I might have been too harsh toward her, but it does the trick. After agreeing to have her in this one job, she doesn't push her luck and actually stay quiet throughout our trip to my flat. But then we get into my flat and I guess she just can't help herself but wonder;

“So … how’s this hunting thing?” she asks.

I furrow my brows as I gather my equipment from the desk: two of my favorite daggers. “Well …” I juggle both weapons as if they are drum sticks before slipping it into the sheaths on my boots. “I just go to my client’s house. Have an epic battle with unseen creature. Send the ghost back to Death. Got paid. All easy.”

"I've heard people talk about you," she says, crossing her arms, "they talk as if you're a secret. You know, in hush."

Only a few knew about me. During their previous 'coincidental' meeting, I've actually asked her about how she knows me. She said she overheared people talk about me. I dont' doubt it. I'm pretty famous around Seoul. Perhaps because all my families--and other families--resides in everywhere but Seoul. Sometimes being the only one good at one thing makes you famous pretty quick. I've just been in Seoul for three years, after all. 

“Oh, that’s just for the mysterious effect. After all, not all families are chosen for the job.”

“Chosen?”

“Our deal doesn't involve me lecturing history of Hunters.”

That shut her up. She takes a tour around my room—which isn't much because it's only about 500 square feet, cramped with frameless bed, cupboard, and most of my weapons—mostly daggers—scattering every here and there. Sometimes I like to call this room my armory—just to keep myself entertained.

“What are these inscriptions on the swords?” she asks, her finger hovered over one of my daggers.

I shoo her hand away from the desk. Nobody touches my daggers.

“First, that is a dagger not a sword,” I explain. “Now; normal daggers don’t bring ghosts back to Death. It jabs right through them as if they were made of air. But those daggers had something like magic-y, incantation thingy carved on its sides. Basically the only weapon to get rid them.”

goes ‘o’, and she continues to stroll around. As she goes in and out his kitchen and bathroom (certainly because she has nowhere else to go), I examine her. Not in a creepy way, of course. It's just that she makes me curious. What is it that she wants? Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?

She looks spoiled, to be honest. She has this medium-length, black hair. It falls straight with no layers or waves—most girls do that to their hair, I've noticed. Her skin is so pale it might as well be translucent. She's short, around 5’3, which led me to believe she's a middle schooler. I was proved wrong. On one of our previous encounter, she yelled at me that she's a seventeen years old girl.

Normal seventeen years old girls wouldn’t come up to a guy wearing black leather jacket, who accessorized his arms with tattoos, and just ask for an adventure. They’d go for someone more … welcoming. And someone who is not a ghost hunter. But hey, this girl's loco.

I open my cupboard and pull out a worn out, 30 Seconds to Mars t-shirt. If I remember correctly, it's the smallest piece I own. “At least wear something appropriate,” I say as I toss the shirt to the girl.

It catches her by surprise. "What?” she asks.

“Wear something appropriate,” I repeat. Aside from the fact that she is ‘sparkling’, they wouldn’t match if they were to walk among people. Not that he cares much about matching, but he'll look like a kidnapper, with his black set of clothes—jacket, tee underneath, jeans, pair of Vans—and tousled, black locks.

She purses her lips for a moment, as if she's thinking. She looks down on herself, then back to me. “I am wearing something appropriate. What is this?” She hold up the black tee.

“T-shirt, if you haven’t noticed.”

She shakes her head. “No, I mean, why did you give me this?”

“No,” I couldn't resist to mimick her. “I didn’t give you my shirt. I lend you mine because you’re wearing a sparky pink, sleeveless blouse.” I put an emphasis on the ‘pink’. “Ghosts aren’t as dark as you think they are. In fact, they like sparky things. They won’t leave you alone if you wear that thing,” I say. Facts only. “Change and we'll go. My client has been calling non stop. I'm afraid it's an emergency now.”

The girl says nothing—surprise, surprise—and heads to the bathroom.

As I wait, I sit on the edge of my bed. It would be my first time hunting with someone. Nothing could go wrong, right? They wouldn’t be facing the Damneds. The man has specified that ghosts haven't made any physical contact with him. Therefore, they couldn’t be the Damneds. The Damneds always find their way to make physical contacts so they could get into the human’s vessel. My least favorite creature.

My phone rang. It's him again, as I expected.

I slide his thumb across the screen and answer the call. “I’m on my way,” I say in a lazy tone.

“You said thirty minutes. It’s already twenty.”

“Which is why I haven’t make it there yet.”

“You said you’d get here faster.”

I frown. I don't remember saying that. “No, I said I’m not promising anything. Just wait, will you? Just hide in your closet or something.”

“They are in my closet!”

“In the bathroom, then.”

