TRIGGER WARNINGS: VOYEOURISM, Stalker behavior
Chapter 2 of "Honorables" contains content that could trigger unease related to voyeurism and implied sexual content, as well as suggestive and possibly controversial themes.
C2: The other side of the brand
The policeman saw two abutting manors closely aligned along the lines of the subdivision houses. His tired eyes observed the scenery around him as he placed the cumbersome boxes from his co-worker's pickup truck onto the ground. He looked up in slight awe at both manors before him, sighing, exhausted from his endless day. The sun was bright on his face, but he felt the same cold that always made the air feel like ice. It had only just started, yet the expected blue police hat on his head was nowhere to be seen; his navy long-sleeved police uniform with badges was not even visible. His clothes and old shoes were damp and slightly muddy from Tuscany, Italy. He had been away from his life in the tropical sun of the Pearl of the Orient Seas.
"A new start to a fresh life," he said to himself. "A chance to be more of 'a cop.' A silly thought." He could be running away; at least, that's what other people would say. A change of name and a different look, from his short hair to the long hair he now had tied up, was one change; his formerly clean-shaven face now had a little overgrown hair. Anyone who had known him could certainly think he was running away.
"Helios," what a stupid, common name for a new man, he thought. It was rather peculiar for a modern person living where names derived from gods aren't that popular unless they are religious or derived from literary works. The name begged for attention and to be different. He didn't want to stand out, of course, yet he still used his new nickname to present himself, and the idea was worth considering in this new place. If somebody accidentally called him "Hel," he wouldn't have more things to explain. Helianno Escanto Andres, that was his real name. It was closer to the name he had chosen, which was suggested to him by a friend. This wasn't meant to hide something. He was neither a spy nor a criminal, no, of course not. Escaping was the bare minimum, and he could attest that it was a futile response to a reaction from a person skipping town because of his family. His feet found themselves in this place instead of the Philippines, where his family was involved in politics. He was dismissive of this issue; in other words, he didn't want to be part of the lineage. This reaction to reject the job that was passed down to him was what his parents called an illness that had affected them once or twice. He might vomit at the idea of it, but it was a tied-down solution to maintain their status.
Hel just ran. Not into politics, but he ran away. Having a passport and using it, along with the money controlled by his parents, was that running away? This barely qualified as running away. In all honesty, he could just leave without getting anything from the bank or using anything from it, but Hel was used to getting whatever he wanted through the bank. God knows how much he swore that he'd never leave his credit card wherever he went. Despite all of this, his footsteps stretched across the ground as he strode toward his new house and brought in his boxes and bags with little care if his parents found him here in Italy. He had just turned twenty years old and was trying to find himself, right?
To his taste, the house was just right for him. He didn't choose the type of house he would live in, yet he agreed to this setup anyway. The house itself was quite modest. He wasn't expecting anything extravagant; he placed his clothes, a television, a radio, and some other small items that he could easily replace if needed. Heliano was settled in. He strode toward the second floor and sat on the sofa near the window to take a rest. However, feeling the hot sun radiating as if it were inside the house, he opened the windows to let the air in, his eyes landing on the greenery surrounding his home. Hel was sure he would visit this place again. The silence around him, along with the rustling of the leaves on the branches of the trees, created a sound that could only be heard here. He knew his parents or their security would arrive days later, and absorbing this moment would be just fine—a moment to relax and—
As he peered over the neighbor's garden, he saw a woman with golden hair; her fingers slid on her sleeves as if tempted to unstrap them, as if wanting to bask in the sun. As the strap fell off her shoulder, Helios immediately shut the blinds. His heart raced as if he had just run a marathon. It was an instant taboo for him. The woman was not attractive, at least not according to Helios and his standards. She may have seemed pretty enough with her blue eyes and blonde hair, but that didn't necessarily mean she was "beautiful."
This scenery was taboo, something he wasn't used to seeing, and he had never seen a person barely wearing clothing, a female specifically, and he didn't want to see it even if he was alone and she might not know—Wait. He should stop thinking about this.
