You could view this story as a novel based on true events, or as a work of complete fiction with no basis in reality.

　　Feel free to enjoy the read, but consider yourself warned.

　　The story begins now. Do you wish to continue?

　　If so, I have one word of advice before you start: if you feel an overwhelming chill while reading this, stop immediately. Ignore whatever appears on your screen and close the window.

　　We wish you the best of luck.

* * *

　　Our Happy Home

　　People call Mom a whore. To my face, behind my back, shoving me, spitting on me. They say she’s a dirty slut, a rag so filthy no amount of washing will ever clean it.

　　The crazy bitch is getting married again. Wonder how long this one will last. I just hope she doesn’t get pregnant and kill another baby.

　　She relies on nothing but her pretty face—lazy and stupid as hell. When she runs out of money, she should get a job, but what can a woman do when she’s never even washed her own filthy underwear? I won’t live like her. I couldn’t if I tried.

　　Why did you give birth to me? You get abortions like it’s nothing, so why keep me? Why bring a creature like me into the world just to use me as a punching bag? What did I ever do wrong?

　　Checking the date, I saw it was an entry from a diary I’d written right when I started high school. A dry laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. To be precise, it was when I’d been forced to transfer to a new school because of my mom’s scandals.

　　My mom’s hobby was marriage. Her specialty was marriage. Her livelihood was marriage, too. My current stepdad had nothing to do with the new marriage in this diary entry; he was just someone she’d met after that one fell apart. Good grief. Nothing had changed at all.

　　“It’ll only end when she dies,” I whispered to myself. “When she’s dead.”

　　I held the worn diary in both hands. My eyes, which had just crinkled in a bitter laugh, were suddenly burning with tears. The stinging sensation was humiliating beyond words, so I squeezed my eyes shut.

　　“Just hang on for one more year. Once I earn money and move out, it’s over. Just one year, and I’ll never have to deal with that woman again.”

　　Right then, a knock sounded at the door. Knock, knock, knock, knock. A precise, rhythmic signal. I didn’t tell whoever it was to come in, and they didn’t ask permission. It was our secret code. The door opened on its own.

　　“Unni.”

　　It was Hamin, my little sister—the only daughter of my third stepdad. I didn’t know how long she’d be my sister, but she was the person I wanted by my side forever. If I could choose my family, she was the only one.

　　Mom had been officially married three times, not to mention a whole string of live-in boyfriends, so explaining who belonged in my family was always complicated. Just when I thought I had the explanation memorized, we’d move somewhere else, and the cast of characters would change.

　　Having to explain everything in tedious detail with phrases like “To be exact,” “Honestly,” or “Actually” had grown more exhausting by the day.

　　“Yunseo, Dad said we’re leaving before twelve, so get ready.”

　　I didn’t turn around, waiting for the redness in my eyes to fade. Trailing off as I mumbled that I’d be right out, I closed the diary carefully and slid it into my desk drawer. Hamin didn’t ask any questions, but she didn’t leave my room either.

　　I heard her soft footsteps approaching. Soon, Hamin’s thin arms wrapped around my waist. A gentle warmth spread across my back. Her small, fragile frame—her forehead barely reaching my shoulder blades—held me tight, motionless for a long moment.

　　“I feel weird,” she murmured. “This sudden family trip… and dragging us along for no reason.”

　　“Are you running a fever again? If you’re not feeling up to it, tell him you’re sick and can’t go.”

　　“I already tried, but Dad said absolutely not. Besides… I don’t want to be away from you.”

　　“We just saw each other again after so long,” Hamin added, her voice trembling softly. I quietly covered her hands, which were wrapped around my stomach.

　　“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat tightening.

　　Hamin shook her head against my back, hugging me tighter.

　　“Don’t apologize. How could anyone endure living in this house? You had to get out. I’m really fine.”

　　“I was going to save money, Hamin… I was going to make money first and then get you out of here. I really was…”

　　Tears spilled helplessly. I had always been good at holding them back, but I couldn’t control them now. Hamin flinched in surprise, still holding me, then turned me around to face her.

