Chapter Text
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HE HIT SO HARD,
I SAW STARS
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The subway station is colourless, the not-quite-blue of a swimming pool. A suicide barrier by any other name, the platform screen only reflects your own image back at you— huddled up on the furthest bench from the entrance, the brim of your hat pulled low over your face, foot tapping with obvious agitation.
Your phone vibrates against your thigh. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. You leave it in your pocket, already knowing what the texts will say.
Seo-jun is threatening divorce again. You’re not ‘wife material’, he tells you. That’s also the reason you can’t get pregnant. Not because of his woefully deficient sperm count— no. It’s all your fault. Your body rejects motherhood.
He talks about you as if you’re defective. A failed wife, a failed woman.
More often than not, you feel like one.
A train rockets away from the station in a flash of silver. You never even noticed it stop. Passengers trickle past you, exhausted from their 9-5s and indifferent to a lone woman with tear tracks down her face.
Reluctantly, you pull your phone from your pocket. The homescreen offers a medley of bad news. It’s nearly eight when your ‘curfew’ begins at seven, your mother has texted to say that your husband stopped by the house looking for you, and Seo-jun himself has left almost a hundred texts. Most are composed of only one word— one entitled, repetitive demand— answer.
A call comes through. It’s the sixty-fifth you’ve ignored. You stare at your husband’s name as it goes to voicemail. Seo-jun Oppa❤️.
The phone pings again. Your voicemail inbox is full, the notification says.
“Are you alright?” somebody asks.
You wipe your face of emotion, paste on a smile, and lift your head. “Oh, yes, I’m fine! Sorry for concerning you, sir.”
He’s older than you. Handsome, carrying a briefcase and wearing a tailored suit that precisely follows the sharp lines of his body. You know instinctively that, despite the costume you wear, the two of you are not on the same level. This man oozes sophistication, and his smile is even phonier than yours.
It widens at your obvious lie. You scoot further back on the bench, perturbed. Something inside is warning you to stay on guard, a primal impulse to avoid the uncanny.
You may have apologised for concerning him, but the man doesn’t look concerned. He doesn’t look anything. His face is waxen, easily shaped but insincere, too contrived to be convincing.
When you first met your husband, you were working as a hostess. You caught his eye because the friendly script you'd memorised (the one you wrote in adolescence to charm police and social workers but perfected in adulthood for free drinks, late rent and speeding tickets) satisfied him. It made him feel special. Seo-jun never realised that he was the last in a long line of men you made feel special, but it's not his fault you're talented.
You think, perhaps prematurely, that you and this stranger are as similar as you are different. He clearly comes from money, you secretly come from none, but you both know how to treat people like customers before they’ve even got their wallets out. Short sentences, eye contact, an engaging smile. Have a nice day like you actually care whether they walk out of the store and are promptly mowed down by a drunk driver. Fake interest as a real investment.
For this reason, you’re certain that the man wants something from you. He’s still lingering after all, smile plastered on, barely blinking as he takes in the features of your face. You know, even after all these soul-sucking years of marriage to Seo-jun, that you’re an attractive woman. But you also know that the black eye and torn-up lip distract from your better qualities.
“Do you need something, sir?” You ask. He hasn’t said anything since your performative apology. You’re beginning to feel a little annoyed. If there is something he wants, you’d rather he just said it.
The man tilts his head. You get the odd impression that you’re being examined, intrusively, in a way that almost feels violent— like a child inspecting an ant through a magnifying glass, burning it all the while.
Danger, warns your gut. You feel your insides twist, unease trickling down the rigid line of your body. As a hostess, you had the ability to call security on any man you thought could be a threat. As a woman alone in the subway station, you don’t enjoy that privilege.
“Hey,” you say, impulsively, the warmth in your voice too heated to be mistaken for kindness. You only barely manage to maintain your smile. “Answer me.”
Belatedly, you realise that you sound like Seo-jun. Poorly disguised aggression, masquerading itself as polite concern.
You catch a glimpse of sharp, white teeth as the man’s lips twitch with amusement. “Alright,” he says easily, charm on full blast, as if he hasn’t been staring at you like a creep for the past three minutes. “Yes, I do need something. Would you be willing to help me out?”
“No,” you tell him swiftly and with just as much charm. Smooth recovery is a skill you learned early. You’re only human after all— sometimes your genuine feelings slip through the cracks. What matters most in this situation is damage control.
