The locker room of the "Yoshido" team. One hour after the match.
The creak of the door shattered the oppressive silence. San Liu burst inside, his footsteps echoing loudly against the tiled floor. The damp air was thick with the smell of sweat, deodorant, and something sour—as if someone had left a wet jersey forgotten in the corner.
He scanned his players with a sharp gaze. Jung Ho sat on the bench, gripping a towel in his fists. Ming You leaned back with his head tilted upward, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The others avoided meeting his gaze.
"Where the hell were all of you?!" San Liu's voice cracked like a slamming door. Jung Ho flinched.
"We—"
Ming You cut him off without looking away from the ceiling.
"Relax. I told them not to come to the game."
San Liu slowly turned to him. His fingers clenched involuntarily.
"...Care to explain?"
"What's there to explain?" Ming You finally lowered his head and looked at him. His empty eyes held not a trace of regret. "The team isn't ready. So, there was no point in showing up just to lose."
"I don't get it. What do you mean 'not ready'?" San Liu took a step forward, and Haru Lin, sprawled on the bench, snorted.
"We're still weak, isn't that obvious?"
"Exactly!" Lu Shen chimed in. "Until we're as strong as Ming, we have no business aiming for first place!"
"Did you even try?!" San Liu felt blood rush to his temples. Ming You leisurely stood up from the bench and stepped forward.
"Even with me, we would've lost anyway."
"You still had to show up for the game!"
Ming You tilted his head, and the shadow from his wavy black hair obscured his expression.
"We decide what we're obligated to do. If we acted rationally and avoided a guaranteed loss—then we made the right call."
"The right call?! You—!!!" San Liu took an angry step forward, but Jung Ho jumped between them.
"We really are weak! We all need to train harder!"
San Liu froze. His gaze swept over the team—Haru Lin smirked, Lu Shen ignored him, and Jung Ho stared at him with some foolish hope.
He spun on his shoes and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the handle rattled.
Silence.
Ming You sighed and reached for his backpack.
"Well, keep training. Once I'm confident in your strength, we'll move forward together."
"We won't let you down," Jung Ho nodded, but then Lu Shen suddenly blurted out:
"Yeah! Once we're trained up, we'll kick your ass!"
"A bit crude, but I agree!" Haru Lin snorted.
Ming You smirked playfully, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder.
"Glad to see the enthusiasm, guys." He shot a wider, more insincere smile at Lu Shen. "Especially yours, The King of Masturbation."
He left, leaving the door slightly ajar.
For a second, silence hung in the locker room.
Then everyone burst into laughter at once.
"Why are you all looking at me?!" Lu Shen shrieked, turning red. "Ming was talking about Haru!"
"What, you forgot Ming's the smartest here? If he says you're The King of Masturbation, then you are," Haru Lin taunted, shoving him. Hong Ren, who had been silent in the corner, suddenly added:
"That's definitely you, Lu. Haru's just The Master of Mastrubation, but you? You're The King of Masturbation."
The team erupted into even louder laughter.
Haru Lin suddenly scowled.
"The hell are you talking about?!"
"Alright, guys, enough jokes," Jung Ho said, calming his laughter as he stood up. "Time to train."
He headed for the exit, and the rest of the team followed, still chuckling.
…
The next morning, the basketball club manager's office was tense with silence. San Liu, hunched over paperwork, didn't even look up when the door suddenly swung open without warning.
"Hi-hi," came a cheerful voice.
San Liu slowly lifted his gaze from the documents, his face twisting in irritation.
"You still have the nerve to greet me with that fake smirk?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Not to mention barging in without knocking!"
"Oh, sorry, didn't know you were jerking off at work..." flashed through Ming You's mind. "Ugh, I'd love to snap back, but I need info fast... this itch... damn it!"
"Well?" San Liu leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Did you come here so I could admire your stupid twitchy grin, or what?"
"No," Ming You took a step forward, keeping his expression neutral. "I need info on the upcoming games."
San Liu nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Y-you—" He gripped the pen on his desk so hard it nearly snapped. "How dare you ask me for that after what you pulled?!"
"And?" Ming You shrugged. "Are we just not gonna play at all now?"
"Who's 'we'? I'm talking about you!"
"What's the problem?" Ming You leaned casually against the desk, palms resting on the edge. "Why not just give me the info on the next game? Why dwell on one incident?"
San Liu slammed his fist on the desk as he stood up.
"If the team skips games just because you're 'sure they'll lose,' then that's unacceptable!" His voice trembled with rage. "Since that's your attitude, I see no reason to share anything with you. From now on, you can manage without game info!"
