KNEEL Ch 8

The man raises one hand with a curl. He places his pinky against the tip of his chin. His fingers move with a light, rhythmic tapping. Mi Hansol is like that. He has a weakness for faces. A terrible weakness. Words spill out of him before he can help it. “What?”

“Ah. My apologies. I thought you might be feeling unwell.”

“…Me?”

“Yes.”

Only then did Hansol understand. What the man had done was sign language for “Are you okay?” The man knew how to strike up a conversation with hand gestures. To the Mi Hansol of that time—who gave off an aura of being ready to slap someone if they even breathed the wrong way—he had approached to ask if he was sick. Look at this guy, Hansol had thought. Of all the things in my life, I’ve finally met someone hitting on me with sign language. To Hansol, who occasionally reminisced about their first meeting, the man would respond nonchalantly. Was it that obvious I was hitting on you?

Love is an illusion, dating is a mimicry, and marriage is nothing more than a patriarchal club; thus did Mi Hansol vow to meet a grand end as a lonely old man, yet he had to admit it: for a human being, a beautiful exterior is the absolute best. By the time the man smiled and asked for Hansol’s number, Hansol had already decided on the wedding hall and even the color of the bouquet. I mean, what happened to telling everyone to get lost… then again, even if you get burned and burned again, where would that temperament go? They said my fortune regarding a spouse was incredibly good, and how divine it is! For the first time in his life, Mi Hansol passed the one-year anniversary of a relationship. It passed two years, then three. Mi Hansol thought that every day he had lived was a preparation process to meet this man.

My lifelong destiny, who is cool, gentle, intellectual, and even observes correct grammar. To think he’s even kind on top of being handsome. Honestly, just being handsome is something to be truly grateful for.

He had no flaws. If one had to nitpick, was it that he cherished his widower father to a fault? He said he taught himself sign language because of his father. He had been learning it consistently because his father suddenly suffered a severe eye injury. He was worried sick because of the doctor’s opinion that if one loses sight in one eye, the other would also deteriorate. And the veteran Director Kim did not welcome such a man.

“Hey. You’re better off meeting that guitar guy again. There is no hope for a ‘dragon from a small stream’ or a devoted son. They’ll involve a backstab, without fail.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re jealous, unnie. Don’t try to ruin it, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Your bullshit is vibrating at the speed of sound, honestly…”

What do you dislike so much when you haven’t even seen him? Director Kim hesitated. Just… I have a bad feeling about it. Mi Hansol was in a new world. In a state of being completely intoxicated by a fatalism that lasted for a thousand days, Director Kim’s warning went unheard. And Mi Hansol was stabbed in the back. However, Director Kim couldn’t even crack a joke. There wasn’t even time to savor the “I told you so.” Because Mi Hansol was struck so, painfully, and thoroughly.

∞ ∞ ∞

It was sudden. He had no idea why. So he couldn’t even defend himself. He woke up in the morning and called as usual, only to be told it was a disconnected number. Throughout the relationship, the man always dropped Mi Hansol off and picked him up. Thus, he didn’t know exactly where the man lived. He barely recalled an apartment name that seemed to have been mentioned in passing and searched with a fine-toothed comb, but the man was not there. It was a wasted effort even when he visited the school he supposedly graduated from and his workplace.

For Mi Hansol, living wasn’t really living. With a heart clutching at straws, he hired personnel from an errand center. After fifteen days passed, a reply came: We’re sorry. We appreciate the sincerity in providing details like physical traits and such, but since even the basic personal information is all incorrect…

“What do you mean, basic?”

“Well, that is. Starting from the name and age…”

A lie.

The moment Mi Hansol’s dormant alcohol dependency abruptly ascended to the level of binge drinking. The man had, quite literally, vanished. So perfectly that even Mi Hansol was left helpless. The story that continued for three years ended with Mi Hansol’s liver cirrhosis. The man was the one who vanished underwater, but the one who drowned and died was Mi Hansol; in Mi Hansol’s words, a love story so pathetic he couldn’t even go anywhere to complain.

Mi Hansol lacked even the luxury of being ill for long. Even if he was foaming at the mouth because he was sick and his face turned yellow, the grit to pack his work laptop was Mi Hansol’s true identity.