"Miss!" a person screamed, which made Helios somewhat curious. He contemplated for a moment before going back to peek. A man in a suit with a bob haircut came running toward the blonde and swiftly threw a towel over her before Helios could even see her bare chest.
"What if the neighbors saw you like that?" he said in an agitated tone. "You could get into serious trouble," he added.
The lady looked puzzled and then asked calmly, "What's this about neighbors? I'm alone here… now that you're here, I guess I'm not alone anymore." Helios watched the lady grab the man's tie as her hand caught him and guided it to the fabric of his pants. "Am I teasing you carnally?" Her dainty fingers toyed with each of his long fingers as if playing the piano.
"Miss Lady," Bruno grasped his master's wrists. "Not here."
The reader frowned as he clicked his tongue, putting down what was written on the paper. "This thing is too provocative," they said. Their thoughts were all over the place, and the idea of Helios was too. Are the people who will read it ready for this kind of narrative? Is this appropriate for the line of mangas they are releasing? What even is this? And what is the real problem of the main character? It doesn't make sense, does it? They pulled up the next stack of pages inside the rough brown envelope. Could it get worse, or…
"I've always thought about going to the ball with you,"
"You are funny, Mr. President."
"Don't say it just yet," he muttered as he drew her closer, pulling her in, his feet moving forward and backward, guiding her. His hand traveled from the curves of her back to the back of her neck, caressing it before sinking his fingers underneath her hair. She laughed as her hands responded to him, gliding down to his butt and slightly grabbing it.
"Is this a move you've always wanted to do with me?" Helios asked. She laughed. He thought.
"Why not? You're my husband! Am I not allowed to touch you like this?" she whispered in his ear, giving him a tickle.
"You're like a vulture." It was a double-edged compliment and a critique. The president held the back of her neck and pulled her hair.
"I just really like your butt." It was a double-edged compliment and a critique. The president held the back of her neck and pulled her hair.
"Ahhhhhhh…" The fingers of the reader cracked as he pressed on them, stretching the numbing feeling in his fingers. Their eyelids slowly closed, but not from the cold wind coming from the ventilation. God knows what the hell they looked like and did before reading these words?
Midori always handled situations like this. As a reader, he always had the first view of the drafts, but as an editor, he polishes and oversees the things the writer expresses while also attending to the blue-colored pencil lines on the paper with green squares and numeric numbers that serve as a guide to print the manga panel drafts, which are safely placed in a brown envelope. Yet this person in front of him was one of the omniscient gods. Everyone knew him in the office, where no one spoke about him unless he allowed it.
Midori rubbed his hands, trying to generate warmth from the friction to ease his discomfort over the head's comment about his talent, Haneul. God knows he often distracted himself by looking over the lines of the hand-drawn posters around the asymmetrically shaped office, as if this hadn't been planned in the building from the start. Of course, he knew this would happen; Midori realized that's why he couldn't help but look in different directions around him: the tiny cobwebs that were left uncleaned in the corners, the slight light coming from the window blinds, and the piled-up manuscripts. The editor had known all along that this was a bad idea, yet he also recognized that the head would acknowledge that his recruit's idea was significant, and he truly believed it would catch the readers' attention as he did, too.
"Midori, what do you plan to do with this?" The head tossed it onto the table, just enough for it not to slip or be considered an angry gesture. His eyes stared down at the paper with the drafts that were placed on the table.
"I don't know. This is heavy." It was the truth; Midori was cornered with this reality once again. "I think we should change the names and create a fictional country." A simple remedy, yet it could cost a lot more than that. "We could even add some mystical and supernatural elements so that it'll be unrecognizable." He bit the back of his lip and lightly chewed on it, one of his knees could not stop going up and down as if shaking, yet he wasn't nervous. "It's the least we editors can do." The head frowned, looking down at a figurine with five black circles and three ribbons on its head to avoid a lawsuit against a company.