Ming You paused for a second, then sighed with exaggerated remorse.
"It was a one-time thing. I promise it won't happen again."
"You're a liar!" San Liu jabbed a finger at him. "That fake smile, your ridiculous arrogance, your dirty tricks in games—what's the point?!"
"The same point as you and the team," Ming You finally allowed his smile to soften slightly. "Winning. So, calm down and let me lead the team forward."
San Liu froze, studying him. Heavy silence filled the room. Finally, he exhaled sharply and dropped back into his chair.
"Fine. I'll believe this was your only stupid mistake. But if it happens again, forget about my help. Understood?"
"Got it, got it. Next time, only wins—I promise. So, lay it on me."
Grudgingly, San Liu reached for a folder on his desk, pulled out a few sheets, and tossed them toward Ming You.
"The winter tournament is coming up—possibly national level. No official invite yet, but chances are high since we took second in the inter-school tournament."
Ming You snatched the papers and skimmed through them quickly.
"What about the other teams? If it's nationals, there'll be a lot of visiting teams, right?"
"Sharp as ever. Yeah, I've got notes on some teams likely to compete." San Liu smirked, and Ming You leaned on the desk with a performative smile, propping his chin on his hand.
His coal-black eyes glided over San Liu with cold curiosity, as if gauging how much his feigned friendliness would be believed:
"Mind if I take a look?"
"Ugh..." San Liu rolled his eyes but handed him a flash drive. "Here."
Ming You grabbed it, his gaze lingering on its shiny surface for a split second before pocketing it. He straightened his clothes and strode confidently toward the door.
As he reached it, he pressed the handle smoothly, and the door swung open silently. Pausing on the threshold, he turned back, his lips curling into a smile—sickly sweet, dripping with false warmth that barely masked the cold calculation beneath:
"Thanks. Bye-bye."
"Hey, don't forget to return that!" San Liu barked after him, but the door had already slammed shut.
The school hallway was nearly empty. The school day was coming to an end, and most students had already gone home. Only the occasional voice echoed from distant classrooms, and the creak of a door being closed by the last teacher broke the silence.
Ming You walked at a steady pace, a flash drive tucked in his pants pocket. His backpack, slung over his shoulder, swayed slightly with each step. He was almost at the stairs when a tall upperclassman with neatly combed dark hair and an impeccably pressed uniform appeared from around the corner. His posture and confident gaze marked him as someone accustomed to attention.
"Ming You, right?" His voice was clear but not aggressive. Ming You slowed his steps, frowning. He expertly feigned surprise and asked innocently:
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no, everything's fine," the upperclassman smiled, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "I'm Im Jaewon, the student council president. I'd like to talk to you."
"Sorry, but I'm in a hurry. So unless it's urgent, I'll be on my way." He had already taken a step toward the stairs, but Im Jaewon didn't back down:
"It'll be quick—I have a proposal for you."
Ming You stopped and turned to face him. His eyes were as empty as ever, but his face wore a practiced expression of weariness. Im Jaewon straightened, adopting a formal tone as if addressing a meeting:
"Given your academic performance and talents, I'd like to invite you to join the student council. We really need smart guys like you."
"I'm not interested, so I'll pass," Ming You replied without hesitation.
Im Jaewon, however, didn't seem disappointed. He merely tilted his head slightly, as if he'd expected that answer.
"But think about it. If you change your mind, I'm ready to welcome you anytime."
Ming You nodded without further explanation and descended the stairs, leaving Im Jaewon behind. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway until he reached the exit. He pushed the door open and stepped outside, where a fresh breeze greeted him.
Approaching his apartment, he took out his keys, turned them in the lock, and pushed the door open. After stepping inside, he kicked off his shoes, walked down the hallway to the living room, and tossed his worn-out backpack near the foot of the closet.
Slumping into the chair in front of his desk, he clicked the power button on his laptop, waited for it to boot up, and pulled the flash drive from his pocket. Inserting it into the USB port, he opened the folder with the recordings, double-clicked the latest file, and began carefully reviewing the gameplay footage, occasionally pausing to take notes.
"Gokudan… Kwan Soo… you again. How I want to kill you… this… this craving… damn it, what's wrong with me?"
Ming You scrolled through the recordings, highlighting key moments. His fingers flew over the hotkeys—pause, rewind, replay. He mentally simulated alternative moves, noting weaknesses in his opponent's tactics and his own mistakes. Sometimes he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a few seconds to visualize possible combinations before bending over the screen again, adjusting his strategy—until another wave of that inexplicable craving shuddered through him.
