"Date me."
"..."
"I’m here."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Say something, dammit!!"
"Ah! Oh....! Um...! So... so.. uh..."
"Stop dawdling."
"S...Sorry.... So...Do you like me?" Soohi asked looking at Nabi in a way that rubbed Nabi in a really wrong way.
It was as if a person were asking a cat if it liked them.
"Do I have to for us to date?" She snapped in annoyance.
"... "
"What?!"
Without another word, Yeon Soohi bolted out of the apartment as if she had seen a ghost.
For a second or two, Nabi was extremely confused.
How was someone right in front of her, disappearing suddenly as if the sky split open and snatched them up?
Nabi then realized that the answer to her proposal to date was running away in her face by Yeon Soohi.
"Ha....!" Nabi signed aa she looked towards the door of her room.
"What a hassle."
*****
There was no beginning to the rain.
It did not arrive in storms, nor did it ever seem to intensify or weaken.
It simply existed, falling in a constant, gentle curtain from a sky that was neither day nor night.
The clouds were the color of faded concrete, seamless from one horizon to the next.
There were no openings, no sunlight pressing through, no distant blue promising change.
Below it stretched an endless sea of roses.
The flowers reached in every direction without interruption.
Their stems grew shoulder-high, woven together into dense walls of emerald green, while thousands upon thousands of crimson blossoms nodded beneath the weight of rainwater.
Every petal shimmered with tiny droplets that never completely fell away.
New beads formed before the old ones could slide to the earth.
There were no paths.
No fences.
No mountains on the horizon.
No power lines.
No birds crossed the heavens. No insects disturbed the flowers. No breeze bent the stems.
The roses simply existed, extending infinitely beneath an endless rainfall.
The air carried the perfume of wet petals, fresh earth.
The sweetness of roses was overwhelming at first, but after hours—or perhaps days—it became impossible to distinguish individual scents.
Everything smelled equally floral, equally damp, equally suspended in time.
The rain made only one sound.
Soft tapping.
Millions of tiny impacts striking petals, leaves, and dark soil.
Together they created a whisper so constant that silence itself seemed impossible.
It filled every corner of existence without ever becoming loud.
The sound never varied. Never paused.
It was the kind of noise dreams invented when they wanted to imitate reality.
Every rose looked healthy.
Not one had wilted.
Not one was missing petals.
Not one leaned unnaturally.
They bloomed with impossible perfection despite receiving no sunlight.
Each flower looked identical.
Yet none ever decayed.
Rainwater pooled beneath them in shallow mirrors that reflected only gray skies and endless flowers.
Looking into those puddles never revealed anything behind you.
Only more rain.
Only more roses.
Eventually, somewhere beyond all reasonable expectation, something interrupted the field.
It was not a tree. As one would make a reasonable guess here.
It wasn’t a different type of flowers as in t#ngled.
Quite astonishingly...
It was a bathroom.
Not connected to a house.
Not standing beside a road.
A single three walled open bathroom, suspended in the middle of the rose fields.
White ceramic walls stood alone among the endless roses as though they had been gently lowered from another world.
They bore no signs of construction.
The building seemed to rise directly from the ground itself without explanation.
Its proportions were ordinary.
That was what made it disturbing.
It was exactly the size of a small residential bathroom.
A single wooden door faced nowhere in particular.
There was no porch leading to it.
Rain struck the roof with delicate persistence before cascading over the edges in uninterrupted sheets.
A lone frosted window overlooked the roses.
Bright white flourocent light shone from within.
The window revealed only vague whiteness that could never quite be focused upon.
Sometimes it looked empty.
Sometimes it looked occupied.
The difference depended entirely on how long one stared.
Inside, however, someone was always cleaning.
He had no face.
Where features should have existed was smooth pale skin stretching uninterrupted from forehead to chin.
No eyes. No mouth. No nose. Not even ears.
He wore immaculate black mourning clothes.
A long coat reached nearly to his ankles, untouched by mud despite the saturated ground outside.
Black gloves covered his hands.
His polished shoes never squeaked against the wet floor.
The clothing belonged at a funeral.
But there was no funeral in the bathroom.
He seemed awfully out of place there, standing with cleaning gear while obviously coming back from someone’s funeral.
