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When they come for him, Sangwoo has to laugh, just a little. Sooner or later, this was always going to happen and he does not resist.
They lead him off in handcuffs.
“Kinky,” he tells the policeman who snaps the shiny metal closed around his wrists. Sangwoo smirks. The policeman doesn't, just pushes him toward the door.
No one sees the uneven scratch across the hardwood floor. Later, investigators will come to examine the house, will turn it upside down, and maybe someone will notice and wonder about its significance.
Once across the threshold, Sangwoo takes a deep breath, appreciating the scent of rain on earth, neglected though his mother's once beloved flowerbeds may be. Fresh air, he knows, is going to become a luxury from now on.
A hand is placed on the back of his head, making him duck into the police car.
Beyond the open door of the house, there is a commotion in the hallway. Sangwoo stills, one foot in the car, one on the damp asphalt, glancing back.
“No!” Bum wails, fighting against his captors, “Don't- Sangwoo!”
His voice has reached a pitch of desperation that Sangwoo has never heard from him before. He is struggling in the hold of the officers, twisting and turning, and still not managing to break free. Like a sparrow caught in a net – valiant but easily subdued.
Yet his dark dark eyes are wide, crazed, fixed on Sangwoo like a junkie on his drug of choice.
It's hard to tell what he is trying to achieve. Whether he wants to dash forward, toward Sangwoo. Or whether he is trying to stay inside the house, not wanting to be taken away.
Sangwoo doesn't say anything, though, just ducks into the back of the car and sits his ass down. The door is slammed shut behind him and the lock clicks once.
When the policemen drag Bum across the line on the floor, the echoes of Bum's screams flee through the neighborhood. Sangwoo leans his head against the backrest of his seat and closes his eyes.
He does not bother to lie during the interrogation. The evidence in his house is damning enough and everyone knows it.
For a moment, he considers trying to push the blame on Bum, at least part of it, but it seems like too much of a hassle. Sangwoo tries to tell himself that this is his moment of glory, that he wants to revel in the revelation of his crimes, his genius, but a part of him simply feels tired.
He gives the names and dates of the people he killed, as far as he remembers. Some details are blurred. It's not as though he's been keeping a diary about these things.
It turns out that it was Ji Eun that did it in the end. He should have known. That girl had always been more trouble than she was worth, dead or alive. But then again, he probably shouldn't have picked someone from his social circle, not when that pesky police officer was already suspicious.
The other investigators are suspicious, too, of his every word, as though they couldn't believe that Sangwoo would so easily confess to them, no pride, no pretenses. There's disgust in their eyes and poorly concealed anger.
It's been a while since someone looked at Sangwoo like that. He thinks of his father and the corner of his mouth twitches in dry humor.
He tells them about his parents, too, but they probably already figured that out anyway.
His lawyer tells him it's the greatest trial of the decade.
“Yeehaw,” Sangwoo says, letting his head loll back. The ceiling in the small room is off-white and patchy, as though there had been a water leak some twenty years ago. The handcuffs around his wrists itch but, when he moves them too much, the metal clinks and chinks. The sound reminds him of Bum and he is not sure whether he is annoyed or comforted.
“You really should be taking this more seriously-,” the lawyer chides, feebly holding on to his civility. The guy had not wanted to take this case, not when it seemed so clear-cut, and Sangwoo has not exactly been forthcoming with good excuses.
“Where's Bum?” Sangwoo demands abruptly. He's been teetering on the hindlegs of his chair, but now slams forward again, palms coming down on the tabletop.
The lawyer jerks back in surprise. “Wha-?”
“Bum,” Sangwoo repeats, clicking his fingertips against the wood, “Where did they take him?”
With nervous hands, the lawyer adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, takes a moment to compose himself.
“Yoon Bum has been taken to a psychiatric ward and is under surveillance for now until his involvement in the case can be determined,” he reveals at length, “The officials are uncertain whether he is a victim or an accomplice.”
“Both,” Sangwoo says, tilts his head to the side and reconsiders. “Neither.”
The lawyer's lips purse into a thin white line.
“You are aware that the South Korean legal system still practices the death sentence?” he asks tersely, “So if you want to live-”
“That's a big if,” Sangwoo snorts. He's never been suicidal, but Death has never scared him either. Life's no fun if you can't see the end coming, whether it's your own or that of others.
He is being held in custody, awaiting trial, and he has never been so bored.
He tosses around on his little cot, staring at the bleak walls and blowing out heavy sighs through his nose as though they would change anything.
The food is bland, too, and he almost looks forward to seeing his lawyer again, just for a change of scenery. No wonder Bum had been so eager to please him in hopes of getting out of the basement.
Then again, Sangwoo thinks vengefully, the psychiatric ward probably isn't much better.
