Three Eight-Chapter 72

Lowering his head in conflict, Hongju eventually raised it again.

"Why the hell am I like this?"

He suddenly felt ridiculous for staying up all night worrying about Mu-gyeong.

Sure, he’d sold even his peace of mind to him, so maybe it was only natural to worry.

But wasn’t he just borrowing trouble? Mu-gyeong would handle things his own way.

He had no idea how to manage this kind of emotion—it was the first time he’d ever felt it.

After gnawing at his lower lip a while longer, Hongju finally took his phone and headed to bed.

There was nothing he could do to help anyway.

He tried to escape reality with sleep, but only managed to close his eyes for a few hours.

As soon as he sat up, he scanned the apartment.

Then checked his phone.

"......Nothing."

Still no sign of Mu-gyeong.

Did something really happen?

He sat down again, right where he had been sitting just a few hours ago.

Should he go check the hotel? Or the House?

No—there’s no reason he’d still be with Guppping or Yang Siljang at this hour.

They probably played hwatu late into the night, and he crashed at the hotel.

Just like always, probably swamped with work by now.

As he checked the time, Hongju’s gaze faltered for a moment.

Was he acting like someone who knew Mu-gyeong too well?

"......."

All he really knew was the name and age—Seong Mu-gyeong.

The faint crease in his left eyelid.

His obsessively neat habits.

His refined airs, covering up a violent nature.

The scar along his side.

The clean, well-kept fingernails.

The habit of drinking beer every single night.

That was it.

Like someone with a controlled exposure limit, Hongju only knew what was visible.

His gaze drifted from the clock to the study.

He spent more time in there than in the bedroom.

What kind of work did he even do in there?

Was that room hiding the real Seong Mu-gyeong?

"......."

Suspicion and curiosity reared their heads once again, like always.

But this time, he couldn’t suppress them.

Hongju quietly grabbed the study door handle.

Creak.

The house was so quiet that the door’s opening sounded loud.

Swallowing dryly, Hongju scanned the forbidden room.

Books lining one wall, model cars, and a desk kept tidy, just like Mu-gyeong’s personality.

Silently, he moved toward the desk.

There was a neat stack of documents on one side.

"He always carries this around."

The company name printed on the file was familiar.

Glancing toward ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) the open doorway, Hongju swallowed hard and flipped through the top pages.

His eyes skimmed the text rapidly—until they stopped dead.

[Gu Hongju]

Why is my name here?

His heart began pounding, racing like it was trying to tear through his chest.

His trembling fingers gripped the paper tightly.

Pasted on the front page was a photo.

A frail-looking man in a worn padded coat, expressionless, staring off into the distance.

It was his own face.

"......."

His dark eyes moved to the dense text written below.

It listed the timeline of his life.

The age he entered the House, the jobs he did, how much debt he had collected, how much remained.

With cold hands, he quickly turned a few more pages.

His gaze locked onto something.

[Gu Hyeongeun / Father]

"Father?"

It was the name he had searched so long for.

Next to it was an old photo.

A man facing the camera, smiling faintly—his face lined with wrinkles, but still vibrant.

He looked nothing like the man who had shoved him into the House all those years ago.

"Before he got into hwatu, huh."

So he had looked like this once.

Hongju stared at his father's face for a long time.

Beneath the name and photo were notes similar to his own—date of birth, places he’d lived, jobs, when he came to the House, etc.

Things Hongju didn’t even remember.

The more he read, the stranger he felt.

Mu-gyeong had said he wouldn’t help.

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

But he’d gone and looked all this up.

Then why didn’t he say anything?

"What the hell."

His eyes, scanning in confusion, froze at the final paragraph.

[Five months after signing the debt note, kidney extraction proceeded. Debt paid with ₩100 million in cash. House owner Kim Jang-won insisted on additional child support for five months before returning the boy. Gu Hyeongeun, who sold his kidney before recovering, paid an extra ₩30 million. However, Kim Jang-won delayed payment and broke the agreement. Gu Hyeongeun died that year due to complications.]

"......."

