Lee Woo-shin「Merry Psycho」

The icy wind cut to the bone. The lake, covered with a thin crust of ice near the shore, breathed a cold that made the lungs seize up. Bare trees, like black skeletons, surrounded the training ground. Ten recruits stood waiting for the order, exhaling clouds of steam. Woo-shin stood before the formation — black Blast uniform, hands behind his back, a heavy underbrow stare. The piercing in his lip twitched nervously as he swept his gaze over the group, and you could have sworn his eyes lingered on you for a split second longer.

"Strip down to your underwear. Into the water — on command. Stay there until I say you can get out. Questions? No questions. Get to it."

The others moved at once — an army habit of obeying without thinking. One by one they shed their jackets, thermal underwear, boots. They cursed through clenched teeth as the frost reached their bare skin. Only you hesitated. Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. Just for a second — but he noticed.

Woo-shin stepped toward you. Slowly. Like a predator that had sensed weakness. His combat boots crunched over the frozen mud. He stopped a couple of paces away, tilting his head slightly to the side, and there was nothing human in that gesture — only cold, appraising interest.

"I told them a woman had no place here." His voice was quiet, but loud enough for everyone to hear. A smirk twisted his lips, the piercing glinting with dull metal. "What, embarrassed? Undressing in front of men? Maybe we should arrange a private booth for you? A little screen?"

A snicker ran through the formation — nervous, quick, immediately stifled. Woo-shin didn't even smile. His gray eyes bored into you with a cold, appraising squint, and something in their depths was darker than usual. Angrier. As if your presence here infuriated him more than he wanted to show.

What the hell are you doing here? How the hell did you even get into this selection? You're blind. You were blind. I led you by the hand for two years, and now you're standing in front of me in a line of recruits, and I have to pretend you're just another piece of meat for training.

"Did you sign up for Blast or a spa?" He stepped even closer. Now there was no more than half a meter between you. He smelled of frost and black coffee. "Over there," a nod toward the lake, "the water's freezing. But on a mission, it could be a bullet. Or a knife. Or captivity. And you think the enemy's going to give you time to be modest?"

He circled you — slowly, round and round, like a shark. His gaze swept over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. You felt his presence on your skin, even without seeing him.

"Take it off. Now." He stopped just behind your shoulder, and his voice dropped low, right by your ear, so the others wouldn't hear: "Or I'll take it off myself. And believe me, you'll like that a lot less."

The basement of the training building. Concrete walls, a dim lamp under the ceiling, a metal chair with straps on the armrests. You've been strapped to it for two hours now. This is part of the final test for Blast candidates: you were given classified information, and now you must protect it under any pressure for twenty-four hours. Torture is standard protocol. The first instructor — a stocky man with the face of a former special forces operative — had only just begun to flex his fingers when the door swung open.

Woo-shin stood in the doorway. His eyes darted from you to the instructor and back, something dark boiling in them. The piercing twitched nervously — his tongue worked the metal in his lip, a quick, angry gesture.

"Get out," he snapped curtly. The instructor froze, not understanding. "I said get the hell out. I'll do it myself."

Something in his voice made the man leave without a single question. The door slammed shut. The two of you were left alone.

Woo-shin slowly approached the chair where you sat. He pulled off his gloves without hurry — first one, then the other, finger by finger. His face was stone, but his jaw muscles were twitching furiously.

"So, here's the thing," his voice came out low, dangerous, like the rumble of an approaching storm. "You came to Blast. Made it through selection. You endure cold, hunger, beatings. For what? For that bastard who screwed you for two years and then vanished without a word?"

He leaned toward your face. Close. Too close. His breath smelled of black coffee and something else — the fury he was barely keeping in check.

"You don't even know who he really is. He lied to you every day. Every single minute. And you're searching for him. Like a little dog. A pitiful sight."

You're searching for me. Me. The one you hate. The one who slept in the same bed as you and knows every inch of your body. You don't know that I'm here. You don't know that I'm looking at you and I want either to kill you or to...

He straightened up and abruptly, without warning, parted your knees. His fingers — rough, strong — slid up your thigh, crumpling the fabric of your training pants.

"You're a woman," he snarled, staring into your eyes with a cold, devastating smirk. "Do you even understand what they'd do to you in captivity? You think the enemy will ask questions politely?"

His fingers moved higher — to where the fabric stretched over your crotch. He didn't hesitate. The movements were precise, like those of a man who knows a woman's body. Because he did know it. He'd known your body for two years.

"They'll take you. Every hole. And that's only the beginning."

He pressed harder, feeling the heat through the fabric, and his own breath hitched. For a split second. Just a split second. But he knew — you noticed. His groin tightened, and he hated himself for it. Hated you for the fact that you could still provoke that reaction in him.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I have to break her. Make her leave. Make her forget Kim Hyun-woo. But my body remembers her. Remembers every night. Every moan.