Soon enough, they move him into a proper prison. The investigation is still ongoing, but he did already sign his confession, so it's whatever.
He is put into an ugly jumpsuit, with a number sewn onto the chest. 7374. Almost poetic in its simplicity. Then another door is locked behind him.
Solitary confinement. For his own protection, they say. It's just more of the same and he rolls his eyes.
From his tiny window, he can see a tall wall decked out with barbed wire and, once a day, he is taken outside and allowed to walk around for half an hour. The sky is mostly gray around this time of year and the wind is too brisk to really make it enjoyable.
When he is led down along the corridors with the other cells, some inmates peer past the bars and watch him, more curious than cruel.
The newspapers have started calling him the Millennial Murderer as though it weren't fucking 2017 with quite a few serial killers sure to pop up throughout the next 983 years, and word has gotten around here as well. Some of the prisoners jeer at him, tossing uncouth insults at his feet. Some openly leer.
“How about a taste of your own medicine,” one of them calls, grabbing his crotch in obvious suggestion.
“Sorry, darling, I don't swing that way,” Sangwoo tells him with a bland smile before the warden pushes him onward.
In the privacy of his cell, he rolls down the top of the jumpsuit and pulls out his cock. He thinks of Bum's breath on him, of his lips, of his helpless little hiccups before he begs to be fucked, and when he comes, quickly and disappointingly, he wipes his hands off on the cheap cotton sheets.
The first trial is set for early January.
Sangwoo has been in prison for over two months now and his hair has been shaven. It reminds him of his time in the army, with the constant 'Yes, sir, no, sir' bullshit, and he scowls whenever he runs a hand over the uneven buzzcut.
When he is led into the courtroom, he doesn't scowl, just glances around carelessly.
There are a lot of reporters, cameras flashing. Sangwoo flashes a smile in response.
The case is laid out, from date of birth over his parents' death to the very last murder. Quickly, the excitement from the reporters turns into bated breath and unease. Sangwoo's confession is read out and he has to confirm it again.
He had hoped this would be a bit more entertaining, but there is no one here he knows, no other witnesses, no mourning families. No Bum either.
“Where's Bum?” he asks his lawyer again when the day is done.
“As a key witness, he will be present at the next trial,” the lawyer says. Then he turns an assessing look on him. “Why are you so concerned with him?”
He must think that Bum knows more than Sangwoo has already admitted to. Or maybe that he was even the mastermind behind all this. But Sangwoo merely shrugs.
“You keep someone around, you get used to them after a while,” he claims easily, “Like a stray dog, you know.”
The lawyer turns away again.
The second trial is more interesting.
There are people Sangwoo knows, his friends who now only want to be known as Ji Eun's friends and who dare not look at him as they nervously give their versions of the night of her disappearance. No one mentions how none of them really like each other or how they had still willingly sucked up to Sangwoo. They don't mention how appallingly they treated Bum or how no one bothered to check whether Ji Eun actually got home safely.
In deference to the mourners, no photographers are allowed in the courtroom, but in a corner someone is sketching out the scene on blank paper.
Mostly, there are stony faces. Ji Eun's mother – beautiful as her daughter, but much more alive – is a caricature of grief and vengeance. The mole on her cheekbone jumps with each sob.
Sangwoo smiles and smiles until everyone both loathes and fears him, him and the things he keeps hidden in his head.
It's easy to nod along, to follow the witnesses with his eyes as they sit down and twist their hands, twist themselves into conflicting accounts of what they believe to be true. Sangwoo compliments the attorney's wrist watch and watches as the man automatically opens his mouth to thank him, just barely catching himself.
The human mind is a curious thing, fragile and flexible at the same time, and Sangwoo loves playing with it.
Finally, it is time.
Someone put an ill-fitting suit on Bum and gave him a haircut, but it changes little. Bum is still pallid and scrawny, sunken in on himself as he confirms his name and date of birth.
There is a woman standing off to the side, a professional look about her, glasses and pencil skirt, and she gives Bum an nod when he glances over at her.
He should be looking at Sangwoo. Why is he not looking at Sangwoo?
Sangwoo places his folded and cuffed hands on the table in front of him. It was always so easy to guilt-trip the guy.
“Bum,” he says, leaning forward a little, “Bum.”
Bum doesn't look, but his shoulders hitch up a little more. It's not yet a victory, but it's close enough.
“Bumie,” he singsongs, more of a whine than anything else, a cry for attention. Bum tucks his chin close to his chest.
“Shut him up,” the woman frantically whispers to someone, “He'll distract him.”
“Oh Sangwoo,” the judge addresses Sangwoo importantly, “Do not interfere with the witness's accounts.”
Sangwoo just makes a 'my bad' sort of face and keeps his eyes fixed on Bum.
