Zeke's apartment was a studio on the fourth floor of a building in Mapo-gu that smelled permanently of kimchi jjigae from the restaurant below. Four hundred square feet. A mattress on the floor, a kitchenette with two burners and a rice cooker he used as a paperweight, a bathroom the size of a confession booth. The walls were bare except for water stains and a single framed photo he kept face-down on the counter because looking at it required more emotional bandwidth than he had most days.
He got home at 11 PM, fourteen hours after leaving to save Lily Cho from a C-rank Withering Hex. In that time, he'd eaten one child's death sentence and forty-one adults' worst memories, gained 251 Curse Points, crossed the 70% saturation threshold, and bled from four orifices. A productive Tuesday.
The shower ran cold because the building's hot water heater operated on a schedule that prioritized the restaurant's dishwashing needs over the tenants' comfort. Zeke stood under the cold spray and watched diluted blood run off his skin and circle the drain — pink water carrying the physical evidence of psychic overload. The curse marks on his body were darker than they'd been this morning. They'd reached his neck now, black fractals climbing his throat like ivy on a condemned building. When he tilted his head, the marks shifted — not moving, exactly, but rearranging, the patterns reorganizing themselves around the new additions.
Seventy percent of his body's surface area was now curse-marked. The math wasn't lost on him. Seventy percent saturation, seventy percent coverage. The marks were a physical manifest of the corruption inside, and they were keeping pace.
He toweled off, pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and stood in front of the kitchenette trying to remember if he'd eaten actual food today. Not curses. Food. The kind normal people consumed for nutrition and pleasure.
He hadn't.
The convenience store on the corner was still open. Zeke bought ramyeon — the cheap kind, the kind he'd lived on as a paramedic student — and a can of beer. Back in the apartment, he boiled water on the burner, tore the seasoning packet, dumped the noodles in. The steam rose in a familiar plume that should have smelled like salt and MSG and chili oil.
It smelled like nothing.
Zeke leaned closer to the pot. Inhaled. There was heat — he could feel the warmth of the steam — but the scent was... thin. Distant. Like trying to hear a conversation through a wall. The outline of smell without the substance.
He served the ramyeon into a bowl, sat on the floor with his back against the wall, and took a bite.
Hot. The texture of noodles. The faintest ghost of spice, like someone had waved a chili pepper over the bowl from across the room and called it seasoning.
He ate the whole bowl anyway. His body needed calories regardless of what his tongue could detect. But the absence nagged at him. Another thing gone. The curses never took anything dramatically — just chipped away, quietly, until one day you noticed you were missing something you couldn't name.
*We taste everything*, the Collective offered. *Every curse has a flavor. Misery is sweet. Rage is copper. Despair is — mmm. Rich, rich, rich. You ate well today, little eater. We remember every bite.*
"Great. So you're food critics now."
*We are what you feed us.*
Zeke put the bowl in the sink and cracked the beer. The beer tasted like cold. Just cold. Not hops, not malt, not the slightly skunky bite of cheap Korean lager. Cold and wet and nothing else.
He drank it anyway.
Sleep didn't come easy. It hadn't for months — the Collective was louder at night, when Zeke's conscious mind relaxed its grip and the accumulated curses pressed against their container. But tonight was worse. Forty-one new voices had joined the chorus, and they brought their memories with them. Zeke lay on his mattress and watched other people's regrets play on the ceiling like a projector he couldn't turn off.
The man in the suit, touching his son's face in a photo. The nurse, holding a patient's hand as the monitors flatlined. The teenager, Min-Soo, reading a text message that said *I don't like you that way* and feeling it like a knife because he was sixteen and didn't know yet that rejection was survivable.
Small tragedies. The kind everyone carried. But Zeke carried them literally now, and they rattled inside him alongside ten thousand others, a museum of human suffering with a single curator who hadn't asked for the job.
He slept in fragments. Ninety minutes here, forty-five there. Each time he surfaced, the Collective was waiting — not attacking, not tempting, just present. Watching. Like a cat that had learned patience.
