Bad Life

Simon Caster (시몬 캐스터, Simon Kaeseuteo) became an instant star with that drama he filmed eight summers ago while raping me.
He rose to such prominence that no American worth his salt failed to know Simon Caster. At first he enjoyed modest fame as a TV-series actor, only to resurface years later as the lead in the action-movie franchise Thief. He became one of Hollywood’s most celebrated movie stars. The second installment of Thief grossed over a billion dollars worldwide. Now, with the third and final film set to premiere, he was touring the globe for promotional events—and happened to be in England.
Unlike Jerome, whose whereabouts I could never track, I kept meticulous tabs on Simon’s comings and goings. Though I hadn’t realized until now that he was in England, I regularly checked paparazzi sites to note his address, his favorite restaurants, even the gym he frequented—just in case the day came when I might confront him.
I never imagined that day would come now.
“We have to include Simon in the plan,” Jerome said nonchalantly. “If he ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) spots you, he’ll never let it go.”
We were plotting to infiltrate Timothy’s mansion in Releium. Our objective remained frustratingly vague.
We’d arrived in Releium a week ago. As soon as we stepped off the train, Jerome led me to a two-story house with a tiny garden. It was his hideout—far more domestic than the apartment where he’d killed Anna. Lace-trimmed floral curtains, crocheted seat cushions… I stared in bewilderment until Jerome suddenly said, “Returning here means you’re ready to be sold to the elder sir, just like we first discussed, right?”
At my silent stare, he snapped his palms together. “Excellent choice, Raymond. You’ll sacrifice yourself to aid my revenge.”
Yet our week of preparations felt completely inscrutable. Every day Jerome returned from errands carrying something new: guns and ammunition, then a few walkie-talkies, once an entire set of formalwear and shoes. He always smelled faintly of antiseptic, as if he’d visited a hospital.
On this evening, with steamed Chinese takeout pushed aside, he spread blueprints and maps across the table—and suddenly began talking about Simon.
“In two days there’s to be a grand party at the Releium estate. Officially it’s a preview for a celebrity fashion line, but ‘preview’ is just an excuse. It means Club night is on. Simon will attend that night—Timothy personally invited him, and Simon’s old friends are hosting.”
“I’d rather not run into Simon, but you’re no lucky charm,” Jerome grinned as I studied the plans. The Releium estate wasn’t as vast as the Mulsby mansion, but the main house was lavish. Hidden deep in woodland, we needed the map to orient ourselves. Jerome’s blueprints numbered dozens of sheets. Paparazzi photos had shown a modest garden, numerous outbuildings, and an opulent glass atrium like a transplanted rainforest—and even a sizable lake.
Pointing to the first-floor banquet hall, Jerome explained, “This is where the party will be…” His fingertip slid across the plan and stopped at the subterranean level. Beneath the wine cellar lay a vast, purpose-unknown lower level.
“Club night happens here.”
“So they’ll sacrifice victims again?” I sneered.
Jerome shook his head calmly. “I suspect not—Christopher’s condition will prevent it.”
“…”
“If Christopher’s out of commission, the elder sir might have backups, but who knows.”
His nonchalance chilled me. Only now did I grasp Christopher’s plight: he’d been stuck down there the whole time—when I stayed at Stella’s, when I fled with Jerome—always in that Club.
I recalled Jamie’s brutalization inside the Club. They hadn’t punched me, but Jamie had been beaten mercilessly, trampled, left nearly broken. I dared not imagine what they’d do to Christopher. His bloodied face flashed before me, and I fell silent. Jerome, watching me closely, said,
“As I told you before, I won’t be rescuing Christopher. He should’ve run when we did—he was foolish. Now there’s no saving him.”
He tapped several spots on the basement plan. “You’ll naturally learn of your own chance to escape. Unlike Christopher, you’ll seize it—then use these passages.”

“…”
He went on: “The easiest exit, though risky, is through the wine cellar—it connects directly to the kitchen and leads aboveground. Second, a more discreet but challenging route: from the basement corridor’s far end, a marble-handled wardrobe conceals a secret passage into the estate’s drainage tunnels. If you follow it, you’ll reach a hatch leading outside—you open it from inside the tunnel.”
“…”
“Those and the Club’s main entrance are the only exits from the basement. Raymond!”
He raised his voice and gripped my jaw with his cold, large hand, pulling me close. Face to face, he whispered threateningly,
“Forget Christopher.”
“…”
“If you walk straight to the elder sir, he’ll soon forget Christopher ever existed. Your job is to find Simon at the party and never lose him.”
I pushed his hand away wordlessly. Jerome released me and continued calmly,
“I’ll go into the Club myself and seek out the elder sir.”
“You’re going to get caught on purpose?”
“Precisely, Raymond. I’ll go, admit who you are, beg forgiveness. I’ll embellish your relationship with Simon. The elder sir will be furious—he’ll come down rabid to capture you both. Your role: accompany Simon and let yourselves be caught.”