Or maybe he was still there.
At the funeral.
There he remained.
Every second.
Every hour.
Every day that could never truly be counted.
Cleaning.
The bathroom itself was strangely ordinary.
White porcelain sink.
Oval mirror.
Bathtub.
Toilet.
Small cabinet.
Cream-colored floor tiles separated by thin lines of grout.
Nothing was expensive or exceptionally beautiful to be cleaned so thoroughly.
Every surface was already perfectly clean.
Still, the man continued.
He dipped a white cloth into a metal bucket filled with perfectly clear water.
No matter how much he wiped, the water never became cloudy. A cleaner dream water, if you’d ask.
He wrung the cloth with slowly as if he was performing some complicated mathematical calculation.
One twist.
Pause.
Second twist.
Pause.
Exactly three droplets returned to the bucket.
Two and four drops were fouls and irredeemable mistakes to this faceless mister.
Then he unfolded the cloth until every crease disappeared.
Only then did he begin.
Starting from the upper-left corner of the nearest tile, he pressed the fabric gently against the ceramic.
One horizontal stroke.
Half the width of his hand.
He stopped.
Lifted the cloth.
Examined nothing.
Shifted downward exactly one centimeter.
Repeated the motion.
Every movement matched the last with impossible accuracy.
The pressure never changed.
The speed never varied.
If measured, each stroke would likely consume the exact same number of seconds.
Rain tapped softly against the roof.
The roses stood still as there was no wind.
The faceless man continued cleaning.
He polished each individual tile as though it possessed immense importance.
Corners received special attention.
The cloth folded itself naturally into right angles beneath his fingers so it could reach every junction where grout met ceramic.
He traced those lines repeatedly.
Back and forth.
Back again.
Then once more.
It felt obsessive at times.
The grout remained flawlessly white.
No stain disappeared because no stain had ever existed.
Yet the cleaning continued with absolute devotion.
Finished tiles were never considered complete.
He returned to the first one and began again.
Exactly as before.
Exactly the same sequence.
Like a broken record stuck playing the same two lines of the song, never completing it and never moving onto the next.
Outside, the endless rain continued to fall upon roses that had no end.
Inside, the faceless man continued cleaning the bathroom.
Though it was uncertain why it needed cleaning because it had never once been dirty.
It was as the man wasn’t capable of stopping.
And it didn’t appear like he remembered why he had begun cleaning the bathroom in the first place.
Like a sick dream playing over and over again, the cleaning continued.
*****
Jang Song-rik opened his eyes the next morning, Monday.
Ah! We need to get back home early!!!
Song-rik panicked as he wriggled around to move. But...
...he felt something...
...inside him.
Yeon Doha was hugging him in his sleep from the back and apparently... his little partner was still inside Song-rik’s hole, chilling there like it was home.
Well, it is his home .... But!! Still!!
Song-rik felt his sanity fly away from as he found himself thinking that and agreeing with me, the crazy author.
But he still needed his ass’ freedom to get anything done now as he was awake.
He thought the best course of action would be to wriggle it out as Doha slept and sneaking out to wash up.
Alas, he forgot the cliche that is omnipresent in all boys love stories. And it is the following;
Whenever you think the other person is sleeping while you do something, there is a 99.9% chance that they are actually awake and just enjoying themselves.
Doha immediately pulled the wriggling away Song-rik back and pushed his dick back to its rightful place.
Song-rik, at long last, realized that this young robust alpha was awake and he was probably in for another round of pounding and being eaten.
He didn’t mind that of course... but... he had to be at work on time.
So, Jang Song-rik took the best course of action given his current options.
He opened his mouth and mouth...
" Until the day when the waters of the East Sea dry up
And Mount Baekdu is worn away,
May God protect and preserve our nation.
Long live Korea!
Like the pine atop Mount Namsan, standing firm,
Unchanged through wind and frost,
So shall our steadfast spirit endure.
Long live Korea!
The autumn sky is clear and cloudless,
The bright moon is our heart.
With this spirit and this heart,
Let us remain ever faithful.
With this spirit and this heart,
Let us love our nation.
Through sorrow or through joy,
Long live Korea!"
The man decided that it would be best to start reciting the national anthem to calm the situation.
Specifically, the situation up his ass.
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