Cheon Areum's instincts screamed for caution, but he didn't resist—at least, not in the way Gunwoo expected. His teeth remained clenched in a silent standoff, denying entry even as he tilted his head to intensify the contact. Gunwoo's tongue eagerly swept across the barrier of his teeth, pressing for passage.
"Open your mouth."
Cheon Areum's hands slid up, fingers threading into Gunwoo's hair. He unclenched his jaw. The tongue rushed in—hot and frantic. But the moment their mouths connected fully, Cheon Areum's eyes opened—cold and alert. His fingers moved, one hand brushing just behind Gunwoo's ear, and from beneath his skin, a thin, ink-dark tendril of energy slithered forth, vanishing into Gunwoo's ear canal.
Stop. Back away.
Gunwoo froze instantly. The voracity in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dull emptiness. His body obeyed before his mind could even register the shift. He staggered back a few steps like a puppet unstrung, eyes hollow, posture slack. It was as if all thought had been severed from action. He stood there, motionless, waiting for another command.
Cheon Areum wiped his mouth grimly with wet wipes from his crossbody half-moon bag. Gunwoo had left a lot of his saliva on his mouth—disgustingly. He stepped toward the dazed Gunwoo and shoved the used wipe into his mouth.
"Don't scream. Bite your lips or whatever, but don't let a single sound slip past."
He hadn't expected it to be this easy to manipulate him. Cheon Areum only had to use a small part of his energy to infiltrate his mind. This was something the original owner of the body did in the book. Cheon Areum could use his energy to manipulate others—and use others' energy to manipulate them. The only downside was that he could only mess with negative energy. Luckily for him, the energy surrounding Gunwoo was pure black. That's why he only had to use a drop of his energy to corrupt an already corrupt mind.
The frightening part wasn't how effective the manipulation was—it was how simple it felt. How natural.
The true horror of his ability lay in its universality. Almost every living thing on Earth harbored negative energy—resentment, fear, jealousy, guilt. The list was endless. Some carried it like a storm cloud above their heads, others like a whisper tucked behind their smiles. But it was always there. And Cheon Areum could see it—clearly, unmistakably—shrouding each person in an invisible veil of darkness.
It clung to their bodies, coiled around their spines, leaked from their thoughts. For those with only a trace of it, he had to exert more of his own energy—twist his will into theirs like roots forcing through stone. But for those already drowning in it? They were like open doors, easy to walk through. People like Gunwoo required almost nothing. Just a flicker of his energy, and they bent. That was what made him so dangerous. He didn't even need to break people. They were already broken.
Most people were aware of it—maybe not consciously, but in that instinctual, spine-prickling way animals sense danger. They knew, deep down, how easily their thoughts could be twisted, how their fears and insecurities made them vulnerable. And Cheon Areum, with eyes that saw too much and a presence that pressed down like shadowed silk, was the embodiment of that threat. The perfect villain in their eyes. No one would like to keep such risks around. No one wanted to love a loaded gun.
"Hand."
Gunwoo's hand instantly followed the word. He held the hand in the air, palm turned to himself. He began with the pinky. One by one, his fingers bent backward—unnaturally, agonizingly—toward the back of his trembling hand. Each joint creaked in protest, knuckles bulging as bone pressed skin to its limit. By the time he reached the third finger, the entire hand was convulsing, spasms rippling through the tendons like live worms.
No scream tore through the silence, but his eyes did all the screaming. Wide, bloodshot, pleading—begging for release. The wet wipe, still stuffed in his mouth, soaked with muffled agony, a silent cry trapped behind teeth and cotton.
But still, he continued. Slow and inevitable.
"The other hand."
Cheon Areum muttered coldly, his voice devoid of mercy—calm, almost eerily so. As if watching a puppet show rather than orchestrating one. In response, Gunwoo's other hand trembled into view, just as unsteady as the first. The same cruel process began anew. Starting with the pinky, each finger was slowly bent backward, joint by joint, like snapping twigs in slow motion. Sweat poured down Gunwoo's face in thick rivulets, soaking into his collar. His eyes, wide with panic, filled with tears that streamed down his cheeks. Helpless and humiliated, he stared at Cheon Areum in dread.
"Hmm..."
Cheon Areum tilted his head, eyes sweeping over the mangled shape of Gunwoo's hands—fingers bent at unnatural angles, trembling like wilted branches in the cold. Yet a flicker of dissatisfaction glinted in his gaze. Without a word, he pushed Gunwoo down onto the grimy pavement, the body hitting the ground with a dull thud. Then, with measured cruelty, he raised his foot and brought it down on Gunwoo's forearm. A sickening crack split the quiescence as bone gave way under pressure. Each stomp shattered the straightness of the limbs until both arms lay limp and broken at his sides, like discarded body parts. Gunwoo didn't even scream anymore—his mouth too full, his voice too lost in agony.
"Don't be so dispirited. There is one more thing left, isn't there?"
Cheon Areum reached up, fingers brushing against the edge of his ear where the flesh was still torn and tender. The wounds hadn't fully closed—they throbbed faintly under his touch. Without flinching, he pulled a small staple gun from his bag. Crouching beside Gunwoo's head, he tilted his own, positioning the ear into place. Then, with a clinical press of the trigger, the metal staples punched through skin and cartilage, fastening it neatly against his skull.
But he didn't stop there.
With a vacant stare and hands stained with blood, he yanked the staples out one by one—steadily, voluntarily. Then he did it again. And again. His lips curled into a smile too calm, too serene for the madness behind it. Lost in a private reverie, he repeated the cycle—stapling, tearing, stapling—as if trying to make the pain fit the shape of his mind.
Having lost track of time in his relentless trance, Cheon Areum finally stood up.
"Don't stare at me like that. I'll be generous enough to heal you. Like the healer who healed your eyes on the same day they were injured."
A dense storm of black energy poured out from Cheon Areum's fingers like smoke laced with static, slithering across the ground and coiling around Gunwoo's broken body. The dark mist pulsed and tightened, creeping through muscle and bone, cracking and reshaping. Each shattered finger twisted back into place, each broken bone re-knit, seamless and sound. The pain remained, but the damage was reversed—perfectly.
"Now, shall we repeat what we just learned?"
*
Park Gunwoo lay sprawled on the dirty ground, eyes stretched wide and unblinking as they stared up at the night sky. The stars above shimmered faintly. His chest rose and fell with mechanical rhythm, but there was no spark of life behind his gaze. His body was pristine—no bruises, no cuts, no broken bones remained. It was as if he had never been touched.
And yet, he couldn't move. Couldn't twitch a finger, couldn't scream or sob or even blink. His muscles were perfectly intact, but paralyzed. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His tongue sat uselessly in his mouth. No damage. Nothing visible.
"This is getting boring. I'll get going now."
Cheon Areum raised a hand in a lazy wave as he turned his back on the alley, stepping out. His phone kept vibrating, so he checked it as soon as he got out and grabbed a taxi. Unlocking his phone, he wasn't surprised to see Yoon Seoyul's name flooding the notification bar—message after message, stacking like dominoes. He yawned and began scrolling through the texts from the top.
Before he could finish reading even one, the screen lit up again—incoming call: Yoon Seoyul.
"What's up?"
"Where were you? Why didn't you reply to my messages?"
"I had something to do. Just say why you called me. I'm tired."
Cheon Areum sighed, slouching in the back seat of the car.
"The S-Class gate. There is one scheduled for today."