"You always know the implications of this when it gets published," his superior sighed, retrieving a handkerchief from the pockets of his pitch ink-stained blue trousers. "This can harm you..." He points at Midori, "and that guy who drew this." His finger drifts across the paper, inadvertently snapping as it settles on a hand-drawn landscape, ink splotches masterfully depicting multiple hand-sewn puppets engaging in activities typical of a small village, where the vast mountains loomed in the background. "And what he represents."
"Mido, your child likes to pursue things that could get him into trouble. God knows that your creative child could make some manga out of real ones that—hah." He can't even articulate this one, yet the image of Haneul preparing to trudge alongside other young mangakas for research and inspiration like the one he drew—the province where townspeople were replaced by dolls—flashes before his mind. "His works will get banned. Pushing these boundaries so far could hurt anyone. Fiction always has borders in reality. It is our job to maintain that border." Frowning, his pointing finger directed at the defaced mangas and folders of manuscripts scattered on the floor near the door. "Despite having emotions and feelings rooted in reality, there are things a writer shouldn't cross. The borders of fiction are slowly thinning because of that word: creativity and truth-seeking aspirations of every author. Warn your child, or he'll soon become like those." These were the example mangas he kept in mind, aware of the authorities. He only had access to them once a month—just a sample for artists daring to pursue that path, a warning, and these were the echoes of those who dared to be innovative, creative, and so on. "Stories influence readers as much as we don't like to admit. Your child needs to learn this now before his case worsens." He exhaled sharply, "I know why you tried to submit this to me, but I hope you understand that one day you're drawing something about your feelings, and the next day it turns into a political art piece being discussed—it's better for them not to be curious about these." The reader rubbed his cheek, deeply sure it would jeopardize the mangaka's career.
"Writers… no, all creatives are built that way. These manga artists I chose are ones I believe will be prominent names, if not now, in the future." Midori affectionately referred to his manga artists as children, influenced by people calling him a child during his college days in the Filipino community. "Especially now, they are more sexually open about things and other topics. Not like before, you know, the difficulties of debuting a manga with a female protagonist in a shōnen one, just because shōnen was 'made for young boys.' I always thought it was limiting."
"Hah… you do know that this man has encountered good ones too." The head smiled as he touched the block of wood with his name, Katsuki Hotaka, before sitting back in his office chair. It reflected the status in which he had been raised. It was old, yet Hotaka always viewed it as a sacrifice he made to attain that position. He even dismissed good ideas that he believed were innovative and futuristic. As a consumer of stories, it was rather disappointing to shut those down. "The only platform those people can now run to is being independent artists and publishing online for free. It won't earn them much money or a larger audience without putting it on a popular site. The chances of gaining popularity through art are slim with all talents being saturated in one place." Katsuki is an editor and was a former mangaka and mangaka assistant; he knows the industry well.
He tossed the block to Midori. Although Midori struggled to catch it, he picked it up from the floor and held it. "Why throw that, sir? I could get hurt—" Katsuki Hotaka only laughed loudly. "Well, do better to catch it. Because soon enough, you'll have that kind of block with your name on it." The head placed a new plastic one on his desk, still with his name, and ripped off the plastic that covered it. "Midori, times change. I may have done something significant to raise our company's value, and right now, new companies like ours are emerging. Save these drafts. They'll be important for future generations—as you can see. Who knows, it could be a bestseller." Katsuki opened the paper bag with the food that Midori bought as a token of thanks for at least opening the pages of the manga proposal. As he picked up the cup with the soda, he took a drink. "Just filter these out for now."
"I really love these soft drinks (飲み物)," he exhales as he looks back at Midori. "They changed the taste, but they still bring back the memories I had."
"Editor Midori, I hope you will make the right decision regarding that and your child. Guide him continuously. You may go now." As Midori bows and thanks the head, he places the triangular wood on the table.
