DTM | Chapter 3.2

“Ah!”

We were preparing to move to the gym after wrapping up the house shoot when it happened. Go Hyeong-woo, tidying up the area, cut his hand on a piece of paper. The wound was longer and deeper than expected, blood trickling down his hand and dripping off his wrist.

“Ugh, be more careful, will you?”

Kim PD pulled a tissue from his bag and handed it to him. Hyeong-woo caught the blood with his other hand, trying to keep it from staining the floor.

“Ugh… It hurts.”

I grabbed his wrist and pulled it closer.

“Let me see.”

“Ah, gently! Be gentle! What if you make the wound worse?”

“Stop whining.”

“Writer Yoo, do you have a Band-Aid?”

“I don’t usually carry them around, but… hang on.”

I headed to the study beside the bedroom, opening the bottom drawer of the desk. From it, I retrieved a neatly organized first-aid kit and brought it out. The moment I stepped back into the living room, several sets of eyes landed on me.

“Here, Hyeong-woo…”

“…….”

“Aren’t you going to take it?”

The air suddenly felt tense.

“Writer Yoo… have you been to Actor Kwon’s house before?”

A chill ran down my spine. What had I just done? The hand holding the first-aid kit started trembling.

“What? Oh… no, of course not. This is my first time here. Really.”

The skeptical looks on their faces didn’t waver. My mind went blank.

“It’s just… you seem really familiar with the place. Right, Kim PD?”

“Writer Yoo, what’s going on? How did you find the first-aid kit without even looking around?”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. At this point, no excuse I could come up with would sound believable.

“Exactly, Writer Yoo.”

It was Kwon Yi-tae, now clad in casual workout clothes, who joined the conversation. Everyone’s attention immediately shifted to him. He leaned against the doorway, frowning.

“You seem to know more about my house than I do. Anyone would think you were the one who put the first-aid kit there.”

He wasn’t wrong. I was the one who originally decided where the first-aid kit should go. That’s why I instinctively knew where to find it. But why had he left everything exactly as it was, down to the smallest items, trapping me like this?

Sure, this was technically my mistake, but wasn’t it, like, 10%—no, at least 5%—his fault too? Yet there he stood, feigning innocence of what was happening and walked away with his abominable act.

I could clearly see the sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips behind his exaggerated puzzled look. That bastard.

“Writer Yoo… surely you didn’t snoop around, did you?”

But Kwon Yi-tae’s appearance had completely shifted the atmosphere. What had been an air of suspicion about a prior relationship between me and him turned into an impression that I had recklessly rummaged through his house. It was frustrating, but if I had to choose, I’d rather they thought I was a snoop than anything else.

“…I’m sorry. Honestly, before we started filming, I was curious about the house, so I… took a look around.”

I confessed. But the words coming out of my mouth sounded ridiculous even to me. It wasn’t as if this house were a zoo. What could possibly be so fascinating? Even if I had been curious because it was a celebrity’s house, I should have kept it to myself.

The staff exchanged uneasy glances, watching Kwon Yi-tae for his reaction.

And who was Kwon Yi-tae? A man who couldn’t be expected to show understanding or leniency, whose patience threshold was unusually low. If he were to get offended and kick the filming crew out, we wouldn’t even have grounds to argue.

I could almost see the string of expletives running through Kim PD’s eyes as he glared at me. I was definitely in for it after the shoot. The bustling set froze under a sudden, icy tension, everyone silently waiting for Kwon Yi-tae’s response.

“I was wondering where I’d put it. Writer Yoo, thank you for finding it for me.”

“Ah…”

His words shattered the heavy atmosphere in an instant. Kim PD wiped the sweat from his temple with his sleeve, exhaling in relief. Kwon Yi-tae straightened from the doorway and strode over to me. He took the first-aid kit from my hands and handed it to Go Hyeong-woo.

“Here, take it.”

Hyeong-woo looked down at the entire kit in confusion.

“All of this? No, no, I just need one bandage….”

“Throw it out if you want.”

“But this looks brand-new.”

“I don’t reuse things others have touched. Do whatever you want with it.”

Hyeong-woo’s jaw dropped at the sheer bluntness of Kwon Yi-tae’s rudeness. He turned to me, eyes wide, as if silently asking, Is Kwon Yi-tae a germophobe or something? I simply avoided his gaze, deciding it was better to let him think that.