Still, despite the pretence, your sense of unease grows. You can’t identify what the stranger wants and it makes your body thrum with the desire to get away and run.
“May I ask why?” He asks after a pause. Still artificially pleasant, although you’re certain you’ve annoyed him.
You want to continue annoying him, to answer again with a simple ‘no’, but self-preservation wins out. “I’m afraid I’m very busy.”
In retrospect, it’s an exceedingly stupid excuse. He clearly thinks so too, glancing pointedly at the schedule that explains you’ve missed over a dozen trains since you first sat down. Even since he took his place in front of you, blanketing you under his crisp, sharp shadow, another train has come and gone. You’re obviously not in any rush.
“Is that so…” he trails off. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll just head home for the night.”
Your relief is short-lived. Instead of walking toward the exit, the man takes a step closer and claims a seat on the bench beside you.
He stares at the platform screen ahead. You stare at him. He turns, slowly, to meet your gaze, and you notice the slightest spasm in his cheek.
The fucker is holding back laughter.
You take a deep, harried breath. “Sir, I just watched you get off the train. Isn’t this your stop?”
“Ah,” he says, as if that only just occurred to him. He affects a bashful smile this time. It’s even faker than the last few. “Actually, I was supposed to get off later. I saw you through the window and wanted to ask if you were okay.”
“Right,” you mutter. He doesn’t exactly strike you as the knight in shining armour type but nor did you expect to play the role of the battered wife. While a definite asshole, maybe he’s one of the many assholes with a soft spot for bruised women. You somehow doubt it. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” he promises. You believe him. Men in suits as expensive as his flaunting big, weightless briefcases and spotless shoes never have as much to do as they want people to assume.
You turn back to the platform, feeling somewhat placated. The stranger will leave on the next train and you’ll stay on the bench for another few hours, contemplating whether you’d throw yourself onto the tracks if it wasn’t for the damned suicide barrier, before eventually going home to face Seo-jun’s wrath.
“You’ve taken off your ring,” the stranger says abruptly, and your irritation immediately returns. “Why? It’s not like you’re going to leave him.”
That’s none of your business, you almost snap, but then the weight of his words slams into you like the train you’ve been fantasising about all afternoon. How could he possibly know about your ring? You’d wrenched it off as soon as Seo-jun left for work this morning, resisting the urge to throw it somewhere you’d never be able to retrieve it from— the river, the fireplace, out a taxi window as you flee with a suitcase and several of your husband’s luxury watches.
The reality is that you’ll never be able to leave Seo-jun, and you’ll never enjoy the relief of removing your wedding ring for more than a couple of hours at a time.
But the stranger shouldn’t know that.
Jerkily, you rise from the bench. The movement is uncoordinated and you almost trip over your heels, which is unlike you. You want to pull down your skirt, bunched as it is around your thighs, but you’re afraid doing so will show weakness.
You feign calm. It’s not your best work. “Who the fuck are you?”
His eyes sweep your body appraisingly. Not lustfully, you determine, but in a way that still feels predatory.
“Nobody you’d know,” he says absent-mindedly, studying the soft angles of your pelvis, all the dips and curves betrayed by your pencil skirt.
You curse the day Seo-jun filled your wardrobe with business casual. ‘Fitting of a magnate’s wife’ your ass— men just have a thing for the sexy secretary vibe, and trophy wives like you are the ones to suffer for it.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks up again. Strangely, your expression seems to please him, and he says with what you can only infer as schadenfreude, “Well, I noticed you the other day. In the corner store. Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but you looked very unhappy.”
It was Wednesday evening. You remember easily because it was the last time you picked up a pregnancy test and the reason why Seo-jun is so pissed off with you. Now that you think about it, there was a weirdo at the counter buying enough bread to feed a small army. You found it strange at the time. Even from the back, the quality of his suit was obvious, and he had the ramrod-but-carefree posture of a man assured of his own importance. He didn’t look like he belonged in a shitty corner store that smelled of cigarette smoke and, inexplicably, cat piss. But going off the skeptical glances the teenage cashier kept throwing you, neither did you.
You had no other choice. Seo-jun had frozen your cards as punishment for some mistake you couldn’t even recall, so you were— and still are— operating off your meagre savings. A positive pregnancy test might have resolved things but, of course, no such luck. You bought the test knowing the odds of those two lines appearing were next to impossible and yet the result still proved disappointing.
Naturally, you could never say it out loud, but you were becoming increasingly convinced that Seo-jun was impotent.
