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“Who was that?” The man’s demand was rough, fed by agitation and the belief that he was not truly in danger. Her prey always made this mistake, every month like clockwork.

“She’s a shaman,” Miyoung answered because it didn’t matter what she told him and because, despite her morbid intentions, Miyoung was a proper Korean girl taught to respect her elders.

“Some quack fortune-teller?” the man spat out.

“People have no respect for the old ways anymore.” Miyoung clicked her tongue with disappointment. “True shamans do more than tell fortunes. They can commune with the spirits. As in the dead. As in the girl you killed last month.”

All the color leached from the man’s face. “How do you know?”

“Don’t you regret what you did?” she asked, as if the question was rhetorical, but she hoped for a sign of repentance.

As always, she was disappointed.

“Why should I be sorry? It was her fault.” The man’s face became bright red. “She should have kept quiet. I only tried to make her stop screaming.”

“Then you’ve made your choice and I’ve made mine.”

She felt the moon, heard it whispering to her, telling her to feed.

Miyoung let her energy flow, let part of her true form free.

The man gasped.

They wove behind her, nine tails made of moonlight and dust.

In this last moment before she took a life, she had a need to be her true self. No more lies or false facades. She’d show these men what took their lives in the end.

She gripped the man by the shoulders, letting his gi fill her until her muscles vibrated. The moon urged her to let go, to allow her baser instincts to take over. If she ripped out his liver, the process would be over in seconds. But Miyoung couldn’t bring herself to do it. And so she watched him die slowly, yet painlessly, as she siphoned his gi bit by bit. As simple as a person falling asleep.

While she became full, the man deflated like a balloon losing air. She loved the energy filling her, even as she hated herself for being a monster.

“Why are you doing this?” The man’s voice became slurred.

“Because I don’t want to die.” She watched the light fade from his eyes.

“Neither do I,” he mumbled just before he lost consciousness.

“I know,” she whispered to no one.

2

THE PC ROOMwas hot with thirty running computers, though only three stations were occupied. It was stuffy and dark and smelled like the shrimp chips and instant noodles sold as snacks.

Ahn Jihoon loved it. He clicked with nimble fingers, his left hand glued to the hot keys, his right hand sweeping the mouse over the screen.

“If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late,” Oh Changwan said, his hands waving like anxious butterflies with nowhere to land. He’d long since logged off after losing his own game.

“Then we’ll be late.” Digital armies marched across Jihoon’s screen.

“I can’t be late again.” Changwan frowned. It highlighted his exaggerated features. His ears were too big and his nose too long. A puppy who hadn’t grown into his looks yet.

Jihoon knew being late wasn’t Changwan’s problem. His problem was being timid and having a family rich enough to care. As the eldest son, he held the weight of the Oh name on his shoulders, which was only doubled by wealth. It didn’t sit well on Changwan, who was prone to anxiety and merely mediocre at anything he tried. It made Jihoon grateful he’d been born poor.

“Changwan-ah, you always worry about the future instead of enjoying what’s happening now. You need to learn that life isn’t worth living if you’re not having fun.” Jihoon narrowed his eyes, searching for the final tower on his opponent’s base. He found it with a triumphant grunt, and the screen announced victory in bold green letters hovering over his Protoss army.

“Great, you won. Time to go?” Changwan asked.

Jihoon stood and shrugged on his navy-blue uniform blazer.