The man blabbers about how they have been making strange noises and creeping the hell out of him. I have to put my phone away. I've figured that the ones in his house would be the poltergeists, or, as I liked to call it, the Jokesters. They love to mess around, making strange noises to bother humans. They are also pretty stupid.

The girl comes out of the bathroom. She has tucked the shirt into her ripped jeans and rolled its sleeves. Her fair skin contrasts with the shirt’s color.

Maybe I should’ve given her a jumper. Despite the shirt, I could tell that ghosts--especially Jokesters--would still go for her. It's like she's glowing. No, that's not a compliment. She's literally just too fair and pale.

And short.

“How do I look?” she asks, twirling as if she's wearing some princess gown.

“Ridiculous.”

“Really?” she looks down upon herself. “I don’t think anyone could pull off this huge tee better than me, to be honest,” she says, putting an emphasis on ‘huge’.

“Clearly, you haven’t seen many people,” I walk to the door and open it. I look back at her. “Are you coming or not? Because we’ve got,” I check my watch, “seven minutes until my client would call again.”

The girl scurries out of the room.

I lock the room and head down the stairs. The girl tries to catch up. The gentleman in me (which rarely ever shows) decide to slow my steps. “What’s your name?” I ask once she's beside me.

“I’ve told you once when we met in the florist.”

Florist, I remember the florist. It was—if I remember correctly—the first time I met her. I was there to buy a bouquet of rose for my mother’s grave when a girl ran into him, knocking some pots down the shelf. After apologizing in, what, ten different languages or something, she introduced herself. I didn't even ask. I ignored her and paid for the roses, but she wouldn’t leave me alone until she got my name. On my way to my car, I yelled out my name and flee as fast as he could.

“I don’t remember.”

The girl overtakes him so she is now in front of me, barely an inch away that I have to step back. She holds her hand out. “Oh Sora,” she says, her dimples deepened as she smiles.

I walk past her.

“You said you wanted to know my name!” she claims, catching up to me with hurried, little steps.

“So?”

We get to the car in no time. My flat isn't a tall building and my room is on the second floor. My car is parked on the street. I get into the driver seat. Not long after, Sora hopped in as well.

“So, we’re supposed to shake hands and you should tell me your name,” she says as soon as she gets in.

“Yeah?” I respond, causing her to protrude her lower lip, disappointed with my unresponsive respond.

She starts talking about basic manner and stuff.

Frankly, I don't really care of what she's saying.

I check his watch. I'm almost late. There are no calls from my clients since the last one. Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t worry. But we’re talking about the same client who wouldn’t stop calling me to hurry just few minutes ago. Paranoid people tend to do stupid things. The Jokesters love paranoid people who do stupid things.

I rev up the engine and drive off. I accelerate a bit over the speed limit. Rule one at being a Hunter: Make sure your client’s safe under any conditions. I might have been a little cozy with the rules that I start to change its order. Like changing the first rule into the last. It's only a matter of time until I get a warning from the elder Hunters.

Or worse, my father. I don't even want to think about it. The sooner I get there, the less trouble I'll be in.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Sora shrieks, breaking my focus as I overtake cars by cars.

“Sshh,” I hiss and continue speeding. I could only hope no local police is around because 'Sorry, I’m speeding ‘cause there’s this guy and he has ghosts in his cupboard. Gotta save him. Ciao’ wouldn't cut as an excuse. Nevermind blowing up my identity, the police would think I'm nuts.

Thankfully, nothing got in my way as I go like lightning and we arrive about three minutes late.

I double-check the address. Just a look around the neighborhood, I don't have to wonder why the man has spirits in his cupboard. It would’ve made a brilliant horror movie set: trees with broken branch and dry leaves, fallen leaves decorate the streets and driveways, and the area just doesn't seem alive. It's pretty dull and uncanny. Just ghosts’ favorite place to hang out and chill.

“Come on,” I gesture Sora to follow me as I head toward the big house with black fence.

The client’s driveway must have been the dirtiest of all. He has a vintage, black mustang—a lot like mine, just nastier—parked there, covered in leaves and dust.

I knock on the front door, as there were no bells. “Mr. Song?” I call out.

No answer.

“Song Yongshim,” I call him out again, louder. I pull out my phone and dial the man’s number. “Where are you?"

“Sshh,” shushes the man on the other line. “I-I-I’m hiding below my b-bed … T-t-think they’re dancing around my room … P-p-please … Please c-c-come.” Then the line is cut.

I stuff his phone back to the jeans pocket. “Great,” I mutter, “under the bed because it isn’t obvious enough. Brilliant. Now how to open this damn thing?” I'm not about to kick down the door. It would be like I'm announcing the presence of a Hunter through a megaphone.

