"I don't claim things."
SYNOPSIS
You finally land the interview with the revenge artist Hwang Hyunjin for material for your new novel.
After chasing him for two years, that is.
Content Warning & Disclaimer
Spinoff from the universe of SINdicate (formerly The Oddinary Suspects)
You were waiting for this interview for years. Not weeks, not months. Years. The first time you heard about him, you didn’t want to believe it. There was no way someone was running a business like this and not have the feds after them. Then again, the things people got away with… You could literally write entire confessionals and call it “fiction”. You could lead a whole cartel and call it “entrepreneurial endeavors”. Apparently, you could also orchestrate murders and call it “design”.
You were a curious person by nature and on multiple occasions, it almost killed the cat. Nevertheless, as a former journalist that never stopped you from pursuing stories that you would be intrigued to read. After multiple years of tight deadlines, chaotic assignments, impossible bosses, and even a refugee camp at one point, you decided to hop genres. You still lived to write, so the “-ist” of your job title didn’t change – you were a novelist now.
A novelist that was about to tap the richest vein of inspiration. Ever.
Ever since you heard about this “revenge artist” from questionable people in your unnecessarily wide network, you were dying to meet him and learn anything and everything about him. There was no way to make direct contact with him, so you kept asking around trying to find a connection. After several months, you managed to get contact information that ended up being a burner number. You dug deeper into the darker side of your circle, and the deeper you dove, the closer you got to him. You finally managed to talk to someone who seemed like one of his assistants, but they wouldn’t put you through even with a gun to their heads. At one point, the person on the other end of the line threatened to issue a restraining order to your name if you kept harassing them for a story and added that “Mr. Hwang does not do press.” You tried and tried to explain yourself that this was not for the press, and you were willing to sign whatever goddamn confidentiality agreement they wanted. You were on the brink of giving up when one day you received a call from a private number and got an appointment. You clearly remembered spacing out for a solid five minutes after the call, not convinced in the slightest that this man finally agreed to meet with you. Of his own volition.
“Mr. Hwang will see you now.”
Three men escorted you into a room with ceilings so high that it could easily be a cathedral. Stone walls surrounded the place, and it was dim inside. Faint rays of light were trying to get a peek through the windows with painted glass, but no dice. You sat down on the leather couch across the mahogany desk and started to wait. You waited for two years; you could live on that couch for two more if need be.
And finally, there he was. Grace materialized. White shirt with loosened buttons hugging his figure, accenting long, dark brown hair, sleeves rolled up so neatly as if the fabric was cut that way. Patent leather shoes under the black trousers, belt from the same material adorning his slim waist. He held so much power with just the way he walked that if he so much as blew a candle, the entire building would collapse. You stood up.
“Mr. Hwang, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
He smiled, shook your hand, and gestured for you to sit down.
“I’m curious about the reason why you finally accepted to do this interview?”
“It’s obvious how curious you are. You wore me down. It’s been… what, two years now?”
“What changed since the alleged restraining order you were about to issue against me?
“Mysteries are necessary but also the ultimate causes of unrest. In your case, apparently, that’s a default.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can’t stand not knowing something. Be careful with that, though. Not everybody is as merciful as refugee camp managers.”
Your eyes widened, “How do you…?”
“You do your research, I do mine,” He reached for something in his desk drawer and pulled it out. It was your latest book.
“I read your books and I really like your style. Since no one’s going to erect statues after me, I like the idea of being immortalized through pages. My only condition is no photography today, please.”
You almost snorted, “Only condition? You made me sign three separate agreements, and I’m pretty sure somewhere it says I’m donating all my liquid funds to this enterprise if anything happens to me.”
“Well, you wanted to meet. Here we are.”
He clasped his hands and rested his elbows on the desk, anticipating whatever you were going to throw at him. You shuffled your bag for your recorder, which he miraculously allowed, and asked him as you were getting ready:
“Business doing good?”
“I don’t do this as a living.”
“Then how do you get by?”
“I have my ways.”
It was very evident that this man was going to intrigue the shit out of you. He already was. You thought to yourself that maybe you shouldn’t be leaning on your journalism experience that much to get answers from him as he seemed to possess the same -if not superior- instincts when it came to making someone talk. Or stop talking. Or whatever the hell he was doing with this whole line of business.
“This is Y/N. Interview with the Artist Hwang Hyunjin. Date: July 29, 0021. By the agreement that I signed today, I am required to verbally declare that I will not make copies, nor distribute this recording, and I am fully aware that my actions will be strictly monitored. Mr. Hwang, please describe your work.”
Hyunjin laid back in his chair and crossed his legs, “This is not some corporate, suit-and-tie plaza establishment. My main line of operation is to bring the satisfaction of revenge to my clients. The aesthetic pleasure of the way that it’s executed is just a bonus. My clients tend to make all kinds of messed up requests but I’m in no place to judge. They seek revenge, and I make it happen. There’s beauty in everything, even in death, and I make it poetic. If you don’t appreciate art, there’s nothing I can do about it. I can recommend looking into the works of Francis Bacon, though.”
