CHAPTER 1: An Experiment in Intimacy

Life is a fragile gift, its existence hanging by the thinnest of threads. Delicate in its balance, life can be shattered or sustained by the smallest of actions. Some people recognize this fragility and treat it as the most precious treasure. These are the ones who move through the world carefully; their every step is a calculated effort to protect themselves from harm. They avoid risks, make cautious decisions, and seek safety in certainty. To them, life is a precious gift not to be wasted or gambled away. They walk a narrow path, defined by the need to control what little they can in a world that is inherently unpredictable…

Others, however, live as though life’s fragility is something to be mocked. They take risks, embracing uncertainty as if it were an old friend. They charge ahead recklessly, without a second thought to the consequences of their actions. They live for the thrill, the adrenaline rush of not knowing what the next moment holds. To them, life is too short to worry about safety, and they find their freedom in ignoring the dangers that lurk in the shadows. Every moment is a gamble, and they welcome the chaos, believing that in their recklessness, they are truly living…

But who can say which approach is better? Neither the cautious nor the reckless can escape the randomness of birth, the abyss from which we all came. None of us had a choice in the matter of our existence. We are thrust into the world, born into circumstances beyond our control, shaped by forces we do not understand. The abyss gave us life, and to the abyss, we will one day return. But in between, there is the question of destiny. Can we shape it? Can we mold our futures, or are we bound by the fate carved for us long before we took our first breath? For some, that fate is inescapable, a path set in stone that no amount of willpower can alter. And for those who cannot escape their destiny, life becomes a question not of freedom, but of survival—whether their existence is a sanctuary or a prison, whether they live in peace or in despair…

Secretary Choi understood these questions better than anyone. She had lived through more lifetimes than any mortal could imagine. She had existed in countless forms, in countless universes, for longer than human history could record. Rich, poor, powerful, powerless, young, old, male, female—she had been them all. She had walked through different dimensions, interacting with different worlds and realities. Yet despite all these lives, there was one constant: she never truly experienced any of it. Her purpose, her reason for existence, was not to feel or to live but to ensure that events unfolded according to the delicate balance of the cosmos…

Choi’s job was a simple one on the surface—she was the keeper of time, the collector of souls. Her duty was to maintain the flow of existence, ensuring that the souls whose time had come were gathered and delivered to the other side. She was the silent force behind life and death, a being without a name, without an identity, except for the title she bore. She was required to be impartial, and her every action was dictated by the grand cosmic design. To feel, to care, to form attachments—these were dangerous things, things that could compromise her task. For eons, she fulfilled her duties without question, dragging herself through the endless cycle of existence. Each life she lived, each world she visited, was just another stop on her eternal journey.

But now, after all those countless lifetimes, Choi was bored. The repetition of her routine had become unbearable. There was no joy in her work, no satisfaction in collecting souls. She began to feel the weight of her existence, the emptiness of performing the same tasks over and over again without any real connection to the world around her. The faces of the souls she gathered began to blur together, and the passage of time lost all meaning. It was as if she were going through the motions of a job she no longer cared about.

One night, while working late at the Kim Vineyards’ Seoul office, Choi decided she needed to do something different. She needed to break the monotony of her existence, to find some way to experience what she had been denied for so long. She approached the Chairman, her voice calm and calculated as always, but with a new proposition. “Would you help me with an experiment?” she asked, her tone betraying none of the gravity of her request.

The Chairman, intrigued by the unusual question, agreed without hesitation. After all, Secretary Choi had always been a mysterious figure—efficient and reliable, but also distant. He had never known her to ask for anything, let alone something as personal as this. When he asked what the experiment entailed, Choi explained it in the same detached tone she used for everything else. She wanted to understand human grief, specifically the grief of losing a child.

It was a concept she couldn’t comprehend. Despite all her lifetimes, despite witnessing countless deaths, she had never understood why humans formed such deep emotional bonds with their offspring—entities that, from her perspective, were not truly a part of them. To Choi, it was a mystery. Why did people grieve so intensely when a child died? What was it about this connection that caused so much pain? She had seen it time and time again—the overwhelming sorrow, the uncontrollable anguish of parents mourning their children. But she had never felt it herself. And now, she wanted to know.