[Although the debt owed by Gu Hyeongeun and Gu Hongju was already paid in full, this fact was not disclosed to Gu Hongju. Instead, he continued to be exploited under the pretense of annual interest repayment.]

His vision first went white, then black.

The paper crumpled under his violently shaking hands.

It felt like his other ear had gone deaf too—his head fell into eerie silence.

Hongju’s lashes fluttered slowly as he stared at the same words over and over again.

"......Died that year."

His father died fifteen years ago.

Not hiding out in the Philippines.

Gone. Dead.

The same year Hongju was locked in that tiny House room, beaten and crying, screaming for his father.

He’d suspected he might be dead—but never like this.

"Sell a kidney, like your old man did! Huh? You gotta try harder!"

"Your old man begged to sell his kidney to pay it off, you dumbass! Don’t you get it?"

So those throwaway comments were real.

Something hot surged up from his gut.

His vision blurred black.

He staggered, barely catching himself on the desk.

His eyes blinked back scalding tears.

"......."

So he had tried to come back for me.

He felt guilty for shoving his son into that pit, so he paid it off—with his organs.

And I spent fifteen years hating him.

Resenting him.

Waiting for him.

"Ah."

It felt like swallowing glass.

His throat burned.

Hongju beat on his chest, trying to keep his ragged breath going.

Thump, thump.

The nervous tapping soon turned violent—hard enough to bruise.

Maybe it was from all the beatings growing up, but even that didn’t really hurt anymore.

"Ah... ah..."

He clenched his fist tight, bones jutting out, and struck his chest a few more times.

Hot tears hit his cheeks.

His gaze dropped to the wrinkled paper as the tears began to spread across it.

Only after realizing he was crying did his eyes burn fiercely.

"Aaagh!"

Hongju collapsed with a scream.

He hadn’t cried aloud like this since he was a child.

But now, like it was second nature, he sobbed.

"Dad... what do I do...?"

The small photo flickered before him.

That awkward smile.

The hand that had shoved him toward Yang Siljang.

The back that turned away through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

It all tangled with black rage.

He wept and gasped for a long time.

Then wiped his eyes harshly with the back of his hand.

He scrubbed his soaked cheeks and jaw.

The dampness in his swollen eyelids began to dry.

"Guppping... Gupping..."

He sprang to his feet.

Grabbing the phone off the desk, he dialed the number.

Unlike earlier, his hands didn’t hesitate.

Brr, brr.

As the line rang, Hongju rushed out the front door.

Mu-gyeong didn’t answer.

He didn’t even think to grab the phone Yang Siljang had given him.

His mind was blank.

Wearing only what he had on at home, Hongju stepped into the cold wind.

His worn sneakers stomped the ground furiously.

It was a long run to the House, but there was no time to think of anything else.

He was just glad he’d memorized the way.

His side burned like it was being ripped open, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t know how long he’d run.

He only knew that as soon as the familiar street came into view, the fury reignited.

His gut felt frozen from breathing in too much cold air.

He wondered if his father had felt the same, after they carved his organs out.

"......."

Biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, Hongju ran up the House stairs.

As soon as he reached the third floor, his bloodshot eyes darted around.

Choi-geun, seated at the desk, looked up in surprise.

"Whoa, thought you were Doksu. What the hell happened to you?"

"Where’s Guppping?"

Choi-geun scanned him up and down.

In this weather, he was wearing a thin, oversized coat. No wonder he looked off.

"Something happen?"

"I said—where’s Guppping."

Spitting out each syllable like broken teeth, Hongju stepped toward the desk.

Choi-geun, sensing something off, tensed his eyes.

"...Over there. What’s going on?"

He jerked his chin toward the room with the safe.

Hongju shoved past Choi-geun and yanked open the drawer with frozen hands.

Clatter!

The contents tumbled and scattered.

His reddened eyes scanned for what he was after—a knife wrapped in newspaper.

The one brought in by that rampaging pastor a few days back.

"......."

Didn’t think I’d be using this.

Gripping the blade with its blue-tinged edge, Hongju headed straight for the back room.