"There are so many talented players this time. They're all far beyond those from the inter-school tournament. These players… I'll get rid of them. Only I can be the talent—no one else has the right to surpass me… tsk, Kwan Soo… you're lucky."
Ming You proceeded to review the recordings of every team, meticulously analyzing the data. He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and a pen, then began drawing lines, connecting them into a clear structure. The resulting diagram resembled a tree with branches, each line representing a connection or hierarchy.
Then he started filling in the names. Beginning from the center, Ming You wrote down key figures, gradually moving outward. However, at the very top, one name stood out—"Kwan Soo", written in bold, almost glaring font. The other names—about ten in total—were positioned below, forming subordinate or related links.
Once finished, Ming You checked the diagram once more to ensure nothing was missed. Folding the paper neatly in half, he placed it beside his laptop, then shut the device and stood up.
He walked to the closet in the far corner of the room, his gaze briefly flickering to the nightstand opposite. Without hesitation, he opened the top drawer, where stacks of cash lay neatly arranged. With a practiced motion, he grabbed several bundles without counting—he already knew how much was there.
Then he turned to the backpacks hanging on the hook by the door. Choosing the most spacious one, he unzipped the main compartment and tucked the money inside, making sure the bundles were snug and wouldn't shift. Just in case, he checked the side pockets—empty, but that was for the best.
Before leaving, he paused for a second, scanning the room. Did he have everything? Was everything in place? Satisfied, he stepped out, sharply slamming the door behind him. The lock clicked with a dull thud.
After walking a few blocks, he noticed that night had fully fallen. Streetlights cast dim yellowish light, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Without lingering, he entered a hardware store, where bright fluorescent lights sharply contrasted with the dim streets outside.
Inside, he moved slowly between the aisles, carefully examining the shelves. Into his cart, he placed thick plastic sheets, several rolls of trash bags, a pack of rubber gloves, and a compact pump. Stopping by the paint section, he picked out two cans—one black, one white.
Leaving the store, he turned toward a busy road. His steps were measured, unhurried. He walked along the sidewalk, passing several residential buildings with muted light in their windows, until he reached a large furniture store.
Inside, he headed straight for the kitchen section. His attention was drawn to the cleavers—heavy knives with wide blades. He compared several models before selecting a set that included not just a cleaver but other kitchen knives as well. Nearby, he grabbed a metal ladle and a set of stainless-steel cutlery—forks and spoons.
After paying at the register, he carefully packed his purchases into his backpack. Leaving the store, he walked step by step toward the residential district, where gray high-rises loomed behind dense buildings. The air carried a mix of scents—smoke from a nearby café, gasoline from the avenue, the faint aroma of flowering trees. His path took him past a streetball court where, even in the cold season, enthusiasts gathered to play.
Ming You had almost passed the graffiti-covered fence when Taek Jung appeared from around the corner. He slowed his pace, narrowed his eyes, and sharply called out to him, raising his hand in a casual greeting:
"Hey, Ming."
Ming You stopped, turning to him with a lazy, faked half-smile.
"Hi-hi."
"Betting games are pretty dull without you, but it was more fun with you around," Taek Jung snorted, as if the answer amused him slightly. "You still gonna play?"
"I've got my own plans. Besides, I'm preparing for a regular game."
Taek Jung laughed, but the sound was short, almost businesslike.
"Suit yourself."
He shoved his hand into the inner pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out an envelope, slightly worn at the edges.
"Here's your cut."
Ming You took the envelope without checking the contents. The weight and thickness of the paper spoke for themselves.
"Didn't think you'd keep paying the debts honestly."
Taek Jung smirked, but this time, there was something almost respectful in his grin.
"Consider it a sign of respect." He paused, then added, squinting, "But don't expect all five million to be paid back, heh."
"I never doubted that."
Taek Jung chuckled and walked past him. His silhouette quickly dissolved into the thickening dusk.
Ming You stood still for another second, feeling the weight of the envelope, then continued on his way. The pavement beneath his feet was uneven, cracked in places, but he walked confidently, never looking back.
Entering his apartment, he took off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door, freeing his feet from the constricting black sneakers with a habitual motion. Walking into his room, he dropped his tool bag near the closet, nudging it closer to his backpack of notebooks and textbooks with his foot. Then he unbuttoned his school uniform, tossed it over the back of a chair, and quickly changed into a black T-shirt and matching sweatpants from the dresser.
He lay down on the bed, feeling the springs dip slightly under his weight. His eyes closed on their own, but relaxation didn't come—his facial muscles tensed, faint wrinkles forming on his forehead. A shiver ran through his body, and he felt a strange ache, as if something inside resisted rest.