“Go on, Yoon Bum,” the woman tells him gently, like a kindergarten teacher encouraging a little kid to go roughhousing with the others. She might be his shrink, Sangwoo thinks, someone from the psych ward. Perhaps this would be a bit more difficult than expected.
For now, he sits back and waits.
Bum's voice carries through the hall like a ghost light, fickle and perhaps not all real, blinking in and out of existence as he answers the questions, the accusations, the dismantling of his world.
“Where did the defendant capture you?” the attorney asks, businesslike. The therapist send him a pissy look for his coarse phrasing.
Bum sinks lower in his chair. “...In his basement.”
“No,” the attorney corrects, “When and how did he first apprehend you?”
“In his basement,” Bum repeats. There is a bit more emphasis there, but his voice doesn't get any louder.
“So you were already acquainted with him?”
“N-not really. I... I broke into his house.”
A surprised titter from the audience, like rustling leaves. They hadn't discussed this part of the story last time, not in detail.
“Whyever did you do that?” the judge asks.
Bum is silent, his pale face dipped toward the table in front of him.
“Your honor, the witness was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder,” the therapist chimes in, “He has a history of obsessive behavior, including stalking various individuals. He got two restraining order which he adhered to, and he was also prescribed medication. Which he obviously had no access to during his imprisonment.”
“So you're telling me, the victim in this case started out as a perpetrator himself?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
An unimpressed look. Then the judge waves a hand. “Proceed.”
Questions, like slaps, like bullets, like guillotines. Bum flinching with each of them.
“How many victims are you aware of?”
“I... I'm not sure. Nine, maybe?”
“In how many murders did he involve you?”
“F-four.”
“Did you ever try to stop him?”
“Yes. But...”
“But?”
“He'd just make it hurt more.”
“Hurt? You or the victims?”
“Both.”
“Did you ever directly kill anyone yourself?”
“...”
“Did you?”
Bum's gaze creeps over to the audience. Ji Eun's mother lets out an anguished scream.
It goes on, two hours, three, chilling for those who are only finding out about it now, but mind-numbingly boring for Sangwoo who lived through it.
“And your family never noticed your absence?” the Sangwoo's lawyer prods. He seems to have set his mind on how Bum has played a larger role in all of this than anyone else has acknowledged.
Bum just shakes his head, but that is not exactly convincing.
“Your honor,” the therapist supplies quickly, “The witness has no family left. His parents died in a car accident when he was seven, after which he lived with his grandparents, who respectively passed away in 2005 and 2007. He then moved in with his uncle on his mother's side. The uncle was the penultimate victim.”
The judge is checking his papers again, though he must have known all of that already.
“And this uncle never made a missing person report?” he wants to know.
“I am under the impression that the witness broke off contact several years ago.”
“Hrm,” the judge harrumphs. He is giving Bum another unhappy look, before motioning for the lawyer to continue.
The attorney is circling around Sangwoo like a shark, gray pinstripe suit, gray hair, gray eyes. There's blood in the water but it's not Sangwoo's.
“Why did you kill him?” the attorney demands, his voice flint stones, “The uncle. You deviated from your usual modus operandi there. Your other victims you unfailingly picked up from bars, usually promising them sex, meaning they entered your house willingly. Not so the uncle. You had Yoon Bum call him and lure him to a semi-public venue where you forcefully abducted him. Then you brought him into your basement and tortured him for days.”
That had been the fun bit. The dirty pig screamed and screamed and shit himself and pleaded for little Bumie to do something, to save him while Bum could only sit wide-eyed and frozen. Sangwoo had offered, of course, for Bum to join in, to at least the deliver the killing blow, but Bum had shaken his head, crying and sobbing as though that bastard meant something to him. Sangwoo had been a bit disappointed by that, but overall it had been worth the trouble.
“The execution was also different,” the attorney continues, seemingly not put off by Sangwoo's unmoved demeanor. “All your other victims were killed through stab wounds. Except for your father who suffered extreme head trauma through a blunt object.”
“I smashed his head in with a sledgehammer, you mean,” Sangwoo provides helpfully, just in case some of the people in the court are not quite clear on that. The attorney angrily tugs at his silk tie.
“Yes,” he agrees, “And you killed Yoon Bum's uncle the same way. Were you projecting your resentment for your own father onto the closest father figure Yoon Bum had left?”
The corner of Sangwoo's mouth twitches. The attorney catches it, moves closer.
“Was it a means to tie Yoon Bum closer to you?” he needles, “Were you trying to eliminate a possible threat? Did you think the uncle was looking for Yoon Bum?” He glances over his shoulder, back to where Bum has sunken even lower in his chair. “Or did Yoon Bum want to return to him?”
