeon's tall frame scanned the surroundings while retrieving every trap placed inside.

White slips of paper hidden throughout the furniture slid free and curled into the inner lining of the long coat. Without even mourning garments, Jeong-hyeon adjusted the long coat as though fastening it and stood in the empty living room for one final survey. An empty house with no trace or remnant left behind. It was too late to track where the occupant had gone. But standing around assigning blame was not an option either. Jeong-hyeon let out a light sigh and stepped back through the front door.

The corridor outside was beginning to catch the dim, fading light. It was the week of the year's shortest daylight. The distant cityscape, reduced almost to a pinpoint, had started turning on its year-end lights one by one. After a brief glance at the sky that would soon darken, Jeong-hyeon peeled away from the corridor. As the long legs carried Jeong-hyeon out, a few strands of green thread that had been clinging to the coat fell loose and drifted to the floor.

Too few strands to notice — Jeong-hyeon simply kept walking toward the exit. Inside the apartment Jeong-hyeon had left, silence held. On the sofa in the living room where Jeong-hyeon had stood, a figure appeared to be sitting — just barely glimpsed through the gap in the curtains drawn over the window. Jeong-hyeon glanced at the car parked in the wide lot of the rundown apartment complex. Not a single other vehicle in sight. An apartment where no living presence could be felt any longer.

Jeong-hyeon opened the driver's door and climbed in. An uneasy feeling lingered, but fixating on this place alone was not possible. Leaning forward, Jeong-hyeon peered up through the windshield at the building once more. Even as the day darkened, the apartment refused to show any light. The empty lot let the cold winter wind pass through unhindered, scattering nothing but frozen flurries. In one corner of the sunless outdoor lot, five snowmen stood huddled together, still unmelted. Scene 12.

Jang Yeon-jin's office, where the daylight had settled into dimness. Seated and lost in thought, Yeon-jin had sunk so deep into deliberation that the office door opening went unnoticed. Realizing the quiet presence belatedly, Yeon-jin turned a slightly displeased expression toward the figure and spoke in a strained voice. There was no time for greetings. Damage control came first. Yeon-jin: Did you hear. The figure that had entered said nothing. Yeon-jin: Last night.

The man who was entertained — he's dead, they say. As for the suspect — Ye-eun: Mm. Yeon-jin: Did you do it yourself? The figure, leaning against the office doorway at an angle, offered no answer. Seeing no reply, Yeon-jin let out a light breath. Yeon-jin: For now, this place should be the safest, so it would be better to bring everyone in. Work — well, there's no avoiding it, we might have to pile things on for a while. The figure gave a careful nod and withdrew from the room. Scene 13.

Some fragment of memory surfaced again. Only a vague emotion could be felt — and upon waking, nothing remained, leaving only the routine of existing like a hollow doll. Lee Si-yeon rose from the sofa where sleep had been haphazardly taken, pulled back the blanket, and stepped down onto the living room floor. The night was deep, but it was time to leave for work. Several missed calls marked the phone tossed on the sofa.

Deep winter had arrived and the year was about to turn, but the cold was not particularly significant to Si-yeon. Ever since that stretch of time when memory had briefly been lost, Si-yeon had stopped feeling the cold in any normal way. Si-yeon opened every window. The warm scent of a personal space where no one else was welcome was precious beyond measure, but right now, the thought was to clear out the dust that had accumulated over all the hours spent falling asleep unwashed.

Cold air rushed in ceaselessly from beyond the windows, but Si-yeon, dressed in thin clothes, felt no great chill. Another call came in. Si-yeon picked up without much thought and delivered an irritated voice. Si-yeon: Who the hell keeps calling in the middle of the goddamn day!! Ju-hyeon: Ms. Lee Si-yeon. This is Sergeant Ban Ju-hyeon from Junggu Precinct Major Crimes. You remember me, right? Si-yeon: What? Who?? Ju-hyeon: This is Ms. Lee Si-yeon's phone, isn't it.

Si-yeon: Ah-ni, yeah it is, but I really SSibal hate cops. Well, whatever. Why. Ju-hyeon: Just, one moment. Si-yeon: Hah. Ju-hyeon: Si-yeon. You've been listed as a suspect on the internal network. So be careful. I'm calling to let you kn — Si-yeon: Ah-ni, SSibal, I'd have to have actually done something to be careful about anything! Out of nowhere, what is this? Is this a phone scam?! You holding my nonexistent sibling hostage?! Huh?! What, did I kill someone and now I have to go to the prosecutor's office?! Huh?!