"No, no… bring that one," the head said as he motioned for him to bring it out. "I have a new nameplate." Midori, despite being confused by what he said, brought the block out along with the drafts. "Ah, and also make it clear to him to have only one point of view unless he can transition it better." Katsuki Hotaka, looking at Midori as he ate his meal, thought of texting that person… or maybe calling them. As he slurped the hanging sweet-style spaghetti, he fished out his phone and immediately searched for the number he was going to call.
"Ah," he cleared his throat as he went to the window with much better signal while the other side of the line picked up, "Hello, Miss Lady, I found an interesting story you may want to read."
—------
Days had gone by without any single news show not leaving the assult on the mangaka Haneul Jeo's unmuttered by the news agency that there were on going concerns of the safety of these writers. Talks shows were also making references about the situation too and that even the people on the net have been contemplating about this situation. As leaks of the alleged manuscript that made people shoot Haneul arised. Midori's biological children was the one who pointed these out to him. He was thankful at least he have someone who knows the internet around. Midori has read through the "leaks". It was infact what Haeul submitted. Leaks have always been a problem in this industry. He doesn't have any clue on who leaked it. Was it one of Haneul's manga assistants? The one from the publishing company? He started asking them one by one yet he ended up with nothing.
"How are you holding up the narrative?" one of his editor's coworker asked smoking just beside him outside taking a break as placed a mint candy on his own mouth. "I mean, Haneul was shot again. Man that guy really can't stop being a problem you know. The last time he almost got killed by some guy from the internet forum he pissed, now this… You really have a problem child no?"
"Agh. This is beyond hopeless, Nagai!" He can't help but force his boiling pressure inside himself biting the soft souffle pancake that he carries with a wrapping paper.
"The only remedy you can do though is just be there at the present, make excuses and deceive the readers if you want."
"Deceive?"
"You know, get their sympathy. Make them realize how wrong they were. Make them feel guilty."
"What?"
"Or you can just leave it that way and will resolve sooner or later."
"What are you saying that I do?"
"Leave it?"
"No, the other thing…"
"Make them feel guilty…"
"Where did that came from?"
"From me."
"Making them guilty?" He can't stop it now; the only thing he thought he could do was make a false one or just look away from this. In this moment, Midori was the protagonist who doesn't know what to do or to his own words a foil in a literary piece awaiting to do a flight or fight response to help him and his current position. Despite that he went on the daily schedule that he had created, looking over the works of the artists under him, commenting and writing suggestions. Midori is the real person. Being an editor for manga is terrible-the guilt of rejecting pieces yet he rejects it. Yet he was always there for them.
"Haneul Jeo. How is he?" He coaxed the doctor who has been looking out for the mangaka.
"He's still in the critical condition and has still not waking up."
"Can I see him?"
"Unfortunately no. He's still in the ICU and his body is sensitive to-"
"Nevermind, just take care of hm." As an editor he have some of responsibility here on what to do. He'll write down a note for the readers since everyone already knew about Haneul Jeo's situation. Maybe Nagai's some of Nagai's suggestions were right. Should he manipulate or just let it pass? Midori sighed and with a heavy heart just resigned to whatever destiny gives it to him. The hospital cradles different types of people, Haneul Jeo and Midori isn't the only ones who are alive here. Life around these personality moves in a jagged, rough, smooth paces. There the young ones who haven't seen the world yet and the ones who are on the beds recovering, others work in late night shifts other sjust work on a job whatever day or time it is and some who are in stale, some them were others who died. And the other ones who watched them on the sidelines.
"Stop staring at kids, you're giving them creepy vibes."
"Shut up. I just looked that way…" the person muttered, looking away from the babies in the infirmary sleeping in their own incubators. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked away from the hospital, with the one who commented on her watching following closely behind her, leaving space between them. Her hair, purple and pink, was blown against the wind of the cold winter air, but the clips on her hair didn't budge from their place; they remained there, clipped.