It's bullshit. It's utter bullshit and Sangwoo's hands clench into fists, trying to rein himself in. Bum didn't want to leave, didn't want to go back to his shitty uncle, he despised that guy, that piece of scum who-
“He was a rival for Yoon Bum's dedication, wasn't he?” the attorney continues, “He was what little Yoon Bum had left of his family and he lov-”
“He touched him!” Sangwoo hisses, steam from a kettle, water made to boil, “He touched him!”
For a moment, nothing but silence. But the vague nature of that statement enough. Everyone understands what he means and the realization is quickly followed by rustling papers, rustling clothes as people fidget on their seats, looking at each other, searching for confirmation.
“Is that true?” the judge asks the therapist.
“I don't know,” she says, not stammering, but still visibly caught off guard, “It didn't come up during our sessions. It would fit the pattern, though.”
The pattern. Bum's childhood nothing but a statistic, a series of numbers and factors and likelihoods. Reduced to a diagnosis in a book, one day maybe a case example all of his own.
Yoon Bum himself is sitting like a rabbit in a snare, quick panicked breaths, eyes wide as he stares down at his lap, avoiding eye contact with everyone. But the heat still courses through Sangwoo's veins, doesn't let him go, a steam engine running him into walls.
“Bum was mine, he was supposed to be mine, but that pig ruined him. He fucked him! I wanted to be his first, it wasn't fair, I waited so long and he wasn't even a virgin!”
He still remembers the bitter taste in his mouth at that revelation, the cruel reality that that fat pig had shoved his tiny cock into Bum, years and years before Sangwoo even had chance to claim him. He had finally fucked Bum in return then, in revenge, had made it last and had made it good, with Bum pleading with him to stop and continue in tandems. So Sangwoo had covered Bum in cum and fingerprints, kissed him and came in his ass, till Bum's lips new nothing but Sangwoo's name and the taste of him, the touch.
There is a ringing in Sangwoo's ears now, the world narrowed down to Bum's bowed head and the distance between them.
“You love me, Bum, don't you?” Sangwoo asks, “Say that you love me.”
But Bum doesn't look up. Sangwoo leans back in his chair and laughs.
The trial is over but no sentence has been spoken yet. There is too much evidence that still has be evaluated. An entire forest to dig through to make sure there aren't any other bodies hidden anywhere. For now, the day is over and the court will convene on a different day.
Sangwoo isn't stupid, though. He knows what waits for him at the end – a long long time in jail and the death sentence, if he is lucky.
When he is led out of the courtroom, he finds insults hurled at him from all sides. People spit at his feet and somewhere in the background Ji Eun's mother is wailing again, the sound by now more grating than gratifying. Police try to shield Sangwoo, force the crowd to form a channel to let them through, but it does little good, the currents slow and sluggish. Sangwoo rolls his eyes.
Somewhere, off to the side, Bum's face.
He is so pale and so pretty. He stands pressed up against the wall next to his shrink and his eyes are rimmed red. But they are caught on Sangwoo's handcuffs, on the zipper of his jumpsuit, and that is all that's important.
“Bum,” Sangwoo says, barely loud enough to be heard over the voices that cry for his lynching, “I forgive you.”
And Bum, as always, hears him loud and clear. For a moment, he seems turned to a pillar of salt and then Sangwoo is forced to turn away, moving farther down the hallway. He drowns out the raging of the sea around him, just clicks his tongue in annoyance whenever the security people have to push someone out of the way again.
“Sangwoo!”
Sangwoo smiles, takes another step. Then he glances back over his shoulder.
And there is Yoon Bum, chasing after him once more, winding through the throngs of people, ducking under arms. He is tiny enough, squeezes past everyone before they can complain, before they can even register just whose elbow just whacked them in the side.
“Sangwoo,” he calls once more, his desperation carrying across the noises of the mob, and it's just like when the police had first come to arrest Sangwoo.
This time, though, Sangwoo stops, vaguely presses against the hold the men have on him, not enough to show resistance.
“Move,” one of them growls, but then Bum is already there, right in front of them, like a mouse squeezing past the claws of a cat.
“Sangwoo,” he cries, his finger feebly tangling themselves in the fabric that covers Sangwoo's chest, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, they made me, I didn't want to, I love you, I swear I-”
Sangwoo doesn't left him finish, just cradles his gaunt face with his shackled hands and tilts his chin up.
Bum kisses like a dried plant, hungry for water and sunshine, but Sangwoo keeps him on the brink of starvation once more.
Around them, people gasp and rail and flash their cameras. Tomorrow, the newspaper will be filled with photos of this, headlines talking of the Millennial Murderer and his victim, his lover, his pet.
Sangwoo does not care, though. The game itself is over. All that remains are the spoils of war. So he kisses Bum again, gently and quite possibly for the last time ever.
“I love you, too,” he says and stays just long enough to watch Yoon Bum break.