Free Web NovelEunhaje nearly spat out the ice cream he was eating.
A polished, cheerful voice on the TV was hosting a matchmaking program.
“Viewers, tonight, the most intense fruit of love is coming to you.”
“Meet these splendid groom candidates on the brink of their wedding!”
Over the screen, with a lo-fi, tinny orchestral band sound, images of young men in white suits slid past inside heart-shaped effects.
“Which of them will capture the Bride’s heart?”
Tall, neat faces—exactly the kind you’d expect to see on a dating show.
If only one of them hadn’t been his boss, that is.
He was even smiling at the camera with panache.
“Fuck.”
The curse slipped out on reflex—less anger than deranged bewilderment.
That guy... was he contaminated?
In the wake of that staggering absurdity, a chilly feeling crept in.
Biting back a string of curses, Eunhaje tossed aside the ice cream and started gathering his gear, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“The wedding is tomorrow. But out of seven candidates, only one can be the White Bride’s groom.”
“Of those willing to gladly lay down their lives for love, which one will reap the reward?”
The more he focused on the screen, the more oddities stood out.
Like the contestant profiles, flashed past at a jaunty tempo.
Name: ■■■■ ■■■
Height: 37 cm
Weight: 4 kg
Hobbies: Cello, recitation, death by asphyxiation
A word of resolve: I’m sorry, please stop, please—The groom who will kiss the Bride is me!
Bizarre numbers in the height and weight fields; lines and lines of apologies and pleas under “remarks”; faces in the profile photos with empty focus.
Right.
Easy to overlook at a glance, but obvious if you paid attention. Like corpses dressed up and photographed.
“We can’t forget messages of support from the eliminated prelim contestants!”
Even the fleeting cuts of supposed audience members or friends cheering on contestants didn’t look normal.
Missing parts, torture, signs of modification—pasted over with makeup, those drawn-on smiles cheering.
But all of it slipped past in a bright, buoyant mood, and the program’s introduction was already nearing its end.
Standard variety-show format.
The professional host’s entrance.
“And now, proudly presenting the host of our program!”
A groom candidate’s entry shot; the handsome man following at the back turned and winked at the camera.
It was Lee Jahaeon.
“Kh—! Kkh!”
“I infiltrated as a groom candidate and went through the entire course with them. Yes, that would be me.”
“With insight born of experience, I’ve put together a course tonight that’s provocative, perilous, and heart-pounding—a survival in the name of love!”
While Eunhaje hacked breath back into his throat,
“Let’s begin!”
Onscreen, the grooms struck stylish poses to cap the opening... and in the center, wearing a white suit, Lee Jahaeon raised both arms and gave a dashing greeting.
“This is insane.”
Contamination.
Eunhaje snatched up his phone.
His fingers moved fast and sure, dialing the direct line the Disaster Management Agency agents had given him.
Kim Soleum had warned the Agency that he’d be in an unconscious, defenseless state while contacting the Space Shopping Mall, and had also asked two agents to monitor him just in case.
The call connected after two rings, and Eunhaje blurted, “Is Soleum okay?” freёwebnoѵel.com
—Pardon?
“We need to check. Now.”
On the other end, there was a hush, as if they were checking the protected room where Kim Soleum was staying.
Then:
—Heart rate, breathing, and body temperature are normal. What’s going on?
“......”
Well, it’s just—
Eunhaje started to explain, then locked eyes with a groom candidate on the TV.
Contestant No. 3—no name shown—was playing the violin with a flower in his mouth, putting on a pitiful act like a clown...
“......”
—Sir?
“If he’s fine, that’s enough for now.”
He hung up after asking them to call if anything happened.
It was a ghost story, yes.
But maybe not as extreme or severe as he’d feared...
Could it be that Soleum was pulling some outlandish stunt again to force an escape?
He couldn’t tell whether the situation was dangerous, or if Soleum had twisted it into something bizarre.
Deputy Eunhaje picked his ice cream back up and watched the TV with a troubled look.
At the very least, as far as Section Chief Lee’s condition... there didn’t seem to be any problem at all.
“The first showdown is poetry recitation.”
“Whoever most elegantly assembles the verses written on bookmarks hidden around the hall into a graceful poem will win!”
The program was sensational.
It spotlighted each candidate, making you jeer or cheer them on.
Two who cobbled together ridiculous joke-poems got a cute, silly background track and a warm reaction.
On the other hand, they cheered for the one who, despite missing several bookmarks, pulled off a brilliantly conceived, genuinely fine poem.
And lastly... the two who couldn’t manage to make a poem at all.
They were hung side by side from a window at the top of the boarding school tower.
“We’ll take votes from our viewers.”
“Who should be eliminated? And who should stay to continue this competition?”
Eliminated by the “viewers’” decision.
“Use your remote to decide! For only sixty seconds, the fates of these groom candidates will change.”
“......”
Eunhaje picked up the remote and stared at the screen.
Eliminate: No. 1
Eliminate: No. 5
Each time he hovered a finger over a number on the remote, the profile photo of the corresponding candidate expanded on the TV.
Ha...
Physically impossible.
The live viewer percentages on the screen updated in real time, and then—
Eliminate: No. 1 — 37%
Eliminate: No. 5 — 63%
They vanished for the last ten seconds.
And the countdown:
10, 9, 8, 7...
