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Chapter Four

Seokga

“S ubtle,” says Seokga, staring through the glass at the mammoth that is the SRC Flatliner. He slides down his sunglasses to take a better look, practically pressing his nose to the window. Not that the glasses are even relatively necessary in Jeoseung, where the sky is varying shades of black and gray—and it’s so early that the blazing red sun is still hidden. The shades are for a dramatic, brooding sort of effect. Seokga is quite peeved about being here, after all.

“The ‘flatliner’ bit is Yeomra’s idea of a joke,” Hwanin says with a sigh, standing next to him on the skywalk that leads into the Flatliner ’s maw. Behind them, a steady stream of chattering gwisin file past, excited to begin their journey. “He’s proud of it.”

Seokga says nothing, still glaring with thin lips at the ten-stacked-decks monstrosity, taking in its glittering black hue that reflects the Seocheongang’s crimson waters. Indeed, Seokga is so focused on staring at the ship in reluctant admiration that he doesn’t notice that the Red Thread of Fate is slowly undulating through the air, untangling itself as it finally, finally—after seven years of disorientation—senses a clear path toward her.

“It’s not as witty as he thinks it is,” Seokga mutters, although his neck has craned, eyes flicking past the sparkling light inside dozens of windows to latch onto the ninth (and second-to-top) deck, where there seem to be a number of pools.

“I agree with Seokga,” Dr. Jang says from where she stands next to him, wrinkled hands clutched nervously around her tote bag. For the very first time, Seokga is seeing her in something other than her usual blouses: She’s donned a festive Hawaiian shirt for the occasion, and she’s even wearing pink flip-flops with little flamingos on them. “It’s a bit gauche.”

“Indeed,” mutters Seokga, staring at the flamingos.

Three tickets. One for Seokga. One for his insufferable brother, who’s left his son temporarily ruling Okhwang in his place. And one for his psychologist. Apparently, Seokga’s “vacation” doesn’t entail a break from his sessions with Dr. Jang. It is, in Hwanin’s words, too much of a risk, especially when considering your past antics, brother. Remember that time you led Gamangnara monsters into Okhwang?

So much for having become almost-sort-of friends.

Hwanin shakes his head. Unlike Dr. Jang, Hwanin is wearing his usual attire, earning confused looks from the onboarding ghosts. Seokga rolls his eyes. As much as Hwanin may deny it, Seokga is certain that Hwanin likes to be looked at. That he soaks up the attention like a sponge in dishwater.

Seokga isn’t surprised. They’re brothers, after all. They’re bound to have some similarities.

Dr. Jang rummages around in her purse before pulling out a mint, looking slightly green. For living creatures, the teleportation trip down into Jeoseung is extremely nauseating, and Dr. Jang is only a shaman. Seokga looks at her in sympathy before Hwanin, clasping his hands together, smiles in a reassuring way to his two companions.

“Shall we?”

“Fine,” mutters Seokga. Dr. Jang looks at him with pity, more than she’s ever shown in her office. Seokga bristles, suddenly uncomfortable. “You can take the therapist out of the office,” he snaps as he follows Hwanin into the ship, “but you shouldn’t take the office out of the therapist.”

Dr. Jang’s eyes flicker with hurt and Seokga momentarily feels like a colossal piece of trickster-god shit, but then he’s been swallowed by the SRC Flatliner and his guilt slips away.

The SRC Flatliner ’s atrium is startlingly reminiscent of the 1920s’ overindulgent glitz and glamour. The floors on which they stand are tiled shimmering slabs of black quartzite, smoky black tendrils stretching out across the wide expanse. Polished to a shine, they reflect the largest chandelier Seokga has ever seen in his extremely long life, its light dappling the lush velvet chairs artfully arranged below. Massive flights of stairs coil up and around the atrium, leading to what is undoubtedly an equally indulgent beyond. Stressed-looking crew members hustle and bustle on the floors above, visible from their heaving torsos up.

“Hwanin’s tits,” Seokga breathes, taking off his shades. The crowd of passengers seems to think the same. He sees one elderly man staring at the chandelier clutch his chest as if about to have a heart attack.

Dr. Jang, despite being somewhere in her seventies, giggles in unbridled cheer like a schoolgirl. “Quite,” she agrees, whatever hurt she felt forgotten in the face of such grandeur.

Hwanin makes a disappointed face at them both. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to my ti—my chest like that.”

Seokga opens his mouth to reply that it was Hani who taught him that particular euphemism, so he shall never stop—but something very, very peculiar happens first, and a sound embarrassingly similar to an undignified squeak leaves Seokga’s mouth before he can stop it.

“Brother?” Hwanin looks as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or place a hand on Seokga’s shoulder in concern. In the end, he does both. Seokga’s so shocked that he doesn’t even shy away from Hwanin’s touch. “Are you…?”

He doesn’t hear the rest of his words. The Red Thread of Fate has tightened itself like a boa constrictor around Seokga’s pinky, enough that all blood circulation has been cut off and his poor finger bulges in protest. But that doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter because the Red Thread of Fate is no longer tangled or twisted as it has been for seven whole years. No, it’s…it’s leading him toward the winding flight of stairs, one perfect line twining around and around before vanishing. It’s as if Seokga’s heart freezes in his chest for a moment in pure shock, before the ice around it cracks and his heart is suddenly pounding so hard that he’s certain it will punch through his ribs, through his flesh and bone…

“Hani,” he gasps out, legs suddenly weak but always, always strong enough to carry him toward the woman he loves, the woman he lost, the cheerful gumiho with a world of humor and mischief in her wine-brown eyes—the sunshine to his deepest night, the happiness to his immortal misery. “My Hani,” he rasps again, vision blurring as he begins to run, following the Red Thread of Fate toward his lost love.

He can feel it, at the end of the thread.

Someone is waiting.

Someone is waiting for him.