Hang up!! You SSibal bitch!! It was closer to a browbeating than a farewell. Si-yeon, seething with irritation, was about to head for the shower when another call came. Si-yeon: Ah-ni!! SSibal!! What now!! Ye-eun: Um, Si-yeon, sis — ma'am? The boss is saying to come in right now, so.... Si-yeon: Hah. Got it. Tell the boss I'm on my way — make something up. I'll shower and be there soon. And SSibal, hearing someone older than me call me sis makes me want to lose it, so stop calling me that.

Ye-eun: But there's nothing else to call you.... The boss told me to, so, that's.... Si-yeon: Ugh!! Seriously!!! Then just call me by my damn name! Si-yeon hung up with a sharp snap, then moved the sluggish body a little faster. Grabbing the scattered clothes off the floor in a rough bundle, Si-yeon tossed them into the washing machine in the living room. After setting the laundry to run, Si-yeon paused to watch the streetlights flooding in. A deep sigh, then footsteps moved on.

By the time the washing machine began its rumble, Si-yeon had entered the bathroom. The sound of running water from the shower filled the silent, empty apartment. The phone rang again in the living room, but Si-yeon paid it no mind. Whoever it was would call again, or hang up, or it was spam, or some pointless nagging — that much was certain. Si-yeon was not someone many people sought out. That did not make for loneliness though. It was more like annoyance.

Only useless calls ever came in, interrupting the time spent trying to recover whatever had been lost. Si-yeon emerged wrapped in an oversized bath towel, hair washed and all. Grabbing the worn leggings, underwear, and t-shirt in one fist, Si-yeon tossed them half-heartedly into the running washer. In the quiet evening hour, Si-yeon adjusted the towel a little more snugly, opened the closed door, and walked into the bedroom. Sitting at the vanity, Si-yeon stared at skin so pale it looked almost ashen.

Si-yeon: Somehow, I look more and more like a dead bitch by the day. After unwinding the towel from the hair, Si-yeon pulled out a dryer and began drying strand by strand. The noisy motor drew an involuntary grimace. Once all the hair was dried, Si-yeon switched off the dryer, brought out a flat iron, and began straightening. Every time, the same thought — what a hassle — but a day spent doing nothing was just as grating. Leaving behind appropriately thick, loose curls, Si-yeon finished the bothersome task.

Selecting a foundation shade darker than expected, Si-yeon spread the tools across the vanity and began working the face from the base up, laying it down like a routine. Incoming calls held no interest anymore. With makeup finished, Si-yeon checked the mirror one last time, smoothing the hair into place. The length had grown past the waist. Frequent blow-drying and flat-ironing should have left the ends frayed and brittle, but the long hair was in better shape than expected.

The apartment seemed ventilated enough — Si-yeon closed the windows without much thought and moved to finish the remaining preparations. Si-yeon found something form-fitting enough to leave nothing of the curved frame to the imagination, and put it on. Adjusting the clothes in the mirror with a disinterested look, Si-yeon grabbed the phone and stepped out of the bedroom. Si-yeon opened the front door and went outside.

Despite the weather service warnings of wind and cold well below the seasonal average, for Si-yeon it was merely a cool breeze. That alone was enough to know something was clearly not normal. Si-yeon walked out into an apartment building so devoid of life it had crossed the line from peaceful into eerie. The steps carried toward the motorcycle parked in the lot. As if indifferent to whether a ticket was issued or not, Si-yeon mounted the oversized bike and turned the ignition.

Si-yeon wanted to feel the cold the way everyone else did. The engine of the superbike — larger than the body riding it — turned over. A deep rumble resonated. It seemed one other household still lived here — a light glowed on a fairly high floor. Si-yeon glanced up at the unit that always had its light on, as though making a point, every time Si-yeon left. Then the bike pulled away from the lot. Scene 14. Outside, a motorcycle scattering streaks of light flashed briefly into view.

Hands lacing blue thread and red thread together, a solitary game of string-weaving played with both hands. Watching the outside, the thread between the hands — unconscious, habitual — was gathered up. As though holding a chest full of stifled frustration, a long breath escaped on its own.