“Have you heard of the saying ‘Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder’?”
“Thank you. You flatter me.”
“How would you differentiate yourself from a mere hitman?”
“Hitman,” he scoffed, “A little banal, don’t you think? Hitmen are only after finding someone and make sure they’re gone. You can find them literally on every corner.”
“Then where do people find you?”
“The same way you found me. If there is demand, then there is supply. You just need to know who to ask. We don’t have a marketing department to promote ourselves.”
“So, how does this work? Do I just come with the name of a person and tell you how to do it?”
“You can’t tell me how to do it; that’s for me to decide. You tell me your reasons, whether you want this to be painful, to be instant, and what you want the outcome to be. Not every project culminates in the exposé’s death, but if it’s in our contract, you can’t undo it.”
”That’s what you call your targets?”
“Targets? They are not some year-end sales goals we’re trying to achieve. They are the ones being exposed to this treatment, no?”
“Treatment?”
“Yes. Treatment as in conduct, but in some cases, it does end up substituting medical care.”
“How so?”
“You would be surprised to know how many people’s entire personality changed as an unintended project outcome.”
“Project outcome.”
“Yes.”
“Do you consider your work to be projects?”
“Doesn’t every artist? We are designers after all.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
“That’s confidential. But many.”
“You said I would tell you whether I want this to be ‘painful’.”
“As a principle, I don’t consult to the means of physical torture. We’re not shooting slasher movies here. If this is your choice of design, then you have very poor taste, and we can’t work together.”
“What if it’s mental torture I’m asking for?”
“Then I’m very interested.”
“Please illustrate what that would look like.”
“Suffice it to say you would give anything to be dead rather than living like this.”
“May I request a tiny what-if scenario?”
His deep sigh indicated he was annoyed. He knew for a fact that you would keep coming back to this question until you were satisfied, so he raised his voice the tiniest pitch to get his message across:
“If you were the exposé we were working on, and someone had a very legitimate reason to seek revenge from you, considering how long it took you to get over your PTSD, part of your design would include seeing the face of your refugee camp rapist everywhere. That’s off the top of my head, of course.”
Your stomach dropped. You certainly didn’t expect things to escalate to this extent this fast. You had an inkling of what you got yourself into desperately seeking this man out, but Hyunjin very clearly insinuated what he had in his arsenal about you could destroy you if you didn’t play your cards right. Then he continued:
“You asked what mental torture would look like. We’re known for doing whatever’s necessary to create Hell’s Truman Show. Facial reconstruction surgery is among the means we use.”
“How do you define ‘legitimate reason’?”
“Our Business Development team completes their analysis, and we vote on it. You can’t measure conscience, but we are selective in the projects that we take.”
“And how much does a project cost to your clients?”
“That depends on their brief.”
“How do you measure customer satisfaction in this business? As you said earlier, you can’t undo death.”
“My business does not seek to end every single exposé’s life. Our primary goal is to induce self-reflection and remorse. If that happens right before their demise, then that’s unfortunate.”
“Mr. Hwang, have you ever found yourself in a position that you… how to put it delicately… felt attracted to your tar… exposés?”
“I don’t get involved. Nor do I engage in sexual relations.”
“Why? Don’t you have needs?”
“I have a condition, so I have to control myself.”
“STD?”
“Yes.”
“Something like HIV?”
“I think mine’s worse.”
“I currently can’t think of any sexually transmitted disease direr than that.”
“What I have is not a disease,” he said while getting up. He came right behind you placing his hands on the couch and whispered in your ear, “It’s a disorder,” then proceeded to go to the bar. “Would you like something to drink?”
All of a sudden you realized your throat was as dry as the Sahara, “Yes, please.”
“Have you ever tried Pisang Ambon?”
“No.”
He filled two glasses with ice and poured the green liquid over it. You questioned the way it looked as he handed you your drink.
“This looks like Absinthe.”
Hyunjin laughed, “This is banana liqueur, not even one-tenth as dangerous, so you have nothing to worry about. You have to drink it in one go, though.” He raised his glass for a toast, “Cheers.”
You obliged. The cold, sweet liquid rushing down your throat was indeed refreshing, and you couldn’t even taste any alcohol in it.
“Delicious, right?”
“Very much. So, what kind of a disorder?”
Hyunjin smiled into his glass while leaning back to his desk, “You never slip, do you? Have you ever heard of ‘Folie à deux’? “
“Shared psychosis?”
“Yes, but my condition is not exactly that.”
“And you claim that it’s sexually transmitted?”
“I don’t claim things. And you’re not as patient as you are curious.”
“Could you describe what it is?”
“Would you like to experience it instead?”
Your mind went completely blank for a second, “You mean you want to…”
“No. We’re not going to have sex.”
“But you said it’s sexually transmitted.”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t wish for you to get the full blast of this.”
“Then, how…?”
“Yes or no?”
Yes or no. The simplest of questions yet the hardest of decisions. You had absolutely no idea what he was about to do and what the outcome was going to be. He was basically asking you whether you were willing to contract something from him. But not through sex. But it was sexually transmitted. But…
“Will it be permanent?”