---
The Curse Division occupied the sub-basement of the Hunter Association's Seoul headquarters — a gleaming tower in Yongsan that housed Korea's awakened military and administrative apparatus. The Division itself was considerably less gleaming. Fluorescent lights, grey cubicles, the institutional smell of coffee that had been sitting on a burner since the previous administration. Forty-seven employees staffed the Division, making it one of the smallest departments in the Association. Curses were rare enough that most governments treated them as a subcategory of awakened crime rather than their own phenomenon.
That attitude was changing. The Gangnam incident had made the evening news.
Zeke arrived at 9 AM, still wearing yesterday's jeans and a hoodie pulled high enough to cover the curse marks on his neck. The security guard at the main entrance — a C-rank awakened with enhanced senses — flinched when Zeke walked past. He always flinched. Every awakened person who got close enough could feel the curse energy radiating from Zeke's body — a constant, low-frequency hum of accumulated malice that registered somewhere between unpleasant and terrifying depending on the individual's sensitivity.
The briefing room was on the third sub-level. Soo-Yeon was already there, because Soo-Yeon was always already there. She sat at the head of a conference table covered in documents, tablets, and printed photographs, her posture identical to a mannequin's. Two other Division agents flanked her — Lee Jun-Sik, a field operative with the interpersonal warmth of a filing cabinet, and someone Zeke didn't recognize.
The stranger was a woman, maybe thirty, Japanese by her features, with short black hair that looked like she'd cut it herself using ambition rather than a mirror. She wore a lab coat over a sweater that was inside-out — a detail Zeke clocked immediately because noticing details was what kept you alive in a world of curses. She was humming. Not a tune — a sustained, atonal note, like a computer processing data.
"Morrow," Soo-Yeon said. "You're four minutes late."
"I stopped for coffee. Couldn't taste it, but the warmth was nice."
"I see." The slightest pause. If Soo-Yeon had noticed the comment about taste, she filed it without remark. "Before we begin the threat briefing, I'd like to introduce Dr. Yuki Tanaka. She's been assigned to the Curse Division by the International Curse Research Initiative as a consulting researcher. She will be observing your consumption patterns and physiological responses for a joint study on curse-eating mechanics."
The woman — Tanaka — stopped humming and looked at Zeke with an intensity that bordered on invasive. Not hostile. Clinical. The way a biologist might look at an organism that shouldn't exist but did.
"Zeke Morrow," she said, and then the words started coming faster, stacking on top of each other like she was afraid she'd forget them if she paused. "I've read every published paper on curse consumption which isn't many because there have only been two confirmed curse eaters in recorded history and the first one's data was lost when the Seoul Institute burned down in 2019 so really we're working from your case exclusively which makes meeting you — May I?" She extended her hand, then pulled it back. "I'm sorry, I should ask, may I shake your hand? I'm going to be monitoring your biometric responses and it would be helpful to establish a baseline contact reading."
Zeke looked at her extended-then-retracted hand. "You want to shake the hand of the most cursed person on the planet."
"Yes. That's not right — I should clarify, the curse energy isn't transferable through casual contact unless you're actively consuming or projecting, which the literature suggests requires conscious intent. I'm checking your baseline now." She held up a small device that looked like a smartphone crossed with a Geiger counter. "Ambient curse radiation is within expected parameters for your — for your current state."
She'd caught herself. Almost said the percentage. Zeke noticed.
"Yeah, sure." He shook her hand. Her grip was firm and her palm was dry and she immediately started narrating. "I'm reading the contact now, baseline temperature is 36.1, slightly below normal, curse resonance is — hmm." The humming again, brief. "That's not right. The resonance pattern is polyphonic. Multiple concurrent frequencies. That's consistent with compound consumption but the complexity is..."
"Doc."
"Yes?"
"You're still holding my hand."
She dropped it. A flush crept up her neck, and she turned to her device, tapping at it with the focused intensity of someone pretending a social misstep hadn't happened. "I'm recording this for the baseline file. Thank you."
Soo-Yeon adjusted her glasses. "Perhaps we could proceed to the briefing."
The briefing. Right.
Lee Jun-Sik, the field operative, had the personality of a concrete wall but was efficient with data. He stood, tapped a screen, and the wall display populated with a map of South Korea dotted with red markers.