"You still love to donate money to the hospital, huh, even though you're already a shareholder," the woman beside her said, pulling a cigar out of her pocket. However, it was quickly extinguished by the fingertips of the other person she was talking to and was thrown into the nearest trash bin. She was a smoker too, but she always kept it hidden from the public and only smoked when she was alone.
"Don't smoke, or else you'll be the one I'm donating to next time."
"Hah."
"Think about the people recovering here. You're influencing them to adopt unhealthy habits of yours."
"Stop acting like you don't smoke too."
"At least when people surround me who are still recovering." She tucked her hands into her pockets as they got into her van. The driver swiftly maneuvered the wheel toward their next destination. No words needed to be spoken.
"Your driver really knows where to go, huh." The driver knew her schedule, and for a busy woman like her, it was necessary to know where they were going. She just hummed in reply; it was an obvious yes—what else could it be? A no?
The van suddenly came to a halt, which made everyone jolt in their seats.
"What is it?"
"I think I hit someone." She rushed to open the van's door and walked out to see the victim, with slight blood dripping down onto the road. The victim was still sitting, his palms keeping him from falling to the ground. The driver immediately got down from the van as she moved to check on him. His blood pooled on his white long-sleeved shirt.
He wasn't stabbed, but he was hit by the car. The blood on his shirt begged to differ. She slightly frowned.
"Call the hospital," she instructed the driver. Although they were near the hospital, the risk of making the injury worse made it better to call for help. She checked his arms, pulling up the sleeves; her eyes saw gashes and bruises. Was he hit by their van? She pulled out two extra handkerchiefs from her pockets. Her eyes traveled to his feet; his shoes were worn out but kept newly polished, slightly staining the hems of his pants. Was he applying for a job?
"Hey, sir, can you still hear me?"
He looked up at her. Dark irises met her auburn ones. Both had bags underneath their eyes, indicating fatigue. Asking if the man in front of her was okay would be a comedic scenario after all; he was bleeding.
"Sorry, I—" he muttered.
"No need. Is there anything else that hurts you?"
"I think I'm—"
"You're bleeding, sir."
"Don't move; wait for the ambulance. Any movement could worsen your condition." She held up her handkerchiefs, ready to apply them to his injuries and stop the blood flow. She wasn't sure about it, but she was sure that there was something bleeding inside him. "Can I inspect your injury?" He only nodded as he let her reach for his abdomen. It was surprisingly dry. How long had she been talking to him? It had only been a few minutes, right? Right? As she pressed on it, there was no blood that gushed out, unlike earlier. Was this a prank or a scam? She looked down at the ground, her other finger touching the blood that had dripped earlier. This was surely blood; she had seen this fluid more than once and had some experience with it from being exposed to it inside the hospital. She unbuttoned his shirt and looked for where the blood was coming from, but there was no present cut or injury until it suddenly dripped once more, only to dry up immediately.
"JUST WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" Maybe it was fatigue that made her see it differently, her head reasoned out, but she pushed the handkerchief where it was bleeding. I should be calm. This is just fatigue or something. Focus on stopping the blood flow. Her thoughts were onnly then silenced by the sirens of the ambulance, avoiding anything more than worry for the person right in front of her. When the responders arrived, they put him on a stretcher and rushed him to the hospital. As she looked down once more, there was a folder right where he had sat. She picked it up, thinking it was important to the victim.
"Turn the car; we'll go to the hospital," she said, and the driver followed her orders. The driver's face showed no care about what had happened nor worry about what would happen to him, as if he had already seen such a thing. Drivers who cared less about their well-being or what would happen to them were the kind that should always be on her side.
"Just what the hell was that, though? Is that person alright?" the person she was with asked again.
"Some person, some accident, but they aren't dead."
She shivered at her response. "Man, you're lucky you're with her; she'll protect you alright," she commented toward the driver, tapping him on the shoulder, but the driver just ended up ignoring her. As they entered the hospital, she looked over the victim. Her hands closed, caressing her own arms as she waited; her hair brushed against her neck, fanned by the cold air.