"Hey, why are you hiding behind victory, huh? Be yourself."
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind. It sounded like Ming You's own voice, yet distorted, with a faint reverberation, as if emerging from the depths of his consciousness.
"Huh?" His own voice came out muffled. "Victory is everything. That's why I'm not hiding behind anything. I kill only for the sake of my goal."
Silence. Then—a chuckle.
"Goal? Bullshit!" The voice whispered again, laced with mockery. "You enjoy it. It brings you pleasure, satisfaction... Ugh... I, better than anyone, know this."
"It means nothing to me. I don't care. I do everything for victory because basketball is my only talent!"
Laughter. Loud, sharp, as if tearing through from within.
"Ha-ha-hah! Basketball? You still don't get it—your real talent, where you're truly unbeatable, is killing."
"It's just a method."
"A method? Stop fooling yourself! Killing is your talent! You're the perfect killer! No one matches you in murder—that's your gift, not basketball, where you're utterly mediocre!"
"Shut up!"
The voice didn't stop, growing louder, filling every corner of his mind.
"You're not a basketball player—you're a killer. A talented killer! An invincible killer!"
"N-no, I...!" Ming You abruptly sat up. Darkness thickened before his eyes. A ringing filled his ears. "W-what is this?"
"This is You. Only You."
Ming You clutched his head. His temples throbbed.
"Khh!"
And then—
Voices. Countless voices. His own, men's, women's. Voices multiplying, echoing:
"In the closet... in the closet... in the closet... in the closet..."
A whisper. Obsessive, repeating, like a broken record.
"Ghh—" Ming You grabbed his hair, nearly tearing it out. "W-what the—"
But the voices didn't stop.
"In the closet... in the closet... in the closet... in the closet..."
Ming You shot up from the bed, his heart pounding wildly. He flung open the closet doors, his gaze immediately drawn to a barely noticeable panel beneath it. His hands trembled as he shoved aside folded underwear and neatly hung trousers.
His fingers found the screws in the corners—cold metal beneath his fingertips. With a sharp twist, he unscrewed them, nails digging into the wood.
The panel gave way with a faint creak, and he lifted it—only for chills to crawl down his spine. The panel clattered to the floor as he froze in shock, his lips whispering on their own:
"How...?"
"Who do you think prepared everything for the killings, huh? Who came up with the fun tortures, and why did you always conveniently have the right tools? And finally—who took all these trophies?"
Ming You's eyes widened.
"It was you?"
"No, it was You! Look at them."
At the bottom of the closet lay his trophies—collected after the serial killings: five pristine, deflated basketballs, meticulously wrapped in transparent plastic. Each ball was packaged separately, like a museum exhibit preserved from the slightest damage. The deflated shells were deliberately smoothed and flattened into near-perfect circles, though the edges remained slightly uneven from the creased rubber, emphasizing the emptiness inside. The centers, however, were flawlessly even, as if measured with a ruler. They stood in a row, neatly arranged like trophies, each holding its own dark history.
Ming You slowly reached out, his fingers gliding over the smooth plastic as he pulled out the farthest ball. Instantly, a cold, clear voice echoed in his mind:
"Your fourth kill and your first trophy—Hee Rak."
He set the ball on the floor, then reached for the next. The plastic rustled faintly as the voice, as if waiting for this moment, continued:
"So Ho. That brat dared to oppose you. He was the first to dig, the first to doubt. But in your game, you were stronger—so why did you keep him? Though... don't answer. I already know."
Ming You didn't flinch, merely placing the ball beside the first before picking up the third. The voice responded with a faint sneer:
"Guk Chhol... quite the formidable opponent."
The fourth ball, barely touching his fingers, triggered another surge—the voice now sounded mocking, almost admiring:
"Suk Chhon... so clever, even in death he made you work for it. His trophy should be valuable, but to you, they're all the same. After all, they're already dead."
The last ball rested in his palm, and the voice, as if creeping closer, whispered:
"Kai Rin Wu... how meticulously you planned his murder. And yet, he nearly escaped, nearly broke your ritual..."
Ming You arranged the balls before him in a flawless line. Then he lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs in a lotus position. His eyes closed, head tilting slightly—he inhaled the scent of rubber, dust, and something else, something intangible. His arms slowly spread wide, fingers trembling faintly, as if grasping invisible threads.
And then—wind. Not physical, but an inner, piercing whirlwind, sweeping away all sound. The voice cut off, vanishing, leaving only silence behind.
Now, he was alone.
With them.
With all of them.