Despite (probably) not being the one at fault, you’d spent the last week navigating your husband’s turbulent mood and unpredictable temper tantrums. The effort this took had distracted you from the odd encounter, which you probably would’ve forgotten about had the bread-enthusiast himself not materialised in front of you.
“Are you following me?” You ask, bluntly.
He considers his answer for a second too long. “Not intentionally,” he says, like that makes any sense at all. His face is just as perfectly pleasant as it was from the start. Your accusations aren’t fazing him. You get the impression that, if anything, he’s enjoying your disdain.
“You know I’m married,” you remind him, in case this is his idea of flirting. “You know that I have no intention of leaving my husband.”
He stands. Not for the first time, you bemoan being short— you’re again lost in his long shadow, and he has to stoop to bridge the gap.
Up close, you’re forced to accept just how handsome the man really is. His lips aren’t as thin as you thought and, if it could be cut from his face, his smile would be really quite beguiling. To your complete and utter humiliation, you feel heat rush to your cheeks.
When you meet his eyes, you find mirth. The heat intensifies.
“I know that he hits you,” he adds. You don’t flinch. That much, you think, is obvious. “I know that, sometimes, you actually like it.”
Your embarrassment flares to hot, white fury. “You don’t know anything,” you hiss, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.
He grabs you by the hand. You spin around and glare at him. When you can’t shake him off, you feel your temper peak.
It’s impressive, really. You haven’t felt this angry in years. Of course, you won’t give the stranger all the credit. Seo-jun has already done half the work for him.
“I’m not finished talking,” he says simply. His grip is crushing, though he doesn’t seem to be exerting any real effort. It infuriates you.
You decide to fight fire with fire.
Grabbing the offending wrist, you let your acrylics dig into the man’s skin. They’re shaped like stilettos, a glossy shade of scarlet that’s capable of prying out more red.
Blood beads under your nails and you smile, far more genuinely than you have in months.
“The last man who harassed me like this,” you say, affecting a chipper, customer-friendly tone. “I stuck a fork through.”
The warning might’ve sounded more menacing if you’d had a knife on you that day. As things stood, the only weapon within reach was a dining fork. You pushed it so far into the client’s cheek that it touched teeth.
Whatever sort of reaction you’re expecting from the stranger, you’re not certain. At best, you think fear; at worst, disbelief.
He responds with neither.
You take in his unmoving expression, so fixed it could belong to a photograph, as it's slowly betrayed by the dilation of his pupils. “You did?” he asks, but there’s no doubt in his voice. Rather, it’s the high-and-mighty pleasure of a boss who’s decided you’ve done a good job, who might promote you for your work ethic, for your potential, for your worthiness at his feet.
He leans in, eager to hear you confirm what he clearly believes. You lean away, sneering in a way you hope looks contemptuous instead of disturbed.
“Fuck. Off.”
It’s your final warning. Already, you’re mentally rummaging through your handbag, taking note of the sharp objects you keep on hand. All of them are socially acceptable for a woman to be carrying, cosmetic in nature or suitable for desk work. Nail scissors, letter openers, a multitool with a penknife.
You could hurt this man, if you wanted to. And you do. Perhaps more than you should.
Then the man replies with the strangest thing he’s said all night. Too quickly, and far too easily, he concedes. "Okay.”
Before you can register his surrender, he’s striding past you and away. He doesn’t look back once. You never even noticed when he dropped your hand, let alone when you dropped his wrist. It’s as if you fell into a trance, completely lost in your desire to hurt him, staring at the spot where his collar opened to reveal the swell of his Adam’s Apple— firm, vulnerable, and juddering as he swallowed his own spit.
Maybe your threat was more effective than you thought. He'd gulped, taken a sharp breath through his nose, and fled with his tail between his legs.
But you're no idiot, and you're not blind either. There was more than tail twitching between his legs.
Hurry explained, the pervert turns the corner and disappears from sight. It's almost funny. You watch for a minute to see if he'll come slinking back, then rifle through your handbag for your favourite letter opener. You slide it up your sleeve, straighten your skirt, and lower your hat over your browline. The blade presses cold against your forearm. It grounds you.
Your heels clack against linoleum as you move toward the exit. You'll flag down a taxi, you decide, lifting your phone to your ear.
Seo-jun picks up immediately. Before he can launch into another pointless tirade, you interrupt him.
"Oppa," you whine, affecting panic. You add a sniffle or two for good measure. "Oh my god, oppa, I was so scared..."
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