The doctor came out.
"He's doing well. He had a few lacerations, and his old wound opened up, which is why you saw his blood dripping down. You can talk to him now. He has been looking for the files he had, though. I advise you to talk it out before it gets worse."
"Thank you for the advice," she said as the doctor walked out. Her eyebrows met slightly, forming tiny scrunch lines right between them. Could she be suspicious? Probably. Strangely bothered by the advice that felt like it could lead her on? Yes. She had witnessed the blood dripping and had gone missing for a couple of seconds. Was it something that could be medically explained? Was it the wound the doctor was talking about?
"H-" she stammered, her voice trembling in the sterile air as her eyes darted back to the doctor walking down the hallway. "Doctor-" her foot dragged on the tiles, almost picking up pace to a light jog, then to a run. But when she reached the edge of the hall that connected to the other, he was gone, and the only thing she heard was a Japanese person speaking through a speaker about paging a doctor for a surgery that needed to be done. It was the third paging. Maybe they are paging him? She inhaled sharply, catching her breath. She didn't run, did she? She'll just ask the victim, she thought, walking back towards the door where the victim was.
The fabric of the bed swished away with one movement, removing anything attached to him without any IV or oxygen hose attached to his nose. The victim rose from the bed. Looking down at his stomach, he felt it pulse. She immediately rushed in and tried to hold him up.
"Please, don't do that, sir. You'll hurt yourself even more. My driver and I—no, we accidentally hit you with the car, and—"
"I need to get to my job interview. My family—I need to—" She held up his shoulders.
"Sir. Calm down. Don't worry about the job interview. I'll explain to them why you are late. Just breathe." Her fingers reached out for the button to call the nurse.
"Nurses, can you please place the needles back into this patient in this room? Thank you." With a few responses of "yes" and some questions, she focused back on the person right in front of her.
"Sir. You must calm down. Don't worry about the hospital bills. I'll pay them. Just sit there and let's wait for the nurses to fix it up." She placed a hand beneath his arms and helped him sit comfortably on the bed. As she breathed in, she inhaled the sharp scent of the metallic tang of iron from the blood flowing down the tiles, along with the deep, gnawing smell of clinical antiseptics that pervaded the small room. Although it was something she requested, the private room couldn't avoid that. Most people would have frowned, but she remained unperturbed as she continued pressing on the back of his hand to stop the blood flow. When she saw that he remained still until the nurses had mended the wounds and replaced the blood and IV, she settled into a chair and sat down.
"Do you mind if I look over your files?"
He lightly shook his head sideways in response. He could barely comprehend anything inside his head.
The plastic cover stretches as she pulls the folder up.
Name: Joe Han
Age: 26 years old
She looked above, finding the objectives in his resume. He was applying for a position as a bodyguard. Her lips curled a little. In what way could she help? She asked herself.
"What company do you want to apply to?"
"I'm applying for a family bodyguard just down the street."
"Why don't you just work for me as a bodyguard?"
"A stranger asking me to be their bodyguard?" Han looked up at her, frowning a little.
"Mr. Han, I work for a company where you'll be paid handsomely." She picked up a pen from her pocket along with a small notebook and wrote it down. She placed it in his hand, and his eyes widened.
¥10,000,000,000,000
"Just as a bodyguard?!"
"Ah. Take it or leave it." She wasn't sure what compelled her to do this much. Was it the heart of pity that had been pounding inside her chest? The curiosity about the bizarre occurrence that happened when this man was hit and when he bled? Even her own mind felt this was something she'd never offer. She questioned it within herself. "Mr. Han, I do not doubt your intentions for applying for a job. As a person who hurt you, I believe that I have the responsibility to rectify my mistakes." Her warm hand rubbed the other side of her cheek that wasn't facing him. "I do believe that it is my responsibility to fix the mistakes my companions and I made."
