Page 25 of Marked By Him

When Monroe shakes her head, her mother snatches it off the rack and marches it up to the shop counter, purchasing it for her daughter herself.

They snack on melon ice cream and window shop at more stores.

I catch her reflection in the glass of the store window. She’s adjusting her hoop earrings, checking the glossy stuff she’s applied to her lips.

Objectively speaking…she’s beautiful.

There’s a stereotype that Korean men prefer Korean women. That we do not find American women, especially those with darker complexions, attractive.

But that is simply all it is—a stereotype.

The truth is, most Korean mendofind other races of women attractive. We are curious about stepping out of our comfort zones but beholden to our culture at the same time, which demands that we keep our family lines pure. Some would consider these beliefs to be archaic, though in modern times, it’s becoming more acceptable to explore.

Most men would look at Monroe and agree she is beautiful. Many men in South Korea would find her looks exotic. She has soft, round features and a bright disposition that makes her even more attractive.

These are things I can admit despite the fact that I am observing her with dark, violent intentions.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful, kind, or endearing she is.

This is the same woman who cried at my feet. Who stumbled foolishly into the alleyway and bore witness to a murder by the Baekho Pa.

She’s marked, which means she must die.

When Friday comes, Monroe takes her mother to eat street food at Bupyeong Khangtong Market.

It’s the hottest day of summer yet. The heat clings to everything.

Her mother fans herself with a folded tourist map, finding it hard to adjust to such high levels of humidity.

They stop at a tteokbokki stand with a large sign that dares customers to survive level five, the spiciest tteokbokki in all of Korea, it claims.

Monroe shoots her mother a wicked grin as she orders a bowl.

As someone who prefers food when it’s extremely spicy, I cock a brow from a distance. Is the little rabbit tougher than I thought? Can she tolerate some of the spiciest food in all of South Korea?

My question is answered only a few seconds later.

Monroe takes one bite then immediately starts gagging. Her large eyes tear up as she coughs and begs for water. Her mother laughs and pushes her bottle of water into her daughter’s hands.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone chug a bottle of water faster. She sucks it down to the point the plastic crinkles, sticking her tongue out like a dog in the heat.

“I think I just burned a hole in my lower intestines,” she croaks.

I laugh before I can even think about it.

It’s a rare sound coming out of me. I rarely grin or smile, and laughter is even more unlikely.

Quickly catching myself, I tamp down on the sound, ignoring how a tourist next to me glances over.

It’s irrelevant how many times Monroe Ross does something endearing or accidentally funny.

She only has a few days left to live. As soon as her mother leaves, she dies.

There’s no other way around it.

Later in the evening, the streets of Haeundae throb from all the noise coming from the bars and clubs. I’ve given Monroe and her mother some alone time without my surveillance. Not out of mercy, but because her time is nearly up.

Her mother will be leaving on Sunday morning.

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