Chapter Text
Zhenya had been busy since morning, preparing to go out. Teak Joo, who had slept like the dead for an entire day, lay limp across the bed, barely moving. Just as Zhenya was about to leave, fur coat draped over his shoulders, he paused and glanced back.
“I’ll be gone for about two days.”
He reported his schedule out of the blue. Since when had he ever bothered to inform him of such things? Teak Joo didn’t respond, only turned over.
A moment later, the whirring of propellers filled the air. The noise hovering above his head gradually faded into the distance. Zhenya was gone again, leaving Teak Joo alone on the island. How long would this wretched routine continue?
He was unbearably bored. With nothing to do, the act of killing time—something he’d never been good at—felt like torture. Day by day, he seemed to be turning into nothing more than useless flesh. He had never felt so powerless.
What would happen if he were left here, surrounded by nothing but snow, indefinitely? He would go mad. If he didn’t kill himself first. His sense of time, his grasp on reality, both felt increasingly dull. He wanted to escape before his mind truly broke. The desire grew more desperate by the day, yet the path to freedom remained hopelessly out of reach.
With an irritated huff, he pulled the blanket over his head.
Late in the afternoon, he finally left the mansion, deciding to get some air. Wandering without direction, he eventually reached the sea. He sat down on a relatively dry rock and stared silently at the distant horizon.
It felt as though he had fallen into an entirely different dimension. He had no idea what was happening outside, how the world was moving on without him. He never imagined he’d end up living such a directionless, unemployed existence.
With a sigh, he stood and headed for the beach, partly to loosen his still-aching body. Even the biting sea wind had become something he’d learned to endure.
After walking for a while, he spotted something bobbing in the waves. He hurried over—it was a disposable chopstick. Who knew where it had drifted from. China? Or maybe Korea. Somehow, his own situation felt worse than that piece of trash.
Using the chopstick, he scratched large letters into the sand. He gathered shells and pebbles and placed them atop the lines. When he was done, the message read: S.O.S. A distress signal. If he were lucky, a passing ship or aircraft might see it. If not—well, nothing lost.
With that done, he flopped down where he stood. The thick snow cradled his body like a blanket. Closing his eyes, he listened to the waves and the wind. Endless silence. It felt like nothing would change even if he vanished entirely. His consciousness drifted downward, sinking into the depths.
How much time passed?
A sudden noise rang in his ears. He wondered if it was tinnitus, born of desperation.
He jolted upright and scanned his surroundings. In the distance, a helicopter was approaching. It looked different from the one Zhenya used. Maybe—just maybe—it had seen his signal. His heart leapt, and he waved both arms frantically.
“Here! Hey—over here!”
He jumped, shouted—but the helicopter passed right by. Refusing to give up, he ran back toward the mansion. From higher ground, surely he’d be visible. If he waved his clothes—
He sprinted to the rooftop and flung his shirt into the air, screaming until his throat burned. Perhaps his effort paid off; the helicopter banked wide and turned toward the mansion. Joy flooded his face.
He stepped aside to clear the landing area. The helicopter descended, whipping up fierce winds. The roaring propellers slowly came to a halt, and only then could he open his eyes.
He rushed toward it. The door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out, extending an arm to block Teak Joo’s approach. A young woman followed.
“…This is it?”
Her voice carried unmistakable disappointment. She circled Teak Joo slowly, inspecting him from head to toe.
“I thought he’d hidden something truly impressive. Guess not.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. Who was she? She looked much younger than him. Her sharp features reminded him of someone—yet didn’t. She was beautiful, but pale, as if exhausted from travel.
Teak Joo crossed his arms defensively. The woman stopped and met his gaze, her eyes bold and unflinching.
“Who are you?”
She smiled casually, unfazed by his tone, and extended her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Olga.”
Olga. The name stirred something familiar. Her face was new, but the name rang loudly in his memory.
She added one more line, answering both his question and the reason she was here.
“Olga Vissarionovna Bogdanova.”
They sat facing each other for a long time. She’d suggested tea, but neither of them touched their cups.
Olga sat in the chair Teak Joo had yielded, staring at him as if trying to bore through him. She really was Zhenya’s sister—no sense of propriety whatsoever. Teak Joo returned the gaze, arms still folded.
Very little was known about Olga, the cherished daughter of Vissarion. No photos, no records—no birth date, no school history, no career. Whether her obscurity was simply because she was a woman, or something else entirely, no one knew.
“What was so great about him?”
Olga spoke first. Her tone was oddly blunt. It was hard to tell what she was really asking.
When Teak Joo didn’t respond, she shrugged.
“I just don’t get it. I’ve never seen anyone who actually wanted to stick by him.”
Him—there was only one person they both knew she could be referring to. The question was absurd. What did she mean, what was so great about him? As if Teak Joo were here of his own free will.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” he said flatly.
“Wrong idea?”
“I’m not here because I like it.”
“Then?”