　　There she was. The face I had kept avoiding because I lacked the courage to look at her after coming home—the face I had missed so desperately.

　　“I know how you feel better than anyone. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here right now. You always fought so hard for me, and you took on so much pain. So please… stop crying.”

　　Hamin gently wiped my tears away. Then she pressed her lips to my swollen, burning eyes, one by one. The dry, delicate brush of her lips swept repeatedly across my eyelids.

　　Feeling her touch, I stroked the arms holding me. I pressed my tongue firmly against her wrist, which was scarred by a deep depression. A faint, tender whimper escaped Hamin as she kissed my eyes. At that sound, we urgently reached for each other’s faces, our lips locking together.

　　Outside the bedroom door, the man and woman made a racket packing for their golf trip. Using their noise as a shield, we kissed in quiet, burning passion.

　　Entwining our tongues and breathing each other in, I gently traced Hamin’s thin ribs and waist. Her fragile body, which felt as if it might break at any touch, quickly grew warm beneath my hands.

　　We had erased the social label of sisters long ago. To us, such titles were meaningless formalities imposed by others, never an obstacle to what we were becoming to each other. We had only each other, and that was the true definition of our bond.

　　“Ah, Dad said to hurry up and bring you…”

　　“I know.”

　　I cut her off quickly, clutching the hem of her dress covering her thighs. Hamin shifted slightly and murmured no, placing a firm hand over mine on her skirt. It was a clear boundary—she couldn’t go any further right now.

　　“Dad’s been in a horrible mood lately. If we’re late, he’ll just spew more bile and make you miserable.”

　　“He’s always in a horrible mood. It’s not like anything will change just because you walk on eggshells.”

　　Still, I humored her, letting her know I’d do as she wanted. I pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, which was perpetually pale from anxiety.

　　“When we get to the resort and share a room, you have to let me then. Got it?”

　　Hamin nodded, the edge of her ear flushing red. I took her earlobe between my lips and licked it softly.

　　“I’ll pack a few quick things and be right out. Go ahead, Hamin.”

　　A fleeting spark lit up her eyes. Delighted by that rare flash of spirit, I offered her a bright smile.

* * *

　　The summer destination Stepdad had chosen was a famous resort connected by Mongdol Bridge. Featuring a massive golf course that hugged the West Sea, the entire island was dedicated to the resort. While famous for its top-tier, exclusive facilities, its most notorious feature was Mongdol Bridge, the sole access point to the island.

　　Mongdol, or smooth sea pebbles. The bridge spanned a bed of these rounded stones, and whenever waves crashed against them, they clattered together with a noise like croaking frogs. The currents beneath the bridge were swift and treacherous, with violent undertows, making it a notorious location for suicide in the past.

　　Once you jumped, you would never surface again. You’d be swept away by the rapid currents until your body washed up in some mudflat—which was why it had been so popular among those looking to end their lives.

　　However, after aggressive media campaigns lobbied by the corporate group obsessed with the resort’s image, no one associated Mongdol Bridge with suicide anymore.

　　I had only learned these details through Hamin. I wondered who had told her such specific stories about the past, and how.

　　“Ha! Moving like a damn snail. Does that asshole even know what an express lane is?!”

　　Stepdad slammed his hand on the horn, picking a fight with the car in front of us. He was always like this, acting aggressively as if he could force anything out of his way through pure rage.

　　“I told you we needed to leave before twelve! If we can’t even get into the resort and waste all that money, what the hell are you gonna do?!”

　　Mom didn’t bother answering, casually scrolling through online shopping sites on her phone. She was always like this, too. She’d dodge any criticism directed at her until she couldn’t ignore it, then cozy up with her pretty face and whine to defuse his temper. I always wondered how such cheap tricks could possibly work, but somehow, they did every single time.

　　Either Mom only fell for brainless idiots, or her manipulation skills were genuinely masterclass. It had to be one of the two.

　　I stared out the window to avoid catching Stepdad’s fierce glare. If I caught his eye at a moment like this, I’d be forced to endure a tirade of vulgar lectures until he blew off enough steam. To be fair, his anxiety wasn’t entirely baseless; even for a weekend, the traffic was brutal. Bumper to bumper, the sea of cars refused to budge.

