Seojun had never understood why people became embarrassed over things like this. Still, Johan had accomplished what they needed, so Seojun stayed close behind him like a shadow, gripping the lantern tightly.
Peering through the partially opened door, he saw that the handle on the other side had broken as well. A stack of boxes had apparently been propped against it to keep the door shut.
Seojun spotted a mop nearby and wedged its handle into the gap. Despite the door’s weight, it shifted more easily than expected. When he glanced back, he realized Johan was helping him push.
Their eyes met. Even in the dim light, Seojun could make out the tension in Johan’s jaw.
Johan was difficult to understand. One moment he seemed bashful, the next unexpectedly bold.
They pushed together—Seojun contributing what little strength he had while Johan supplied the rest. One of the boxes toppled over with a crash that shattered the silence.
Seojun froze.
For a moment, he half expected some predictable horror-movie creature to leap out at them. But the campground remained still, the noise swallowed by its vast emptiness.
“Jun, wait a second.”
Johan’s whisper was soft, and the hand he placed on Seojun’s shoulder was reassuring.
They switched places. Johan drew back his leg and kicked the door.
It burst open.
A violent chorus of crashes and clattering objects erupted from the other side, followed by the unmistakable sound of liquid spilling across the floor.
Almost immediately, fluid began to seep out from beneath the door.
Seojun’s suspicions had been correct.
Both he and Johan stepped back as the liquid spread towards their shoes. Their expressions darkened when the sharp smell reached them.
Gasoline.
Without hesitation, Seojun pulled the door fully open and raised the lantern to peer inside.
The space beyond was small, more like a storeroom than an actual room. An overturned gasoline drum lay on its side, its contents pouring across the floor.
That alone was disturbing.
But it was only a storage room, not the arsenal Seojun had expected to find. There were none of the heavy weapons he had imagined Gas Mask might use against Christina—no shotguns, no chainsaws, nothing of that sort.
Instead, the walls were covered with newspaper clippings.
Missing-person reports.
Wanted posters.
Locks of blond and brown hair.
It was a grotesque shrine, filled with trophies taken from the killer’s victims.
The flickering lantern light cast restless shadows across Seojun’s face, sharpening the taut line of his slender jaw. The sound of his teeth grinding broke the oppressive silence.
The thought that someone might have stood in this room and taken pleasure in such things made his stomach churn.
A hand gently rubbed his back.
Noticing Seojun’s distress, Johan took the lantern from him and lifted it higher, illuminating the rest of the room.
“Looks like a dead end, doesn’t it, Jun?”
“Yeah. I think so. But I also think... I’m going to throw up.”
Nausea rolled through Seojun.
It felt as though the very essence of Gas Mask had seeped into the walls and was now crawling beneath his skin. The certainty that he was about to vomit shook him to his core.
The carefully stored gasoline made the killer’s intentions obvious.
Someone had planned to burn everything.
Johan saw the colour drain from Seojun’s face and tried to reassure him.
“The fumes are strong. Let’s go outside and get some fresh air. You’ll feel better.”
Seojun wanted to blame his reaction entirely on the stench of gasoline, but he knew the truth.
He simply could not endure this vile place any longer.
He nodded.
“Right. Let’s leave. Staying here any longer would be a waste of time.”
Once again, Seojun reminded himself that this was not the Hamon Production Workshop.
The contents of the guardhouse were undeniably revolting, but the workshop was what truly mattered. That was where Gas Mask had created the real scene of carnage.
Johan was right. There was no reason to remain here.
Seojun had a rough idea of what the workshop looked like from fragments of dialogue Christina had delivered in The Murderer of the Bloody Lake.
One line in particular came to mind.
“Ugh, this godawful stench is unbearable!”
That was hardly surprising.
The production workshop was where the bodies were butchered and processed.
By comparison, the guardhouse was merely cramped and saturated with the smell of gasoline. There was nothing more to find.
When they stepped outside, Seojun suddenly realized how pointless their earlier discussion about running away had been.
They were in D-zone, right beside the campground entrance.
His expression went blank.
Then he released a long, weary sigh.
Normally, the entrance was marked by nothing more than a sign. Now, however, an iron gate stood across it, half concealed by the surrounding shrubs. Its upper edge was lined with menacing spikes.
They could probably force their way through the forest and escape that way.
Passing through the main gate, however, was clearly impossible.
Seojun’s gaze shifted towards a car in the parking area.
