Lee Yeon-woo was wary of Director Lee Seon-hae's curiosity.
"Back in my prime, every time I came across an article about that person, I always thought: this individual isn't fated to live out their years in the ordinary way."
An excessively intense life tends, as a rule, to bring loss.
"And yet, on the other hand, I had this thought as well: that maybe the essence of that reckless-looking curiosity is actually a desperate conviction to protect someone… that kind of thought."
That, he considered, was Director Lee Seon-hae's way of revealing her "goodwill." Stubbornly setting foot into places where even survival couldn't be guaranteed, and then labeling it "curiosity" and broadcasting it to the world.
"Like a reporter steeped in a sense of mission, or an activist with too wide a reach."
He wasn't a figure great enough to pass casual judgment on anyone, but he had lived enough years to read her stubborn sincerity.
"That person—contrary to appearances, has a quite unusual streak when it comes to looking after the safety of those around her."
"Yes."
"It's a famous story. How, even walking into those brutal Mexican cartel dens, she would fight tooth and nail to protect the safety of the victims. In the end, isn't this all just so people can live, she'd say."
A struggle to expose the bloated scale and brutality of the cartels and shift international awareness. From inside-the-mafia whistleblower interviews to coverage on the sites of human trafficking.
"Certainly provocative,"
Director Lee Seon-hae, diving each time into sites where her own life was on the table, still placed the human rights of those caught up in them at the top of her priorities.
"Not a conviction that suits a documentary director."
Her current burdensome interest, too, was surely an extension of that "curiosity."
"Looking at it calmly, I myself am, in the end, one of the kidnap victims she has to protect."
"Yes."
"Ha, admitting this with my own mouth leaves me feeling strange. Bitter beyond compare."
"No."
For the record, Coco was rolling around on his thighs. Lee Yeon-woo didn't bother evicting it. Coco's touch was worth giving up the freedom of his thighs for. A monster cat with unrivaled charm, at least.
"The problem is the ripple effect when this hotel's true nature becomes known to the outside."
Of course he, too, had wanted to borrow another's hand to escape this place. But he'd folded that idea early. The absence of any means of contact was part of it, but the decisive issue was the risk.
"I don't yet know everything about myself and this hotel's situation. Bringing a third party into this place in that state could become an uncontrollable disaster."
"Yes."
At this moment, he understood the bare minimum of the rules. A system that, despite this being reality, felt familiar. But if real-world public authority were drawn into this?
That was an unpredictable variable. One he had no wish to assume the risk of.
"If the only life on the line in that risk were mine, it might be another matter."
Until he knew this hotel's true nature, he had decided to minimize contact with the outside. More precisely, he'd decided not to accept anyone's help. No matter how he turned it over, it didn't seem Coco would sit still.
"So for the time being, I intend to throw myself into studying a bit. Wherever you go, there's scarcely anything closer to a disaster than an ignorant manager. In my position, I can't let it come to that."
"Yes."
"Learning humbles a person… but in the end, it also gives them the strength to grasp and shake the board as they see fit. I should have at least one shield to endure this disaster with."
"Shield!"
"Oh dear. The older I get, the grander my speech becomes."
He added dryly as he got up from his seat,
"This one, too, I'll have to fix…."
He stood before the thin, rectangular glass plate on the desk and slowly unwound the blood-matted bandages. Drops of blood at lukewarm temperature settled onto the transparent slide glass.
With a small tok.
"……."
Lee Yeon-woo blinked tiredly and parted his lips.
"…Shall we begin again?"
First question.
—Why do I die and come back to life?
***
"We came back after all."
The director laughed at Writer Hong Gyeong-yeon's words.
"Scared?"
"Do I look like I'm not scared? The smell of blood was coming off him."
"Still, the gloves looked pristine again, so it seems he got treatment."
The returning man's attire was once again impeccably arranged. Unruffled posture, polite diction, and ingrained-seeming manners.