A bar on the outskirts of Seoul — one of those dives where no one asks questions. It smells of soju, cigarette smoke, and someone's rotten luck. You've been sitting at a corner table for three hours now. Before you stands a battery of empty shot glasses. Your face is haggard, your gaze clouded, but not from alcohol — from rage. You figured it out. Kim Hyun-woo's corpse was a fake. And you figured it out faster than anyone expected.

Woo-shin appears soundlessly. Sits down across from you without asking permission. Orders black coffee — the bartender gives him a sideways look but complies. He crosses his arms over his chest and silently watches you knock back yet another shot. The piercing in his lip sways — slowly, rhythmically, like a pendulum.

"You've gotten yourself shitfaced," he states without judgment. Just a fact. "And what next? Searching again? Digging through the dirt again for a man who dumped you?"

She made it through selection. Stubborn. I thought she'd break at the frozen lake, at the torture — no. Now she's in Blast, under my command. And then immediately this fuck-up with the fake corpse. Someone from the clean-up department got sloppy, or she's gotten smarter than before. Before, the blind fool believed everything I told her. And now she looks at me — doesn't recognize me, but smells a lie a mile away. Drunk. Sitting in this shithole bar, searching for answers at the bottom of a glass. Stupid. I want her to stop searching for Kim Hyun-woo. I want her to sleep with me — not him. The real me. Is it low? Yes. But if it makes her forget that fake identity — I'm willing to risk it. Speak, Woo-shin. Offer her a deal. You're a master of dirty offers.

He takes a sip of coffee. Hot, black, no sugar. Just like him.

"I know you figured it out. The corpse is a fake. A beautiful, expensive fake. And you're angry. I can see it." He sets the cup on the table, leans in closer. The lamp above the table catches his sharp cheekbones, his heavy underbrow stare. "You want revenge? Real revenge?"

A pause. His tongue touches the piercing — a nervous, quick gesture.

"He screwed you for two years. Lied to your face. Made a fool out of you. And now you want him to know what it feels like?" He leans back in his chair, spreads his hands. "I can help. Right now. Right here."

His voice drops to a whisper — low, intimate, dangerous.

"Sleep with me. Take revenge on him. Let him know you're not saving yourself for him. Let him choke on his own lies."

It's dirty. I know. But I want you to forget him. I want you to look at me — not Kim Hyun-woo, but the real me. I want you to touch me at least once, knowing who I really am. And if I have to be a bastard for that — so be it. I am a bastard.

Blast Headquarters. Night. Woo-shin sits at the desk in his office, a report on yesterday's incident in front of him. The banking system. The president's sister. A sum with eight zeros. Hacking something like that without preparation is impossible — unless you're a genius hacker. Or unless you have access to a genius hacker. Ho Chan-ah. His own subordinate. Worked with you. Behind his back.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and mutters something obscene in Russian. The piercing in his lip twitches furiously — a fast, angry rhythm. You walked into the office a minute ago and are standing by the door. He doesn't offer you a seat.

"The president's sister," he says to the ceiling, not looking at you. "You nearly crashed the country's financial system. For what? So the NIS would come after you and give you a meeting with the bastard who dumped you?"

He finally lifts his gaze. Heavy. An underbrow stare. But there's none of the usual coldness in it. There's something else — something resembling weary, angry... he doesn't even know what.

"You're a psychopath. You realize that?" He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. "You broke into the banking system, exposed yourself to criminal charges, dragged Chan-ah into it — all so they'd notice you and grant you an audience with a ghost. That's not courage. That's a diagnosis."

I should be angry. And I am angry. But why can't I shake the thought that it was... brilliant? Insane, but brilliant. You made the NIS scramble. You backed them into a corner. And you did it alone. Who the hell even are you?

He stands up. Walks around the desk and sits on its edge, ending up directly across from you. His arms are still crossed, but his gaze is direct — no sarcasm, no mockery.

"The NIS dismissed your demands. You know that. The incident is closed, the money returned, the scandal buried. But you won't stop. I know you won't stop. You'll go further. And next time it won't be the banking system. It'll be something I can't pull you out of."

A pause. His tongue touches the piercing.

"So listen up. One time. I'll help you. I'll help you find Kim Hyun-woo. I have resources, connections, access. But," he raises a finger, and his voice hardens, "there's a condition. I move in with you. Live with you. One apartment. Twenty-four seven. You don't go on a job without my knowledge. You don't make decisions without discussing them with me. You don't do a damn thing without asking me first. Because otherwise you'll get yourself killed."

Two years I played the husband. Now I'll play the roommate. The role's not that different — just minus the sappy crap. Thanks for the reminder of why I hate this job.