It was the same vehicle he had seen earlier through the fogged window of the convenience store.
He nudged Johan with his elbow.
“Car keys?”
“They’re probably with Willy, Christina, or Airi. Or buried inside someone’s backpack. Worst-case scenario, Bobby has them.”
“......”
Silence fell between them.
Was it fortunate that Bobby was the least likely possibility?
While Seojun tried to piece together their next move, Johan’s attention abruptly shifted elsewhere.
It was not exactly something out of place.
Rather, it was something unexpectedly familiar.
Johan walked towards the iron gate with sudden purpose. Confused, Seojun followed him.
It took him a moment to understand what had caught Johan’s attention. The object was so ordinary, so commonplace, that Seojun had never expected to encounter it here.
Beyond the gate lay his bicycle.
The very same bicycle he always left outside the store.
It had been thrown carelessly onto the ground, and the anti-theft cable was gone.
The world spun.
Seojun’s knees buckled beneath him. He felt like a branch tossed about in a storm, one gust away from snapping.
“Jun!”
“I’m fine.”
He waved away Johan’s attempt to steady him and rubbed his eyes roughly.
But no matter how hard he rubbed them, the sight before him did not change.
The scratched paint.
The empty basket.
The worn, nearly bald tyres.
It was unmistakably his.
Seeing it abandoned there like a piece of rubbish struck him harder than he could have imagined.
The old pain in his shoulder, where the wound had already begun to heal, flared back to life.
Memories flooded in with it.
The monthly instalments he had struggled to pay.
The pride he had felt when the bicycle had finally become his.
That bastard...
Everything suddenly made sense.
Gas Mask, who should not have appeared until later, had arrived ahead of schedule and waited for him near the restaurant as though he had all the time in the world.
The truth was now painfully obvious.
Gas Mask had stolen Seojun’s precious bicycle.
Worse, he had apparently ridden it around without the slightest concern.
“That slippery bastard never gets tired, does he...?”
Seojun’s voice emerged low and ragged, as though he had swallowed sulphur dredged from the depths of hell.
The comparison was melodramatic.
His rage was not.
Until now, Gas Mask had always inspired fear in him.
Seojun had become angry before, certainly, but whenever possible, he had always chosen escape over confrontation. Johan had been right.
Seojun was afraid.
That fear had sunk so deeply into him that it had paralysed his legs.
But now, something had changed.
White-hot fury consumed him.
At that moment, Seojun felt that only cracking open Gas Mask’s skull would be enough to extinguish it.
Gritting his teeth, he seized the gate and shook it violently. The metal rattled and clanged, and the grating noise only intensified his rage.
Had his hands not already been aching and bruised, he might have continued out of sheer stubbornness.
His gaze shifted towards Johan.
Johan stood watching him with a strangely unreadable expression.
After allowing Seojun a moment to vent his fury, Johan sniffed the air.
“Does it smell like weed to you?”
“Pot? Marijuana?”
Seojun tilted his head, baffled by the sudden mention of drugs.
He stopped shaking the gate and stared at Johan.
Then he released it and drew a deep breath, trying to distinguish the different scents around them.
The metallic tang of rust, strangely reminiscent of blood.
The damp, earthy smell of grass.
The sharp saltiness of sweat.
And then—
Seojun’s eyes flew open.
He stared at Johan.
There it was.
Exactly as Johan had said.
A distinct skunky smell drifted towards them from beyond the gate.
“Johan, are you sure you’re not secretly a stoner? You recognized that smell far too quickly.”
Although Seojun had been reborn in America, his soul remained thoroughly Korean—the sort that preferred kimchi with his ramen.
When it came to drugs, he was cautious to the point of absurdity. He even avoided ordinary over-the-counter painkillers whenever possible.
Under Seojun’s suspicious stare, Johan flinched.
“What? No! Do I look like someone who messes around with that kind of thing?”
His hurried denial only made him seem more suspicious.
Seojun narrowed his eyes.
Realizing that he might be making matters worse, Johan immediately became defensive.
“Listen carefully. I wake up at four every morning and jog for two hours. For breakfast, I eat eggs, green vegetables, mineral water, tomatoes, tofu, and chicken breast. I calculate the exact amount of carbohydrates, protein, and fat in my lunch. After seven in the evening, I drink nothing but water. I shower twice a day and manage my blood pressure and blood sugar with fruit and vegetables. I eat fast food maybe three times a year! Drugs? Cigarettes? Those words aren’t even in my vocabulary!”