“No. Granted, the temporality should depend on how long we keep it up.”
“Keep what up?”
Hyunjin placed his glass on the coaster on his desk and started walking towards the couch which you were sitting on the edge of. He sat right beside you. You were looking at him but only because you forgot how your eyes functioned and didn’t know where else to look at. He was making you nervous as hell. It wasn’t the anticipation of an advance but the fear of the unknown. There was nothing remotely lewd about what he was doing anyway. It was just… The way he carried himself. How there wasn’t an ounce of hurry in his movements. His soul-piercing gaze. For some reason, at that very moment, Hwang Hyunjin was the living embodiment of suspense and lust at the same time.
“Yes or no? I need your consent.”
“Yes.”
Although he was taking his sweet time, for you it happened in the blink of an eye. You could still taste the banana flavor on his soft lips. The longer he kissed you, the more you felt his body temperature rising like he was running a fever, but you couldn’t dare to break it. You lost complete control of your willpower in an instant, and this was probably the most unprofessional thing you had ever done. Did you give a rat’s ass about it? Hell no. On the other hand, Hyunjin was the one with the alleged condition, and he was supposed to be the one controlling himself, but he was just deepening the kiss more and more. As if someone told him to cut it off, he abruptly forced himself to stop, hands still in your hair.
“I apologize. It kind of got out of hand. I couldn’t help it.”
Your eyes still closed and feeling a little dazed because of what just happened, you were expecting to either see fireworks or become possessed, but nothing changed.
“So? What happens now?”
“You’re about to find out. Don’t freak out; this is supposed to happen.” He got up and walked back to his desk again.
When someone tells you not to freak out, that’s usually because there is something that’s gonna freak you out. You looked at him with a half-scared expression.
“Lay down and close your eyes. I’m not gonna do anything to you, I promise.”
Come to think of it, you might have been somehow possessed because you did exactly what he told you without questioning it. Your curiosity got you on a whole new level of reckless. Just then, you heard his belt unbuckling. Your instincts alerted every single neuron of your body at the sound, and you wanted to bolt the hell out of there. However…
“How is this happening?!”
You knew. You knew the shape of his fingers and the firmness of his grip. Not too tight, but certainly not light. You knew he was touching himself. You knew his pulse was rising with every stroke. You knew he was getting more aroused by the second and he was moments away from not being able to stop. You knew all of this for a fact because…
…you were feeling it inside you.
Your mind was still trying to convince you of how irrational this whole thing was and begging you to snap your eyes open, but you wouldn’t. Hyunjin’s labored breathing and silent moans certainly didn’t help you get a hold of yourself. You dug your fingers into the couch as he was picking up the pace, and when his orgasm finally hit, he came so hard that you got the full blast of his convulsions spreading throughout your body.
“Coming down yet?”
You opened your eyes at Hyunjin’s voice, trying to comprehend where you were, who you were, what just happened, and whether you had any spare underwear with you.
“That… Um… That was… Wow.”
He brought you a tall glass of iced water as if trying to provide the most messed up kind of aftercare. You didn’t have sex, but you did. You didn’t masturbate, but you did. You didn’t watch, but you did.
You sat up straight and drank the water in one go, not caring how cold it was. Your body felt like a million degrees so it was incredibly rejuvenating at that moment.
“That actually happened, right? I didn’t hallucinate?”
“You didn’t.”
You stared at the ground blankly for a second trying to gather your thoughts. There were so many questions you wanted to ask, but you didn’t know if you would get the answers to them, nor did you want to be invasive. For whatever privacy was left to protect, that is.
“So you mean to tell me if we actually fucked each other I would feel what you would feel…”
“Yes. For the rest of your life.”
“This happened before?”
“Multiple times.”
“Can you control what you want me to feel?”
“No. It happens whenever I am vulnerable, and I don’t mean that solely as emotional weakness; I could also be coming down with something, or my mind could be scattered. Whatever I experience at that moment, you also feel.”
“Both physical and emotional?”
“Yes.”
“Say you’re eating strawberries…”
“Yes, you would also taste it.”
“Do you know the root reason?”
“No idea.”
“How did you even notice this?”
He poured another glass of water for himself, “If something happens for the second time, it’s a coincidence, but the third time is the proof of concept.”
“So, these previous people… Did they feel it just now?”
“No. I’m a private person. If I liked putting my life on display, I would have my own reality show.”
“But you said…”
“They are not with us anymore.”
You froze. This could mean one thing and one thing only.
“Oh, please. You didn’t seek this out; I’m the one who asked for your consent. Per our agreement, I can’t touch a strand of hair on you.”
“THAT’S in the agreement?”
“Of course.”
Once you regained full consciousness, it finally occurred to you to ask what should have been your very first question:
“What prompted you to start this business?”
Hyunjin finished his glass and put it next to the crystal water jug, “People attempting to put my life on display when I clearly begged them not to.”
© 2021-24 Feelfolio. ⁞ Ko-fi
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