“….”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Where would he even begin? There was no reason to spill his story to a stranger. Either way, she was on Zhenya’s side.
He shook his head, signaling an end to it. Olga, however, suddenly looked startled.
“Wait—were you kidnapped?”
“Kid—”
The word stuck. It wasn’t entirely wrong. But calling it outright kidnapping felt… complicated. Olga took his silence as confirmation and muttered under her breath, “That lunatic really went through with it…”
Her gaze softened. She grabbed Teak Joo’s hand and apologized.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were… involved with him. When I heard he ran off with the terrorist who blew up the house, I assumed it was some twisted lovers-on-the-run situation. Anyway—sorry for misunderstanding. The idea that someone could actually fall for him… I can’t believe I came all this way for that.”
The last line sounded more like a soliloquy. Apparently, she’d come to see a curiosity in a zoo.
“So that’s why you came here…?”
“To recuperate.”
He’d heard her earlier—plain as day—but she brushed off his glare and changed the subject.
“Were you really planning to just sit around waiting to be rescued after scribbling a dumb SOS like that?”
Did people who never cared about others’ feelings all speak like this? Zhenya, his sister—neither of them filtered their words.
“Maybe some idiot would feel sorry for me and come save me.”
“…I didn’t mean you were the idiot.”
“Wow. Comforting.”
“What’s your name, anyway? We never introduced ourselves properly.”
“Don’t ask. I can’t tell you.”
“That’s ridiculous. How am I supposed not to be curious if you won’t tell me?”
“Because I don’t want to lose my job on top of all this.”
He held firm. Olga pouted, dissatisfied. She must’ve guessed roughly who he was—someone who couldn’t reveal his identity, tied to an incident involving the Bogdanov estate.
She quickly switched questions.
“Then what does he call you?”
“Za—”
He stopped himself. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Zainka. Zhenya used it relentlessly, from the very beginning—telling him to hide quietly, to prick up his ears.
Olga’s eyes lit up with interest. She leaned forward eagerly. It was irritating.
“If you’re not going to help, stop interrogating me.”
“I can’t help,” she said lightly. “I’d get in trouble if I did.”
Judging by her tone, trouble didn’t sound like a mild scolding. That violent man wouldn’t go easy on her just because she was a woman—though oddly enough, he’d never mistreated women outright.
In any case, if Olga wasn’t going to help, there was no point continuing. Teak Joo left the kitchen. Olga followed him.
“Which room should I use?”
“There are more rooms than you could ever need. Take whichever.”
“Hm. Maybe that one.”
She headed straight for the innermost bedroom. Teak Joo froze, then rushed forward and blocked her path.
“That room’s taken.”
It was the only excuse he had. Olga peered past him and nodded.
“Looks like his room.”
Unless one looked closely, it wouldn’t be obvious they shared it. Still, Teak Joo’s heart pounded. What if something… obvious was lying around?
Despite his attempts to stop her, Olga peeked inside and smiled knowingly.
“Even if your heart’s not in it, your bodies seem to get along.”
She chuckled and left before he could respond.
He turned slowly. Pillows bore the unmistakable imprint of someone who’d slept there. Two robes lay tangled on the floor. The sheets were half pulled down. His own briefs lay discarded. None of it looked innocent.
He sank into a chair, dazed.
What exactly was he doing here?
Eating. Sleeping. Spreading his legs for Zhenya.
Everyone did those things—but others turned them into fuel for productive lives. They didn’t live off handouts, drifting without purpose or will.
Why hadn’t he tried harder to escape? Had he adapted because there was nowhere else to adapt to? He had never desired Zhenya—not once.
But once their bodies touched, it was different. His body responded faithfully. Even sex bordering on violence melted him without fail. At some point, he’d stopped resisting—because resistance only made it worse.
Resignation had dulled him. He’d told himself there was no choice, using inevitability as an excuse to grow complacent. And so, even after being raped, he let himself hear the lie that it wasn’t really rape. Pathetic.
He shook his head sharply. Something was deeply wrong.
He’d denied it to Olga, but his life here was no different from a kept existence. Living in a mansion only Zhenya visited. Sharing his bed. Having sex whenever Zhenya desired. Surviving on the food he provided. Spending time together under the guise of wagers. Being in the same space—waking up together—no longer felt strange or tense.
No wonder Olga had smiled like that.
The presence of a third party had forced clarity onto his blurred thoughts. The twisted nature of his relationship with Zhenya—something he hadn’t wanted to see—stood exposed. And thinking back, Zhenya himself had changed.
The man who used to object to every wager had grown strangely compliant. He laughed more. Sex, once purely mechanical, had become littered with unnecessary touches. He brought back Korean food without fail. He frowned less. And today, he’d even said when he’d be back.
Heat rushed to Teak Joo’s face and neck. His heart began to pound unpleasantly.
This wasn’t childish playacting.
Somehow, without realizing it, he’d begun to match Zhenya’s rhythm.
He clenched his fist.
This couldn’t continue.