He looked at her as his eyes began to pool with tears, his hand slightly crumpling the sheet of paper. "This—this is—my—this can pay what I owe now." He couldn't help but cry like a baby, with a small drip on his nose flowing down. She reached into her pockets and gave him a handkerchief. Reaching out swiftly, he wiped it.
"I'm sorry—" he inhaled. "I can't help but cry. This is so much. I—"
"I'm just paying what I owe."
His hands reached for her arms. "Thank you—thank you—" She tapped his hand in response. "May I know the name of the Miss I'll dedicate my life to?"
"Sheil Escantellian. Please address me as She."
"Madam She, I cannot thank you enough for this."
"Han, I expect you to do your job properly after recovering." Her eyes looked into his once more; to anyone else, it might seem like a look of dismissal or raise suspicions within their guts, but with her kindness earlier, it would mean the world to anyone she reached out to. He let her hand go. She didn't know this man aside from his resume, the accident, his response of tears, and most importantly, the strange occurrence with the blood. This man right in front of her couldn't be trusted, at least for now. Suddenly, a sharp knock interrupted the silence. She turned toward the door, opening it for anyone to come in, yet her brows furrowed in confusion when no one entered. She peered outside, and the corridor was completely empty, not a soul in sight. Maybe they had just knocked on the wrong room. But where was everyone? The absence of even a silhouette sent chills through her. This had been going on since earlier. This had lasted too long.
"Here," she said, setting a sheet of paper before him. "This is my assistant's number. She'll help you settle into your work and keep an eye on your condition." As she wrote down the number, she added, "You'll start working on Saturdays and Sundays as a test."
"Th-Thank you."
As soon as she walked away and went back to her schedule, the doctor who talked earlier to her went in his room.
"Mr. Jeo, you shouldn't move much." Startled, he turned back to the voice. "You were just admitted here 24 hours ago, and you found yourself out on the streets again."
"You're not talking like a doctor," Haneul Jeo muttered.
"I'm the doctor assigned by your company to look after you. I'm the English-speaking one, so you can understand the things I can say clearly—"
"I can understand any language, even Japanese. I don't need—"
"Hey, listen up, buddy." The doctor couldn't hide his voice dropping. "You need to listen to me and take my advice seriously. I'm not used to operating above ground. I've seen people as reckless as you end up in worse positions. You need to control yourself."
"I'm a mangaka," he replied. "I'm supposed to be curious. If I don't have any questions about anything around me, then that's not being myself. At the same time, it would be the peak of humanity's downfall—when we all stopped thinking and started acting like robots, resigning ourselves to what fate has dictated we do."
"Hah. You're definitely not on bad drugs, but you speak like one. You're even pretending to be another person, creating a background story of a job applicant just to infiltrate and gather information for your literary piece. Unbelievable." The doctor looked at Haneul, noting the wounds on his stomach. He didn't even know what was going on or how it happened, but the mangaka in front of him was still in pain.
"Mangaka-san, you're strange, you know that?"
"You are also strange, presenting yourself as a company-hired freelancer."
"Well, I am. No?"
Haneul Jeo scrutinized the doctor, a man of many faces, yet truthfully, he only has one. "You're a doctor who has many faces, just like you said earlier. I'm sure you don't look like that underground." The doctor's face is just an average person's face, in Haneul Jeo's opinion. There are no striking features or moles on his face. He looks like an average Japanese person—something non-memorable, like anyone who would just walk the other way to cross the road.
He chuckled. "What's the plan now, Mr. Mangaka? Do you intend to whisper closer to death?"
"I want to publish the truth coming from the origin so that it'll be realistically rooted. Having a share in its truth, the story will be relatable. Don't compare me to others who stopped their actions just because they were blocked by the forces around them. I dare not respect anyone except the truth itself." He crossed his arms and legs as he stated this with a firm voice.
"You remind me of a person I know. He is the same as you, but you're the hopeless one— even irredeemable." He adjusted his white coat, putting it back on. "Good luck then, Mr. Haneul Jeo, or should I say Joe Han?"