Mi Hansol cherished his career. He loved beautiful things so much. Even if his inside and outside had been hollowed out by a new-human-species psycho, he was not the type of person to let a painstakingly built tower collapse. What kind of tower is this? It’s something I built by carving away my own flesh. The study of art, which began because he wanted to be praised by his parents, was now Mi Hansol’s everything. Hansol succeeded in his resurrection, but beyond the clean exterior, he was no different from a corpse. Let alone love, he was fed up with people. He lived growling so that no one could touch him, so that no one could try to poke him,

So how did I end up sleeping while huddled with this guy?

∞ ∞ ∞

AM 02:45. The digital clock blinks. His back is damp and sticky with sweat. Mi Hansol turns his head to the side. It is quite dark, but he can distinguish the silhouette, however blurred.

Of all the things to dream about. After clicking his tongue, he glances toward the door for a moment, debating whether to drink water or not. Since it’s a hassle, he decides to just fall asleep. Actually, to go to the kitchen, he has to detach this fellow’s arm. He is absolutely no match for him. Heave-ho, heave-ho, he tries to widen the gap somehow, but he truly doesn’t budge. Fuck, he’s heavy as hell. This large-framed intruder is sleeping as soundly and comfortably as if he’s in his own master bedroom, whether he’s being cursed at or not.

Honestly, sleeping outdoors is a bit much. Mi Hansol stares intently at Neil. He’s actually quite decent at times like this. He closes his eyes again. It’s a bit of a relief. He’s not sure what exactly is a relief, but.

“Good night.”

He whispers a small greeting.

10th day since the incident.

Far from a good night’s sleep, Neil and Mi Hansol were summoned to the gallery from the crack of dawn. A few strands of Hansol’s short bangs, which usually rest around his eyebrows, are sticking out haphazardly. Regardless, Hansol, standing with his weight on one leg, grumbles. Do civilized people strictly have to have face-to-face meetings? You can just call. Make a group chat. Or do a video call. The sound of Director Kim’s dry cough poking Hansol’s side. In an art museum with a high ceiling, even one or two people speaking rings with a heavy echo. Amidst the people gathered in a circle, Director Kim is the first to introduce herself.

“Yije everyone is here, right? I am the director here. I am Kim Yurina, the director of external cooperation for the Galleries Association of Korea. This is Mr. Neil Daniel Graham, whom I mentioned earlier. His nose is injured, so don’t mind it. And this is,”

“Mi Hansol.”

Mi Hansol, whose side is poked and foot is stepped on all at once. He scowls and barely manages to attach “it is.” Next is the Cultural Heritage Administration and the National Police Agency… where was it. Did they say the Intellectual Crime Response Team belonging to the Gwang-su-dae? Whether they are police or detectives, anyway, they are busy whispering to the Cultural Heritage Administration staff using a small notebook as a shield. I’m dying of sleepiness, so I wish they’d finish up quickly. Just then, the Cultural Heritage Administration staff hands out copies of a thinly bound file.

“This is the brief history, addresses, and contact information of the master casters. Mr. Ahn’s data is on the very first page. Since you said you needed it for the investigation…”

Reading down the personal details of Ahn Moe, Mi Hansol lets out a small sigh. Ahn Moe operates the entire residential site located in the center of Pyeongtaek as a workshop. Shit, is this some cross-country trek? How long is it going to take to get to Pyeongtaek again? One detective makes a tsk sound toward Neil and Hansol, looking at them like they’re kids from another house who stuck their spoons into his meal. He seems completely unreliable, fearing they might interfere with the investigation. Even if we work our asses off, it’ll all be packaged as your performance results, so why be so cold? Unaware of the state of his bangs sticking up like a horn, Mi Hansol glares back at the detective, determined not to be outdone. Another detective who looks young catches Mi Hansol’s eye and, for no reason, keeps his gaze only on Neil to deliver his words.

“The warrant is out. We plan to investigate starting from the auction house, covering the alibis of all employees and focusing on the tracks of the thief. That… Neil, Mr. Neil? Yes. Mr. Neil and Mr. Mi Hansol, please… stay out of danger, and act strictly as advisors… and since it is a grave matter, we ask for your cooperation.”

“Of course. We’ll be on our way now to diligently play our roles as extras.”

Salute. Mi Hansol gives a half-hearted, delinquent salute and then steps out of the gallery. He is about to open the car door and get straight into the driver’s seat when someone lightly pulls him to a stop. He can tell who that someone is without even looking back.

“What is it?”

“Sol, what do we do first Yije?”

“First of all, there are too many master casters. Let’s invite the old gentlemen all at once. If we try to find them and knock on their doors one by one, we’ll probably cross the Great River first.”

“Yes, sounds good. By the way, where exactly was the Great River?”