"Like someone who'd turn up in a classical portrait, or something…."
To that, the writer asked,
"The 'classical portraits' you often look at are usually Western pieces, aren't they, Director?"
"That's racist, you know."
"How you send a man straight to hell."
"Well now, Western or Eastern, modern art is so composite these days that I can't really say."
"I don't really understand modern art."
"That's because you haven't seen properly curated art… mm, anyway."
Director Lee Seon-hae smiled.
"Still, I thought oil paint suited him."
A portrait, that is, finished after thousands of revisions.
"…I thought he was more on the ink-painting side, actually."
"You saying he looks like one of those ink-stained intellectuals?"
"No, just. The beauty of empty space, something like that."
"He does look like a blank sheet of paper. I agree with you there."
If one had to pinpoint it: paper deliberately left untouched, painted with nothing.
But behind that solid sociability, a momentary fatigue had clearly shown through. The director recalled the dry gaze of the man watching them in the lobby.
"……."
Indifferent and cold, yet faintly shaded with concern….
"…Ha…."
The director glanced at her laptop on the table. The screen was full of data on today's filming candidates. Nothing particularly pulled at her.
"Isn't it fortunate?"
"Sorry? What is?"
"His reaction was still reluctant, right?"
Director Lee Seon-hae had seen such people from time to time.
A gaze with emotion excised, concealed beneath a refined demeanor. Consideration and mask-like smiles tucked behind blankness. Distance packaged beautifully. People who smiled without smiling, who showed consideration while hiding their true hearts.
"…Though there's a high chance the reaction was deliberately staged for our benefit."
And yet, he was still showing "emotion."
"That felt strangely like consideration."
"Deliberately showing emotion?"
"Oh, I almost laughed, seriously. Remember? He was looking at us totally like we were some trouble-making kids."
"Well—if you set aside that we're adults and not kids, maybe there isn't that much of a difference…."
"Him giving us that look consistently makes it obvious he isn't happy about us visiting this hotel."
"He could just be uneasy about outsiders digging into an important confidential facility."
"There's probably that too. But more than just that, the way he was looking at us really felt like looking at kids running on asphalt about to fall over any second. I mean, a worried gaze."
"I didn't catch that part, personally."
"Because you keep avoiding his eyes."
The director's smile turned ambiguous.
"He doesn't look like a bad person…."
"You're going to end up with a knife in your back again. You'll get seriously hurt. It wasn't just once or twice."
"Those kids weren't bad either."
"If they hurt people, they were bad people."
"Those kids were desperate too, and they did their best for us even in that situation. The atmosphere's already grim, so maybe we should shelve the Mexico story for now?"
"I was talking about when we went to Italy, actually. Anyway, yes, let's do that."
"But he really didn't seem like a bad person."
"Well…."
The writer sighed.
"The injury did look like it was his own, but we can't really know that."
"You think there was only blood on him? Someone else's blood, or a blood pack?"
"There's a possibility. All we've done is speculate about what exactly happened at dawn; we haven't actually seen it."
"Trust my gut on this one. I've never been wrong in this kind of territory. Other things I might miss, but I can see clearly whether there's malice."
"The fact that he isn't actively pushing us out of this hotel alone leaves plenty of room for 'bad person,' I'd say."
"There could be circumstances. We've seen it plenty—being threatened, say."
"Ha…."
Hong Gyeong-yeon, who had been sorting data alongside her across the table, closed his laptop.
"Let's call the police."
"You think calling them would do anything?"
"It doesn't hurt to try, does it?"
"Trying could get someone hurt."
"Are we saints or something? Have to save everyone in danger we come across? Didn't you switch from documentaries to films after getting badly hurt that time? Don't you remember?"
"Then why did Writer Hong come here with me?"
"Uh, that's… just… that…."
The director laughed at the stumbling writer.
"So Writer Hong is a bit bothered too, hm?"