I eyed him skeptically.
“You said opportunities to escape would arise?”
“Trust me and get caught. The chance will come.”
I didn’t believe him. I stared at Jerome and asked,
“And after that?”
“After what?”
“What will you do?”
“You don’t need to know. You agreed to sacrifice yourself for me, Raymond.”
I thought nothing of sacrificing myself for Jerome, and my sole aim remained uncovering the top-floor boys’ past—yet I kept silent. Jerome clearly sensed my unspoken doubts but smoothly shifted the subject back to the blueprints. I interjected,
“What if I betray you?”
“Betray me?”
“What if I run off with Simon? A genuine lovers’ escape this time.”
“I trust you,” Jerome said without hesitation.
“You’ll betray Christopher first.”
“…”
Hadn’t he said this wasn’t a rescue plan for Christopher? I said nothing and listened as Jerome resumed. Perhaps rescuing Christopher lay in his true intent. Even while insisting he’d hand me over to Timothy, he’d detailed escape routes—contradictory, yet I sensed my escape was part of his scheme.
The night before the Club infiltration, I spread my pistol collection on the table, disassembling and reassembling each one to pass the time. I kept no weapon for myself—too risky—yet the mechanical motion calmed me, so I fiddled with guns all evening.
Jerome lounged on the sofa, chain-smoking as he watched. Suddenly he jumped up, strode over, and placed a small box on the table. I eyed him warily, then opened it. Inside lay a pair of ornate diamond cufflinks.
“Want to try them on?” Jerome asked.
“…”
“I want to see how they suit you.”
I glanced at him, then asked, “Where’s the suit?”
He pointed to the bedroom. Inside lay a tailored suit and matching shoes. Without turning on the light, I undressed slowly.
Half-dressed, shirt draped around me, I sensed his gaze and turned. Jerome stood in the doorway, watching me intently as he traced each scar, each tattoo between my thighs. I buttoned my shirt, ignoring him.
He observed silently as I finished dressing, fastening cufflinks, donning jacket, tying tie. When I perched on the armchair to slip on my shoes, Jerome stepped forward, knelt, and gently removed each shoe to guide it onto my foot. He’d managed to get the perfect fit without ever asking my measurements.
Once both shoes were on, he lifted my foot onto his thigh and snugged the laces tight. I met his gaze as his cold hand gripped my ankle—his fingertips pressed atop my bone. After a long pause, he released me, pressed a brief kiss to my knee, and quietly left the room. I sat back, staring at the empty doorway for a long time.
That night, for the first time since we arrived, Jerome slept beside me. Like a spoiled boy, he crawled into bed, wrapped his arms around my waist, and entwined his legs with mine. I fell asleep against his chest and woke near dawn to find him gone—he’d moved to the living-room sofa, covered by a sheet. I crawled over, hugged him from behind. He lay rigid until I settled, and didn’t fall back asleep until I did.
In the morning I awoke alone in bed. One suit remained; the other was gone. A note and the keys to a luxury car lay on the living-room table. The note gave time, place, and one line:
“Tidy your hair before you come.”
I looked up at the mirror on the wall. My hair, cut by my own hand at Stella’s, looked a mess. I dropped the note into the ashtray, lit a cigarette, and watched it burn to ash.
We rode in Jerome’s chauffeur-driven sedan toward the Club.
The mansion lay deeper in the forest than I’d expected. Thirty minutes from town, we crested a hill to see the Releium estate by its lake. Rain had just stopped, and mist rose over every surface. The drive down the private lane was lit by evenly spaced lamps, and cars ahead slowed our pace until we reached the grand approach.
I parked valet and stood under an umbrella held by a servant, marveling at the illuminated façade. The house glowed in myriad colors; every window shone, and booming music pulsed within—more raucous than any Mulsby party. Inside the red-carpeted entrance hall, crowds jostled. I struggled not to step on dresses, and was swept outside by the press pack. In the vast vestibule a photo call was underway.
Celebrities posed before a giant billboard as camera flashes went off nonstop. I stared at the reporters, cameramen, and photographers, awestruck by the sheer audacity of hosting a Club night right under hundreds of lenses. One wrong move and every secret in the basement would surface.
I turned, seeking another entrance to the banquet hall—but stumbled into an usher who grabbed my arm.
“Next group this way, please!”
“I—” I tried to protest, but she pushed me toward the billboard. Unable to resist a woman two heads shorter, we scuffled as cameras swiveled onto me. Flashbulbs popped, and in those few seconds it felt as if hundreds of shots were taken.
The ushers opposite gestured frantically. Resigned, I slouched, turned toward the billboard, and hurried across the carpet. The shutters kept firing. When I finally escaped the press crush, I weaved through the crowd and slipped away into the ballroom.