Chapter 27. Lee Jaeheon (7)

Lee Jaeheon sat with the bitter sensation of having been dragged through the mud—emotionally, mentally—chewing on the discomfort like it was lodged in the back of his throat.

He laced his hands behind his head, toes twitching as he sank into thought. But habit, they said, was a terrifying thing.

He knew how to rid himself of this shitty feeling.

He pulled the apron from the cabinet hook and slung it around his neck, slamming the door shut. The flimsy aluminum door creaked open again with a metallic groan. With clenched teeth, he slammed it again, his palm briefly leaving a print on the dull painted surface.

After a long stare at the door, he yanked open the curtain in one corner of the studio. Behind it stood his graduation project—tall, about his own height. It looked like a bizarre, humanoid robot welded together with sharp, jagged metal.

He switched on the welding machine, taking a few steps back.

The piece was titled <Waste>. One professor had suggested the name “My Beloved Misery,” but Jaeheon had always intended it to be called “Waste.”

With the welding torch in hand, he reinforced the connections between the metal blades, fusing them more securely. The structure, though tall, was slim and fragile—almost like a self-portrait.

Maybe it symbolized the modern human: hiding blades beneath soft flesh.

Every person carried some kind of sharp weapon inside—ready to draw and strike when necessary. To stab, slice, tear someone else apart. And then… to tuck it back in, pretend nothing happened.

But even the drawing and hiding of that blade caused wounds. Caused bleeding. Yet people told themselves the pain was bearable. That the guilt and sorrow that followed were nothing compared to the pleasure of watching someone else suffer.

They bled and bled, not realizing the puddle beneath their feet would lead to their own death. And eventually, they rotted—willingly becoming waste.

The title wasn’t meant to be deep. It didn’t require hours of reflection. He named it that because it was the truth. Because they were everywhere.

And yet… Eunkyo had no waste in her.

She didn’t carry sharp blades. She carried blunt ones. Dull. Unassuming. The kind that hurt more—not because they cut deeper, but because they didn’t. Because they dragged.

She knew that watching someone else suffer wasn’t nearly as painful as feeling her own. She was that kind of person.

Fuck. Was she too kind? Or just stupid? Or… smart, but pretending to be a fool?

Jaeheon prepared a mold using alginate—used in dental clinics—and dipped his foot in. He was just making a shell to cover up the grotesque inside, but he still hadn’t finished the piece’s core. The heart of the sculpture.

As he finished casting his leg, he looked up with a tired face. The sky had begun to brighten.

6:30 a.m.

No wonder his eyes were getting heavy.

He tucked the piece back behind the curtain, tidied the mess, and stepped outside the studio.

Sunlight spilled down the stairs in clean, sharp lines. The rain had stopped, the sky had cleared.

As he climbed the steps, he stepped into the fragmented shimmer of the morning light. The café—Haeda—was still closed, its interior softly painted with the cream-colored hue of dawn.

And by the entrance stood a single, folded umbrella.

The same one that had been there since the night before.

His gaze dropped.

He opened the car door, its exterior still stained from the night’s rain. The air inside was muggy, the heat swept away by the blast of the A/C. He sat behind the wheel, engine running, letting himself breathe.

It was too quiet. Too clean.

Even the rumble of the engine sounded like an offense.

He gripped the steering wheel—only to flinch in pain. His palm bore a thin, sharp cut. Dried blood had congealed around the edges. The wound was closed, but it split open with every movement.

He leaned his head back against the headrest.

He hadn’t even noticed the bleeding. He’d only been thinking about her face.

The feel of her thumb brushing his lips. Those focused, brown eyes locked on his. That cold mouth that never acknowledged the heat burning inside him.

***

—Lee Jaeheon, what the hell?!

Half-asleep, he heard Kim Haeda’s annoyed voice burst through the receiver. Jaeheon blinked from where he lay sprawled across his bed and checked the time.

10:30 a.m. Just after Café Haeda had opened. He hung up without hesitation. Three seconds later, the phone rang again. This time, he sat up, lowering his head as he answered.

“What is it?”

—No, you, what the hell? What did you do to Eunkyo last night, huh?!

Eunkyo.

Fuck. Even hearing her name come out of Kim Haeda’s mouth pissed him off.

Jaeheon got out of bed, turned on music from his tablet, and yanked open the curtain.

“The CCTV in the café—is it for customer safety or for personal surveillance?”

—Hey!

Haeda barked, then exhaled sharply to calm himself. When he spoke again, his tone was lower.

—Eunkyo slept in the supply room last night. I just wanted to make sure nothing happened to her.

“…Ah. That explains it.”

So that umbrella was hers.

—Explains it? Then tell me—why the hell did you go see her last night? She’s not the kind of person to just disappear like that! Why are you bothering her again?!