This experiment wasn’t just curiosity—it was a way for Choi to finally experience something real, something beyond the sterile confines of her cosmic duties. She wanted to feel, to understand, and perhaps, to break free from the detachment that had defined her existence for so long.

That night, under the dim light of the office, Choi and the Chairman crossed a boundary neither of them had ever imagined. The air in the room was thick with the tension of their unspoken experiment. It wasn’t passion that drove them—there was no love or lust involved—just cold curiosity, at least on Choi’s part. She needed to understand something beyond the cosmic routine she had followed for eons, and the Chairman was merely a means to an end. As their bodies came together, Choi remained detached, observing the act with a clinical mind, analyzing the sensations, and cataloging the experience as though it were just another task in her eternal duties. But even in that detachment, something deep inside her began to stir, a flicker of life that was not there before…

Shortly after, Choi informed the Chairman that she would be taking a sabbatical—nine months, to be exact. She said little about why, only that it was necessary. There was no discussion, no room for questions. The Chairman, ever pragmatic, did not pry. He trusted her to return, knowing she always did what needed to be done. During those nine months, Choi carried the child in secret, retreating from the public eye to avoid the rumors and scandal that would surely follow if anyone discovered her pregnancy. The vineyard’s business affairs became a distant concern to her, an afterthought. Her mind was consumed by something far more profound: the life growing inside her.

Though her body changed, her duties did not. She continued her cosmic work—her true job, the one she had performed for countless lifetimes. Collecting souls, ensuring that the delicate threads of fate remained untangled, keeping the flow of existence in order. But something was different now. For the first time in her eternal existence, she felt tethered to something, a small life inside her that was slowly becoming a part of her. It was an odd sensation for someone who had never truly felt the weight of attachment. As the months passed, she found herself growing more and more distant from her responsibilities at the company, focusing instead on this new, unknown journey.

When the time came, Choi chose to give birth far away from the world she knew. She traveled to a small, nondescript hospital in Mokpo, a place where no one would recognize her, where she could be anonymous. There were no grand gestures, no ceremonies—just the quiet, sterile environment of a hospital room. As the contractions began, Choi experienced something she had never felt before: pain. Real, excruciating pain. It tore through her, not just physically, but in a way that shook the very core of her being. She had never known suffering like this, the deep, visceral connection of two beings—once entwined—now being separated by blood and sweat.

For someone who had lived so many lifetimes, death and birth had always been abstract, distant concepts, things she had witnessed but never truly felt. But here she was, feeling the rawness of life and death in her own body. Each wave of pain brought her closer to understanding what she had sought, but it also stripped away layers of her detachment. She was no longer just an observer of life—she was living it…

When the nurse finally handed her the tiny baby, swaddled in a soft, white blanket, Choi’s hands trembled as she took the child into her arms. The baby was small, delicate, with rosy cheeks and a head of soft, black hair. Choi stared down at the infant, her heart thudding in her chest, and for the first time in her immortal existence, she felt tears well up in her eyes. She couldn’t help but smile, a rare and unexpected expression on her usually stoic face. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

At that moment, an unfamiliar warmth flooded her chest, a feeling she had never known in all her eons of existence. It wasn’t the cold, calculated satisfaction of completing a task, nor the detached observation of life’s cycles. This was something entirely new—an overwhelming sense of connection. The small, fragile life in her arms was part of her, but at the same time, it wasn’t. It was its own being, separate yet bound to her in ways she had never experienced before. The emotion was foreign to her, yet she clung to it, savoring the strange, beautiful feeling of holding her daughter for the first time.

Choi’s tears fell silently as she cradled the baby closer, her heart aching with something she couldn’t quite name—something that made her feel, for once, truly alive…

But reality set in quickly. Choi’s body healed much faster than any human’s ever could, and she was reminded of what she truly was—something not human. “I can’t keep you,” she murmured the next day, looking down at the infant. Two days later, Choi left the baby at the doorstep of an orphanage, tucked inside a carrier. She knocked on the door and vanished before anyone could see her. The nuns who opened the door found the small baby gazing up at them with wide eyes, a tiny envelope placed beside her. Inside were 500 million won and a note: “Her name is Kim Bo-Moon.”…

As Bo-Moon grew up, she was always eager to make friends. Yet, despite her best efforts, no one reciprocated. The nuns adored her, but the other children at the orphanage kept their distance. Now nine years old, Bo-Moon had no friends except for the imaginary ones she created and the kind cook in the kitchen. She would share her snacks, offer help with homework, and reach out to the other girls, but they never sat with her or played with her. Often, she would find her bath towels thrown on the bathroom floor, or worse, her socks floating in the toilet. Bo-Moon didn’t want to believe she was being bullied. She convinced herself that the other girls just needed to be shown how kind she was.