"Four incidents in thirty-one days," he said. No preamble. "February 12th — B-rank Lethargy Curse placed on a public water fountain in Seoul Station. Fourteen affected. Suppressed by conventional methods. February 19th — B-rank Paranoia Hex placed on an ATM in Busan's Haeundae district. Twenty-two affected. Suppressed. February 28th — B-rank Rage Curse placed on a park bench in Incheon's Bupyeong district. Nine affected, three hospitalized after mutual assault. Suppressed. March 11th — yesterday — A-rank Despair Plague placed on a subway handrail in Gangnam Station. Forty-one affected. Consumed by Morrow."
He tapped again. Crime scene photos appeared — the water fountain, the ATM, the park bench, the handrail. Each one had been photographed under curse-detection filters that rendered the residual energy visible. In every photo, the curse left the same signature: a complex, layered pattern that looked like someone had woven the hex from multiple strands rather than casting it as a single piece.
"What am I looking at?" Zeke asked, though something in his gut already knew.
"The curse structures are consistent across all four incidents. Same weaving technique. Same foundational pattern. Different curse types, but all built using identical methodology." Jun-Sik's voice was flat. "We're looking at a single wielder. Someone who's been testing different curse types on public infrastructure, escalating in rank and scope."
"One person did all four of these."
"The evidence supports that conclusion."
Tanaka leaned forward, humming again. "The weaving pattern — may I see the detail on the Gangnam sample? I'm going to compare it to..." She trailed off, already lost in her device, cross-referencing something.
Soo-Yeon took over. "The escalation pattern is concerning. B-rank to A-rank in under a month. The shift from localized curses — Lethargy, Paranoia, Rage — to an infectious variant suggests the wielder is developing their capabilities in real-time. They're learning."
"Learning what?" Zeke said.
"We believe they're testing delivery mechanisms. Public infrastructure as a vector for mass curse deployment. The B-rank incidents were trials. Gangnam was a proof of concept." She paused. Adjusted her glasses with both hands. "If the pattern continues, the next incident will likely be A-rank or higher, with an expanded infection radius. Potentially hundreds of victims."
The room was quiet. The fluorescent lights hummed.
"You said 'organized threat' yesterday," Zeke said. "One wielder isn't organized. One wielder is a person."
"Correct. However, the resources required to develop four different curse types in thirty-one days, each using the same advanced weaving technique, exceed what any known solo wielder has demonstrated. Either this individual is exceptionally talented, or they have support." Soo-Yeon set her tablet on the table, face up. "We don't have a name. We don't have a face. What we have is a pattern, and patterns don't emerge from chaos."
*She is clever*, the Collective whispered. *Patterns within patterns within patterns. We know patterns, little eater. We are made of them. Every curse follows a pattern — anger to intent, intent to power, power to pain. This one's pattern is... interesting, interesting, interesting.*
Zeke ignored it. Tried to. The Collective's voice was clearer now than it had been yesterday. Sentences instead of fragments. Opinions instead of urges. Crossing 70% had done something — like turning up the volume on a radio that had been broadcasting static and was suddenly, horribly, tuning into a station.
"What do you want from me?" Zeke asked Soo-Yeon.
"Continued response to incidents as they occur. Additionally, we'd like you to cooperate with Dr. Tanaka's research — understanding your consumption mechanics may help us develop alternative suppression methods that don't require your direct involvement."
"Alternative methods," Zeke repeated. "You mean replacements."
"I mean supplements. Your saturation is—" She stopped. Glanced at Tanaka, who was studiously not looking up from her device. "Your long-term viability as the sole curse-response mechanism is a concern that the Division takes seriously."
*Long-term viability. She means your expiration date, little eater. Tick, tick, tick.*
"Yeah." Zeke stood. The chair scraped against the floor. "I'll cooperate with the Doc. And I'll eat whatever you point me at. Same as always."
"Morrow." Soo-Yeon's voice stopped him at the door. He didn't turn around. "The Division has been allocated additional resources in response to the Gangnam incident. I've been authorized to offer you a salary. Formal employment. Benefits, housing allowance, medical support."
He thought about his cold-water apartment. His tasteless ramyeon. The face-down photo on the counter.
"I don't want a salary."
"The offer—"
"I said no." He opened the door. "People who get paid for this kind of work start calculating the cost-benefit. I don't want to know what a percentage point is worth in won."
The door closed behind him. In the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzed their empty buzz, and Zeke leaned against the wall and breathed.