Bowing slightly, Hyeong-woo reluctantly accepted the kit.

“Thank you.”

Fortunately, Hyeong-woo was a quick thinker, utterly clueless, and the type to stay cheerful no matter what. His personality allowed him to take the interaction in stride without lingering resentment. As he bandaged his cut, he blurted out with alarming frankness:

“This is probably just my wild imagination, but I really thought Writer Yoo and Actor Kwon had, you know… something going on.”

Kim PD sighed heavily, smacking his forehead. Go Hyeong-woo, you tactless idiot, he seemed to say. Was he really gossiping about the actor and the writer right in front of everyone? Kim hurriedly cut him off.

“Writer Yoo doesn’t even have time to date. She’s either in the editing room, the writers’ office, or on set, isn’t that right, Writer Yoo?”

“If I don’t work hard, I’ll be out of a job.”

Contrary to Kim’s worries, Kwon Yi-tae didn’t seem the least bit offended.

“I’m starting to like this work-life balance at broadcasting stations these days.”

Not only that, but he even added a bizarrely detached comment before breezing toward the front door with an oddly buoyant air.

As the black back of his head reached the threshold, he suddenly stopped. Kim PD, walking behind him, accidentally overtook him and froze when he spotted a small box at the doorstep hitting the tip of his shoe.

“Mr. Kwon, it looks like you have a package.”

Kim picked it up and handed it over. The box, about the size of a stack of tissues, wasn’t in standard cardboard packaging. Instead, it was wrapped in pink paper with a heart motif, tied up with a dainty white ribbon. A gift sent by a fan?

Kwon Yi-tae eyed it with dry indifference. The longer I looked, the more suspicious it seemed. It wasn’t labeled with a delivery slip—unusual for a package. Normally, fan gifts to celebrities were only accepted through designated addresses set by their agencies. Anything else was often outright rejected.

What’s more, I recalled reading an article mentioning that he had stopped accepting fan gifts altogether.

“…….”

Apparently sensing something off, Kim PD quietly placed the box back where he’d found it. All eyes fixated on the package as a tense silence enveloped us.

Kwon Yi-tae slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, his expression blank. Then, without a word, he swung his foot and kicked the box.

Thud! Clang, clatter…

The box tumbled across the marble hallway, slamming into the wall and denting one corner of the once-pristine wrapping.

“Yikes…!”

“Mr. Kwon, was that really necessary…?”

None of the six staff members, myself included, had anticipated this reaction. More shocking than the package’s presence was Kwon Yi-tae’s blatant disdain for it.

Unbothered, he stepped into the waiting elevator. Kim PD scrambled to keep the doors from closing, pressing the button in a fluster. Kwon’s handsome face twisted slightly in irritation.

“Wait, Mr. Kwon. That could make for an interesting story.”

Kim PD had clearly realized that the box was the work of an anti-fan. However, to him, it wasn’t a terror threat but rather an intriguing element that could make for great TV. Broadcast producers are notorious for setting aside their ethics when it comes to creating compelling content.

“I have no hobby of picking up trash.”

“Yes, yes… We’ll handle the disposal. If you could just open it on camera… Is that alright?”

Kim PD pleaded so earnestly that he looked pitiful, even blinking rapidly with an exaggerated expression. It was a sight to behold.

“Do whatever you want. Open it, take it home, give it to your father for all I care.”

But Kwon Yi-tae wasn’t one to be easily persuaded. Even if Kim PD stripped down in protest, begging to be filmed, Kwon would likely say, “How about airing that? You’ll probably get a lot of donations,” and walk away without looking back.

Even I couldn’t side with Kim PD this time. No matter how important a broadcast was, it wasn’t worth subjecting Kwon Yi-tae to deliberate discomfort just to capture a single scene.

“Alright, alright. Then, Mr. Kwon, just have to stand in frame for a bit. As for opening it… Oh, right. Writer Yoo can do it.”

“Me?”

“Who do you think you’re ordering around?”

Both Kwon Yi-tae and I questioned him at the same time. Kim PD, blind to Kwon Yi-tae’s irritation, signaled the crew to start setting up. It was as if he were ecstatic just because Kwon had stepped out of the elevator again. He nudged me repeatedly with his elbow, urging me to retrieve the box.