As the years passed, many girls from the orphanage were adopted by wealthy, loving couples. But whenever a couple met Bo-Moon, they would walk away. She overheard the whispers, the gossip—the families said there was something cold about her, something empty. One day, after helping a girl who had fallen in the hallway, Bo-Moon was met with a harsh rejection. “LET GO OF ME, DEAD GIRL!” the girl shrieked, recoiling from Bo-Moon’s touch. Her hands were always cold, no matter how many layers she wore or how warm the cup of hot chocolate was in her grasp. The girls said her icy touch drained them of energy, but to Bo-Moon, it was just another cruel taunt.

At twelve, Bo-Moon was called to the head nun’s office. She was overjoyed to learn that one of the nuns’ sisters, along with her husband, wanted to adopt her. The nun also revealed that her birth mother had left a large sum of money for her, which had been kept in a bank account to support her future education and living expenses. This money would now be entrusted to her new foster parents…

Life in the countryside was quiet and remote. Bo-Moon biked to and from school each day and received private tutoring, funded by the money her birth mother had left. Her foster mother, a devout Catholic, read the Bible three times a day, a routine Bo-Moon joined on weekends. Her foster father, on the other hand, was a different story—he was often drunk, violent, and rumored to have affairs. Bo-Moon learned quickly to avoid him, slipping into her room as soon as she got home and locking herself in for the night by bracing a metal rod between the sliding door and door frame.

One evening, while her foster mother was visiting a sick friend, Bo-Moon arrived home later than usual. The house was dark, and her foster father was seated on the floor, watching TV. As she tried to quietly pass by, he grabbed her arm. “WHY DO YOU ALWAYS AVOID ME?! HUH?!” he slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. He tightened his grip, and Bo-Moon could feel the danger in his tone. “You’re so cold,” he whispered, his grip growing stronger. “Let me warm you up…” Bo-Moon’s heart raced, and she yanked her arm free, running to the kitchen to grab a knife. But before she could act, her foster father tackled her to the floor, slapping her again and again. She cried for him to stop, but he was too far gone.

In that moment of desperation, as Bo-Moon lay pinned beneath her foster father’s weight, something deep inside her shifted. The terror, the helplessness she had felt her entire life—the rejection, the loneliness, the fear—all of it boiled to the surface. Her chest heaved with the effort of trying to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. Instead, a strange, primal instinct took over. She was no longer the timid, scared girl she had been moments before. Her hands shot up, pressing against her foster father’s face with a force she didn’t know she had.

At first, he sneered, thinking it was just a feeble attempt to push him away, but then his expression quickly turned to one of confusion. His eyes widened in shock as he began to feel something—something beyond his understanding. The sneer disappeared, replaced by horror as the skin beneath Bo-Moon’s hands started to sizzle. It was as though an invisible fire had erupted, burning him from the inside out. He let out a guttural scream of agony, his voice echoing through the small, dark house. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air as his skin blistered and bubbled under her touch, turning a sickening shade of red. Bo-Moon, still dazed and unsure of what was happening, could feel the heat emanating from her hands, but it didn’t burn her. Instead, it flowed through her, controlled by something she couldn’t name, something she had no idea existed inside her until now.

Her foster father flailed, rolling off of her, clutching his face as he writhed in pain. His cries were animalistic, filled with shock and rage as he stumbled back, desperately trying to escape the burning sensation spreading across his face. His skin cracked and peeled, his once ruddy complexion now grotesquely deformed, as if his very flesh was melting away. He stumbled toward the kitchen, knocking over chairs and cursing through his screams, blinded by the pain that radiated from every nerve in his body.

Bo-Moon, her heart racing, took the opportunity to flee. She scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling beneath her as she darted toward the back door. She yanked it open and ran out into the cold night, her bare feet pounding against the dirt as she sprinted toward the fields. The wind whipped her face, and her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind a whirl of panic and disbelief at what had just happened. She didn’t understand it—didn’t understand what she had done—but she knew she had to get away.