　　We had to cross Mongdol Bridge before 5:00 PM, no matter what.

　　Stepdad pounded on the GPS screen, searching for any shortcut that might shave off a few minutes. It was a useless effort, but it was the only outlet he had. Unfortunately, the estimated arrival time kept ticking upward.

　　“Dammit, if it was gonna be like this, we should’ve eaten before leaving.”

　　“Babe, are you hungry?”

　　Mom, who had been engrossed in her phone, finally spoke up. She rummaged through the bag between her feet and pulled out a sweet red bean bun. Stepdad’s scowling face twitched with a bizarre mix of relief and adoration. What a match made in hell.

　　“Hey, how’d you know to pack that?”

　　“Don’t you know I always worry about your blood sugar dropping when you drive long distances?”

　　Mom purred, tearing off a piece of the red bean bun and feeding it to him. It was a sickening display, but if stuffing his face kept him quiet for a while, I considered it a blessing.

　　Hamin’s reflection appeared in the glass of the window, watching me. I locked eyes with her reflection. Behind the bag placed between us, Hamin reached over and took my hand. We laced our fingers together, sharing a quiet, hidden smile.

　　I remembered the first time Hamin and I had intertwined our fingers like this. Was she thinking about that exact moment right now? Even without looking at each other directly, we could tell what expression the other was wearing and what was passing through her mind.

　　It had been that way from the start. I saw the deep, pooling loneliness and despair in Hamin’s eyes, while she recognized the hatred and empty hollowness inside me.

　　Although I was a year older than Hamin, we were in the same grade. That was because I’d been shuffled from school to school due to Mom’s endless affairs with my teachers or my classmates’ fathers.

　　I had wanted to drop out and prepare for the GED, but Mom would never give up a venue where she could so easily hunt for men through her daughter’s school. Ultimately, the last school I transferred to happened to be Hamin’s.

　　Because the new school was close to my old ones, the rumors followed me. From my very first day, I had to endure glares of disgust and hostility. Only one person, Go Hamin, looked at me without a trace of prejudice.

　　It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Hamin was an outcast in her own right—someone who had survived multiple suicide attempts, spent time in psychiatric wards, and only managed to attend school because of her father’s fortune.

　　Two misfits, incapable of fitting into normal society, recognizing each other—that was the most accurate description. But back then, I never dreamed that two outcasts like us would end up bound together under the name of family.

　　“My mom died in an accident. She fell. They said she slipped and fell while on a trip with Dad.”

　　Hamin had told me that one day. She was crying, her body trembling violently.

　　“Tell your mom not to marry my dad. It’s dangerous.”

　　“She’s not the kind of person who listens to me. If she listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

　　“Yunseo… when I think about you being in danger too, I can’t sleep.”

　　Back then, Hamin took my hand and delicately laced her fingers with mine. That simple gesture made it feel as though we were bound together by something unbreakable. While Hamin was dead serious, I felt a fleeting rush of dark euphoria.

　　“If my mom marries your dad, does that mean we get to live under the same roof?”

　　“Are you even listening to me? That’s not what’s important!”

　　“Hamin, that’s the only thing that matters to me.”

　　Hamin sobbed that it wasn’t, that it shouldn’t be, collapsing into my arms and beating her weak fists against my chest and shoulders. It broke my heart that her punches didn’t hurt at all. Hamin’s fragility—the fact that the only thing she could break with those tiny hands was herself—made me profoundly sad.

　　“Ah, fuck!”

　　Stepdad’s harsh bark snapped me back from my memories. Both Hamin and I, who had been drifting in a haze, sat up straight in shock at his furious outburst.

　　“Honey, just hold it! You can go once we cross the bridge and get to the resort!”

　　“I feel like I’m gonna shit my pants right now, what do you mean cross the bridge?! You get out too and buy us something to eat over there!”

　　Stepdad slammed the car onto the shoulder near the entrance of Mongdol Bridge, unbuckled his belt, threw open the door, and scrambled out.