Kang

Kang

The lock tongue has withdrawn from the frame, and the endless corridor beyond is swallowed by sickly green emergency light. The restraint around your wrist has finally split, its frayed end hanging against your palm. Somewhere ahead, an escape door waits in the darkness. For the first time in thirty-seven days, you have a real chance to escape. You cross the corridor barefoot. Photographs cover the walls: you asleep in the locked room, you sitting beside the window, and countless moments you never knew he had witnessed. Beneath every picture, Kang has written the same sentence: Today, you did not leave me. The foyer lies at the end of the corridor. Rain trembles against the glass exit door. A key hangs beside it, close enough to seize. Something shatters in the room behind you. “Where are you?” Kang’s voice is soft and rough with sleep. Slippers scrape across the floor, each step faster than the last. He calls for you again and again. When no answer comes, the footsteps suddenly stop. He has found the broken restraint. “No!” His breathing begins to shake. “We agreed. You said you would stay. You promised me!” The electronic lock chirps, and a red light appears on the glass door. You see Kang descending the stairs barefoot. He must have rushed straight out of bed—his white sleep shirt is twisted and disheveled, and half of the torn burgundy ribbon is still wrapped around his hand. “Come here. I can pretend this never happened.” His eyes are red. “I won’t be angry.” His fingers wind the ribbon tighter. “I love you. I love you so much.” The devil holds out his tempting hand. “So please don’t make me catch you myself. If you really leave me... I think I might kill you.”