"…I am curious about what sort of hotel this is."
"Right. Chances to look around places like this don't come often."
First, it was interest. That was the largest part. It was astonishing that a facility like this existed on this narrow strip of land. For those addicted to risk, there was no theme park to compare.
'Writer Hong would deny he's that extreme, but from what I've seen, he isn't all that different.'
And second, she admitted.
"……."
She was worried.
"…Is he really an adult?"
"…He said so with his own mouth, so presumably yes. He's tall, and his build is solid. Thick bones. He's clearly an adult who's done growing."
"Hmm, I wonder."
"Looking at how he handles us, his social skills are good. Where would that kind of bearing come from without experience? Never mind thirties—plenty of people don't give off that aura even in their forties. That's hardly a kid's presence."
"There are so many mature children in the world. Kids like that are more refined than most adults."
"But even so…."
"You're going on."
"……."
The writer rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"…He has to be an adult. It can't be otherwise."
He, too, had his suspicions. The face was young—past young, almost boyish. Tall with some build, sure, but no flesh on him. Hong Gyeong-yeon knew that type of person.
"He didn't seem to eat properly, either."
Bone structure upright. Muscle attached.
And yet, the flesh wasn't there. Common among people who couldn't eat the right amount.
Especially those who'd grown accustomed to it.
"He might just be someone who's too busy to eat, or who doesn't particularly enjoy eating. The lack of flesh is like the kind of diet management idols do—doesn't make you feel sorry for him, only gives a handsome impression… the sort where you only realize he's lean on closer inspection, just that level."
The director shrugged.
"Doesn't that look even stranger? A job requiring idol-level diet management? At an isolated hotel deep in this backwoods forest? As general manager?"
"Put that way, intentional or not, it does sound strange."
Beyond that, there were plenty of other cases. Hyperthyroidism, for one. Depressed or listless people. People with OCD. People with trauma. People with gastrointestinal diseases, and so on.
"……?"
Wait a moment.
"…Thinking about it, they're all serious conditions."
"What were you thinking about?"
"Mostly illnesses."
"He's not that level of thin, is he?"
"He's definitely not eating properly."
"Set aside the meals—there was clearly something serious, no?"
She again recalled the hand that had been wearing the white cotton glove.
"Hands where the blood was running down even through a cotton glove. That implies a fair amount of blood loss, which requires damage to an area rich in blood vessels. Writer, what do you think?"
"It could have actually been his own blood. I think we already covered that bit in the car this morning."
"We got cut off by the kids getting scared in the middle."
"Severe lacerations, or amputation. Deep cuts to the center of the palm, the finger-joint areas, or near the main arteries on the back of the hand could do it. The blood volume was enough that partial amputation would've been a real possibility."
"More?"
"I don't know. I'm not a doctor. All I can do is repeat what I said in the car."
"It'd hurt a lot, wouldn't it?"
"Of course it would hurt."
Hardly needed saying.
"Like I keep saying, a little cut doesn't produce that much blood. Considering he's bundled up tightly in clothes and those would absorb some of it, the hand might not be the only injury."
If the speculation from the car held, only a short time would have passed since the injury. In that case, there was a possibility of Hemorrhagic Shock from a rapid drop in blood volume.
Part of the bleeding was exaggerated because this was a game character's body, but naturally the two couldn't know that.
"On intensity, about seven to nine. If it's at the amputation or nerve-damage level, it could be close to ten. I don't know exactly where or how he was injured, but judging from blood loss alone."
"Ugh, unpack that for me."
"A level of pain where speech is difficult. Can't focus on anything; usually too busy crying or managing your breath. Consciousness might fade entirely… surely it can't have reached amputation, but fainting is possible."
"But he didn't show a single sign?"
It was strange.
"He was attending to guests, managing the situation, still holding a perfect posture. That's… strange, I'm saying."
"But…."
"Isn't that hard even for an adult?"