From my side, Sore chirps in small voice, “I have some bobby pins somewhere in my bag, hold on.” She rummages through her shoulder bag and takes a bobby pin out. “Maybe we can use this?”

“You do it. I'll check if there's other entrances.”

She wrinkles her nose in respond, “But I never—”

“We’re running out of time. Do it.” I stroll to the other side of the house, leaving Sora to do her job. There are two windows, but they're also locked. No backdoors or anything else. My last resort would be to break the door or the windows, great.

From the front door, Sora yelps, "Got it!” She points at the opened door. "See?” she grins "Come on, we’re talking about one hell of a beginner’s luck here. At least congratulate me.”

I'm not even sure if whining is her basic setting or she just likes to do it. “Congratulation,” I say shortly, then head into the house.

The aura of the house gives it away from my first step. The temperature is colder than normal room temperature. My skin tingles, which usually told that something otherworldly is nearby. It seems like the house not only had Jokesters but also Inmates. Or worse, the Quiet Ones.

I'm not a fan of the latter. They won't communicate, like to ignore Hunters, and aren't afraid of getting slayed. Death once told me that it takes the longest for Quiet Ones to move on—it takes more than one trip back to Death to get them back to their senses that they are dead.

With confident steps, I stride from one room to another. Sure enough, I find some rooms are occupied with Inmates and Quiet Ones. I don't bother them because it isn't what we're looking for. No Jokesters in sight, yet. I'm about to go upstairs when I feel a tug on my jacket sleeve. It's Sora.

“What?” I ask, who put her finger on her lips, motioning me to be quiet. “What?” I ask again, hissing in low voice.

She points at the room at the far end of the hallway. “That room’s quiet noisy, maybe we should check it out first.” 

I hesitate to follow her, but as we go closer toward the room, I could hear the noises as well. It sounds like bunch of Jokesters having party without inviting me.

How insulting.

My hand went to the doorknob, but before I could twist it open, Sora's hand went over mine. “Goodness, what?”

“I’m scared.”

“Then go the hell home. What are you doing here?”

“No, I want to do this but … I’ve seen the scary looking ones. Got nightmares for days.”

She must be talking about the Damneds—annoying, ugly Damneds. Where she has met them, or how, I don't know. This little piece of information confirmed that she can see ghosts. I don't like that idea just as much as I dislike the the Damneds. That creatures, they go after human’s vessel and are actually harmful. “Just wait outside.” I twist the doorknob slowly … but Sora tugs at me again.

“No, I want to go in. I won’t be scared. I won’t be. Yes, I won’t be.”

The ‘I won’t be’ starts to feel more like a chant the more she says it.

I close my eyes and count to three. “Right. Okay, just … stay right behind me, okay?”

The girl nods.

I proceed to open the door. Inside the room is nothing like what I've expected: two ugly Damneds holding a man, whom I assume is Song Yongshim, and two Jokesters fooling around the room.

Two Damneds in one place. That's new.

“They … they’re …” I could hear Sora mumbling from behind.

“Yes, the Damneds, the ugly ones, whatever you like to call them.” They truly are ugly. Their skin is red and scalded. They have multiple burnt marks all over their body. Different from Jokesters, Quiet Ones, and Inmates; they appear more like a demon—not gas-y—because they have crossed over and took their punishment. But they manage to runaway and become Damneds.

Not the wisest choice.

Death is a little busy dealing with gazillion deaths in a day. So, that's where Hunters come to play. It's our job to send the ugly creatures back to where they belong: the Nether. People like to call it Hell or Underworld, but it truly is Nether: a black pit full of sinners.

Naturally, my presence draws the ghosts’ attention. All four of them glares at me, but soon after, the Jokesters go back to fool around, playing with everything in the room.

“Hunter,” a very low, growling voice say. It's one of the Damneds.

“Yep,” I say, popping the ‘p’. “Kai at your service.”

“P-p-please … h-h-help,” the man, Song Yongshim, squeaks. Tears rain down his cheek as the two ghosts hold him by the collar. One of the Damneds has a disgusting smirk on his face and the other one is glaring down at me. Seemed like the latter has encountered me, or my kind, before.

“Yes, yes, Yongshim-ah. This kind of is why I’m here,” I say, informal and impolite, before turning to the Damneds. “Ah … let me guess,” I say, fake pondering. “You two want to take his vessel but you can’t because there’s only one and there’s two of you, right? And now that there’s me too, which complicate your situation.” I bend down to get my daggers. “It’s time for you guys do go home, don’t you think?”

Author Note:

Chapter twoooooo

Finally we're about to get some action!
What do you think about this chapter? Is it better?

I know Sora's pain in the . But bear with her, please, haha.