But her escape was short-lived. Just as she reached the edge of the field, a sharp pain exploded in her back. Bo-Moon gasped, her body seizing in shock as she felt something cold and metallic plunge into her flesh. She stumbled forward, her vision blurring as the pain radiated through her body, numbing her limbs. She looked down, trying to comprehend what had just happened, but before she could make sense of it, the pain struck again—this time deeper, more vicious. She realized too late that her foster father had caught up to her, the rage and madness still burning in his eyes.

The blade in his hand was stained with her blood as he stabbed her again, and again, the force of each blow knocking the wind from her lungs. Bo-Moon tried to scream, but her voice failed her, replaced only by the sound of her labored breathing. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees, the cold earth rising up to meet her as her vision swam in and out of focus. Darkness crept in from the edges of her mind, her body weakening with every passing second. The last thing she saw before she fell was her foster father’s twisted, hateful face looming over her, his hand tightening on the knife, ready to strike again. But before he could, her world faded into nothingness. She slipped into unconsciousness, her body limp, her breath barely a whisper…

Bo-Moon awoke in complete darkness, the sensation of suffocation overwhelming her. Her entire body was bound tightly in something sticky, cold, and unyielding—duct tape. She could feel the tape pulling against her skin, digging into her wrists, ankles, and chest, making it hard to move, let alone breathe. Panic set in, and her heart raced as she struggled to comprehend her surroundings. The air was thick and stagnant, carrying the scent of rot and decay. Bo-Moon screamed into the darkness, her voice raw and desperate, but the suffocating blackness absorbed her cries. Every attempt to move felt futile, her limbs bound too tightly to fight. After what felt like hours, her screams weakened, and her body collapsed under the weight of exhaustion, sending her into unconsciousness once again.

When she awoke, nothing had changed. The darkness was still there, oppressive and suffocating. She could feel the cold, plastic-like material pressing against her from all sides. Her muscles ached from being held in place, bound and twisted in the same position for what felt like an eternity. The fear she had pushed away in the depths of her mind now surged back with vengeance. She began screaming again, louder this time, kicking and thrashing as much as her restraints would allow. Bo-Moon’s throat burned as her screams turned to hoarse gasps for air. Her vision blurred as the dizziness from exhaustion threatened to consume her once more. With each failed attempt to break free, her hope faded. All she could do was scream until her voice gave out, over and over again.

Time had become meaningless. She had no way to know if hours or days had passed. Her mind drifted between waking nightmares and unconsciousness. At one point, she began hearing things—footsteps, faint voices calling her name—but when she strained to listen, they would vanish, leaving her with nothing but the deafening silence. Then, in the distance, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground reached her ears. Bo-Moon held her breath, straining to hear more. She wasn’t sure if it was real or another hallucination brought on by her exhaustion. But suddenly, the faint sound of voices became clearer. They were close. She let out another scream, her voice raw and raspy, but she couldn’t stop herself. “HELP ME!” she cried, even as her throat tore with the effort. She wasn’t sure if anyone heard her, but she kept calling out, praying that this time, it wasn’t her imagination…

Then, without warning, a pair of hands tore through the darkness. Light poured in, blinding her, and Bo-Moon flinched as rough hands grabbed her, pulling her out of the black plastic that had held her captive. Two men wearing gloves and face masks hovered above her, their expressions filled with horror. She screamed again, thrashing and kicking, terrified they were more monsters coming to hurt her. “CALM DOWN!” one of the men shouted, trying to restrain her gently. “We’re here to help you!” Bo-Moon blinked against the harsh light, her vision blurred by tears and fear. The men helped her stand, their hands carefully cutting away the duct tape from her wrists and ankles. When they finally freed her, Bo-Moon tried to look around, but her eyes couldn’t focus. All she could feel was the strange wetness on her skin. The workers stepped back in horror, one of them stumbling as he whispered, “Oh my God…” When Bo-Moon finally glanced down, she saw what they were reacting to—her entire school uniform was drenched in dark, maroon blood, caked in grime. She was standing atop a mountain of trash, having been buried in a heavy-duty black trash bag…

The truth hit her all at once: she had been left for dead in a city landfill. But against all odds, she had survived…