"…If it wasn't his blood, or if he's a grown adult to begin with…."
"Writer Hong."
The director ran her hand along the top of her laptop and rested her chin on her palm.
"How is that the face of someone who's been an adult for a long while? You know it too."
"……."
He wanted to push back, but his mouth wouldn't open.
Hong Gyeong-yeon thought back through the vast material he'd gone over. Rare genetic disorders, hypotheses on the delay of cellular aging. The possibility of dramatically lowering the aging rate existed, but actually observed cases were few.
'Growth hormone deficiency could leave someone stopped at a juvenile appearance, but maintaining a robust young man's frame like the general manager's while only halting aging is far beyond biological limits.'
Aging is not a reversible reaction. It cannot be undone.
"……."
Naturally, it can't be stopped either….
"…We don't know his exact biological age. If he's in his very early twenties, yes, with a naturally youthful face, strict self-management, and a good lifestyle, it's possible. It isn't impossible for someone to make themselves look that way."
"Very early twenties, huh. Is that even an age worth arguing like this over? That's only just past twenty. Is that really what you meant to say? That at that age, he ought to be able to endure that level of pain?"
"No, no. That's not what I meant—!"
"Did he really look to you like an adult man maintaining his youth through genetics and management? I don't think so. I do have an eye for these things."
The director fiddled with her phone.
"Even the best-maintained actor can't hold an impression that young. There's always a limit. Fat under the eyes, nasolabial folds, neck lines, something. I got close enough to see too."
"…Especially skin elasticity and pore structure naturally decline after the mid-thirties. If someone's tired or not properly managed, their age shows up quickly."
"He looked really tired to me. Did you see the dark circles? The hollow cheeks? His lifestyle didn't look good, at the very least. Didn't look like someone who eats properly either…."
"……."
Silence followed. The writer asked,
"…Is he really not an adult, then?"
"At the most generous estimate, a college student."
The director smiled brightly.
"Even if I'm saying this, he could really be 'someone who's been an adult for a long while,' though?"
"After leaving me with these ugly thoughts, you swan off lightly all by yourself…."
"Even if that were true, I just don't think this is right. That's all."
She had seen similar cases a few times. People in industries where face and hierarchy mattered, like yakuza or mafia. People whose line of work included getting hurt.
But in the end, if they're human, it shows. Tension in the facial muscles. Catching breath. Avoiding gazes, shifting weight. If someone can hide all of that, it enters the realm of technique.
"That, that's technique for sure."
Impossible without professional training.
"It wasn't just the level of enduring it. He was attending to us while smiling. It wasn't a shut-down expression or extreme patience. Nor some adrenaline-fueled excited state."
"…It's highly likely a conscious dissociation response."
"Conscious dissociation—heard that one a few times. The technique of separating pain out as an external sensation and ignoring it entirely. That would take quite a few preconditions to pull off, wouldn't it?"
"Repeated exposure to extreme pain. Training to perfectly control one's emotions. A value system that prioritizes mission over life embedded into the brain. Even controlling one's own adrenaline response…."
"Intelligence agents or special forces, mafia-type organizations, torture survivors. Well, those are the examples I can come up with. What do you think, Writer?"
The director met the writer's eyes.
"Which of these does he seem like?"
"…Mafia?"
"This is Korea, though?"
"Then organized crime?"
"Oh, is there an organization in Korea with this kind of capital?"
"If it's on this scale of capital, the upper class would've had to build it, or maybe through a collaboration…."
"That'd be a loss of face, wouldn't it—putting crime figures as the owner of a hotel like this?"
"Ha, fuck, no. No, it wouldn't be."
He was thrown.
"Then what the hell is it? Why was he so calm?"
"And I noticed another strange thing."
"What is it?"
"The staff here."
The director went briefly silent, then said,
"They don't speak."
"Why is that a—oh. Oh?"
"They don't open their mouths to begin with."
"……."
"…Why is that?"