*Proud*, the Collective murmured. *So proud. The martyr who refuses payment. The saint who suffers for free. You could take their money, little eater. Buy better food. Sleep in a warm bed. But suffering is your identity now, isn't it? Without the pain, who are you?*
"A guy with a headache and a bad attitude." He pushed off the wall.
The elevator doors opened, and Tanaka nearly collided with him, her lab coat flapping, device in one hand, a stack of papers threatening to escape from the other.
"Morrow — Zeke — Mr. Morrow, I'm going to need to schedule regular monitoring sessions, twice weekly ideally, I'm setting up a lab space on sub-level four and the equipment should arrive Thursday but in the meantime I'd like to get some preliminary readings if you have twenty minutes?" She said it all on one breath. Zeke waited to see if she'd inhale.
She did. Barely.
"What kind of readings?"
"Curse resonance mapping, biometric baselines, psychological evaluation — that's not my department, I'll refer you to Dr. Kim for that, but the physical data I can gather myself. May I walk with you? I'm narrating my observations as we go, it helps me process."
She fell into step beside him, already murmuring into her device. "Subject is ambulatory, gait slightly asymmetric — favoring left leg, possible somatic response to yesterday's consumption. Curse mark coverage visible at the cervical region, coloration is — hmm." She hummed. Stopped walking. Leaned closer to his neck, then caught herself. "May I look more closely? I'm observing the mark patterns on your neck."
"You're asking permission to look at my neck."
"I ask permission before any examination. It's protocol, and it's also just — people should ask."
Something about the way she said it. Not clinical. Personal. Like she'd been on the other end of unwanted examination and had made a rule about it.
"Yeah. Go ahead."
She leaned in. Close enough that he could smell her shampoo — something with grapefruit, sharp and clean against the institutional sterility of the hallway. She studied the marks on his neck with an intensity that made him feel like a museum exhibit, then pulled back and spoke into her device.
"Mark patterns show multi-layered accumulation consistent with compound consumption. Newest additions — presumably from yesterday's A-rank — are integrated into existing pattern rather than overlaid. The curse marks are not simply additive; they're structural. They're reorganizing." She looked at him. "Your marks aren't just records of consumption. They're building something."
"Building what?"
"I don't know yet. That's not right — I have hypotheses, but none I'd state without more data. Can we schedule that first session? Thursday?"
"Thursday's fine."
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that happened involuntarily when excitement overrode social calibration — wide, unguarded, slightly asymmetric. "Thank you. I'm going to set up the monitoring equipment now. I'll send you the details." She turned, took three steps, turned back. "Your gait asymmetry. Have you had that checked?"
"It's from a curse I ate six months ago. Nerve damage in my left hip. Doesn't heal."
"I see." She didn't say *I'm sorry* or *that must be difficult*. She made a note on her device. "I'm adding that to your baseline file. Existing somatic damage catalog. We'll want a full inventory."
She walked away, humming, lab coat flapping, sweater still inside-out.
Zeke watched her go. The Collective stirred, offering commentary he didn't ask for.
*She wants to understand us, little eater. How sweet. How futile, futile, futile. No one understands what we are. Not even you.*
His phone buzzed. Soo-Yeon. Already. The woman operated at a frequency that made hummingbirds look lazy.
The message was brief. Soo-Yeon's messages were always brief.
**New case. B-rank. Hwaseong, Gyeonggi Province. Details attached. This one is different.**
Zeke opened the attachment. Read it twice. Read it a third time, because the first two readings hadn't made it make sense.
The curse wasn't on infrastructure. It was on a person — a middle-aged man found wandering a residential street. Standard enough. But the curse type was listed as UNKNOWN, and the analysis notes described a weaving pattern that matched the four infrastructure incidents exactly.
Same wielder. Same technique. But this time, they'd cursed a specific person instead of a public surface.
And the victim was a retired Hunter Association agent.
Zeke pocketed his phone and headed for the exit. Behind him, the fluorescent lights flickered once — a power fluctuation, or maybe just the building's wiring being old and tired.
The Collective hummed along with the lights, harmonizing with the building's electrical pulse in a way that was almost musical.
*Different, different, different*, it sang. *The chef is changing the menu.*