But then Kwon Yi-tae stepped between me and Kim PD, his presence blocking him like a shield.

“Hands off.”

Kim PD, oblivious to the tension, ignored his sour tone. Instead, he kept prodding.

“Writer Yoo, quickly now!”

Unlike Kwon, I didn’t have the luxury of refusal. Sigh… I’d just open it quickly and get it over with. What’s the big deal? It’s probably just some lame prank—cutout letters from a magazine spelling out “Die, Kwon Yi-tae” or some other boring cliché. As I reluctantly took a step toward the box, a sudden thought froze me in my tracks.

…What if there’s a bug inside?

The composure I’d felt moments ago evaporated, leaving my limbs stiff. I could handle ghosts, but insects? They were a nightmare. And what if it was a cockroach? That’d be an S-level terror for me.

“Stay here.”

A heavy arm wrapped around my shoulder, gently turning me away from the box. When I turned back, Kwon Yi-tae was already standing near it.

Unlike earlier, when he’d kicked it, this time, he picked it up with his hands. His long strides quickly brought him to the camera, where he stood before it as if nothing had happened.

When Kim PD gave the signal, a staff member asked casually.

“What kind of gift is it?”

Kwon Yi-tae replied with a nonchalant tone.

“I’m not sure. It was just sitting by the door.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he untied the ribbon and tore away the pink wrapping paper. What emerged was a cheap gift box, the kind you might find in a budget store. His large hand gripped the lid and lifted it in one swift motion as Hyeong-woo zoomed in the camera.

“AAAAH!”

Hyeong-woo almost dropped the camera, letting out a piercing scream. The faces of the other staff mirrored his shock.

“It’s… blood. Blood!”

“Holy crap… is that a fetus?”

Blood? A fetus? The murmurs of speculation were far more disturbing than I’d anticipated. Overcome by morbid curiosity, I craned my neck from where I stood, careful to avoid the camera’s view.

“Gah…!”

I barely managed to stifle my scream, clamping my hand over my mouth. Inside the box was a horrifying sight: a pile of blood-soaked overnight pads arranged at the bottom, with a pale pink, fleshy lump resting atop them.

“Mr. Kwon, I think there’s a card inside.” 

One of the staff members pointed out. Kwon Yi-tae reached into the box, pulling out a white card that had been tucked beneath the gruesome contents.

“It says, ‘It’s our poor child that you killed. You should die too, Kwon Yi-tae.’”

He read the message aloud in a dry, emotionless tone. The air around us grew heavy, a cold chill creeping over everyone. My skin broke out in goosebumps. The grotesque display felt closer to horror than a mere prank.

Yet the man at the center of it all, Kwon Yi-tae, seemed completely unaffected. There wasn’t a trace of shock or fear on his furrowed brow, only an air of annoyance, as though he found the whole ordeal tiresome.

“It’s not a fetus. Looks like the skin of an animal—probably a rat.”

He spoke with the detached precision of someone identifying beans from grains. Then, he pulled out his phone, called his manager, and tersely explained the situation.

Within minutes, Manager Jeong arrived, seething with anger. He swore he’d scour the nearby CCTV footage and track down the deranged person responsible. Once Jeong left to investigate, the situation finally came to a close, though the staff and I remained visibly shaken.

Emerging from the restroom after washing his hands, Kwon Yi-tae reentered the elevator. He glanced at the frozen staff and tilted his head toward the open door.

“If you’re not getting in, I’ll go down first.”

“A-ah! No, we’re coming!”

“Ugh… That was insane. Being a celebrity must be so hard.”

Kwon didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the elevator panel. Not long after, that voice started echoing in my mind again.

 

“Hnh?! W-wait… there are other staff around, you can’t—ah! Don’t touch my ass like that, nngh… stop!”

“Other people being here turns you on more, doesn’t it?”

“No, hnn, stop… don’t put your fingers there, please, ah!”

“For someone who says no, you’re leaking everywhere.”

“Hmph, mmh….”

“Even if you cover your mouth, they’ll hear the wet sounds from here.”

“Aah… your fingers, deeper, just one… take it out, Yi-tae, hah… ah!”

 

…An anti-fan who sent a skinned rat, and Kwon Yi-tae’s ability to conjure filthy fantasies even in such a moment—honestly, I couldn’t tell which was more insane.