“Ah, the results are in!”
With applause, regretful sound effects, and a close-up on the eliminated candidate’s profile.
From the top of the school, the loser was bumped out a window, struck on the head by a book, limbs flailing in a slapstick pose.
“Eliminated!”
Cymbals crashed, over-the-top effects flashed, canned laughter cackled.
And some of the “trainee pupils” sitting among the guests were suddenly popped out of their seats, their spots going dark.
The clatter of bodies pitched out the window boomed.
“The trainee pupils who chose the wrong answer share the same fate. What a pity!”
Then the camera returned to the remaining candidates, setting a mood full of encouragement and relief.
“Six groom candidates remain.”
“Congratulations, everyone. You’re one step closer to the Bride!”
What was most chilling
was that all of it was entertaining.
“Didn’t they used to say that the one who captures the stomach captures the heart? Perfect for Round Two.”
“Cooking! You’ll compete to prepare a warm, nourishing lunch for the Bride. And—oh my—two will be eliminated!”
It was fascinating.
Even cruel punishments, when layered with jaunty effects and clownish gags, stopped reading as tragedy.
On TV, with the distance that made it safely comedic, those elimination scenes served only sweaty-palmed immersion or a helpless snort.
Seasoned on top were emotions.
That pang when a quietly likable contestant got cut; the guilty satisfaction when a mediocre one who’d skated by on luck finally went out.
The joy of judging.
The absurdity of the elimination methods, eliciting hollow laughter and good humor.
Dopamine numbing the sensors of ethics and morality so they wouldn’t kick in.
“......”
Eunhaje glanced at the empty ice cream tub in his hand and felt a brief creep of gooseflesh.
At some point he’d naturally picked the ice cream back up—watching like it was just a really fun TV show.
A tingling sense of danger thrummed at the base of his skull.
High grade, he thought.
But it wasn’t going wrong. The program flowed like a river; no one burst into reality, and Section Chief Lee didn’t get brutally killed.
One by one, five candidates were “eliminated” in various ways, and the trainee pupils who had cheered them gradually vanished from the guest seats...
And so it reached the finale.
“Only two candidates remain.”
“Number Two and Number Six.”
The final.
The camera showed the two groom candidates, now seemingly fully invested in the program, waving enthusiastically to the lens.
“This is the last round.”
“The winner will walk the wedding road and enjoy the honor of meeting the Bride!”
The venue, somehow, was already fully prepared for the wedding. Soft lights and piano music flowed gently through the hall.
And the round was fitting for a final showdown.
“The Bride’s Choice.”
Without realizing it, Eunhaje leaned forward toward the TV.
The camera turned.
From the groom candidates standing at the end of a white velvet wedding road, toward the altar up ahead.
No one was there yet.
“Now the Bride herself will come out to meet the groom, and the wedding will begin.”
“Whom will the Bride choose?”
The camera returned to the candidates—their whole bodies a mix of joy and expectation, tension and worry—and then the angle changed.
A long side shot down the wedding road.
The grooms stood in a row, their profiles at the right edge of the screen, while the frame took in the hall as a whole.
It was the mise-en-scène that made everyone feel sure the shot would properly capture the Bride’s first entrance as she came down the wedding road.
And then—
“We begin.”
With a jaunty cue, a drumroll sounded.
Viewers imagined the Bride and watched the screen with anticipation.
But...
“......”
Nothing happened.
What?
Eunhaje tilted his head toward the TV. Nothing had appeared on the screen yet, but he thought he could hear noise. And from the far end of the wedding road, something appeared...
The White Hand.
It is. Flesh of five branching joints. Pale meat, bent. Peeled skin flutters like a veil. At the tips, gleaming quartz-like protein structures. Immense. Moving? It is. The wedding road is pressed down by forefinger and middle finger, the ring finger crashing into the seats of the guests. Candles quiver. Flowers crushed between fingerprints, the offering forced between joints.
Alien and vivid, immense—
Like the hand of a real person in a puppet show,
it seizes the groom.
Ah!
Catches
Him
.
.
.
The sound of the screen breaking—static crackle. Screams. Black-and-white overlaid with leaping magenta noise. Distorted sounds, shrieks, chewing noises, blood. The vast hand—cut, flickering. White fingers. A black screen blinking. Snatches of scenes: between its fingers, the groom. Pressed to the floor, ground against it.
The picture stutters, freezes. Connects again. An arm slips out from the left edge.
Vanished.
The end.
......
......
Eunhaje pushed ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ himself to his feet.
Tiny red drops spattered down to the floor.
A nosebleed.
“......”
He lifted his head.
“Congratulations!”
An empty screen.
A frozen camera shot of the deserted wedding road.
Strange marks left on the velvet.
“The White Bride is satisfied. It seems she enjoyed a blissful moment with her groom.”
A bright band fanfare burst out.
Applause and cheers were dubbed in.
“But surely many of you are curious about the aftermath.”
“Especially the impressions of our final candidate, the one eliminated at the very last moment. We can’t miss hearing from him, can we?”
The ending credits rolled.
Your Perfect Groom:
Be Chosen by the Bride
Production Support / Brown’s Midnight Talk Show
“We’ll see you again next week in a special segment of Midnight Talk Show.”
......
......!
Like a lightning bolt, a memory shot through Eunhaje’s mind—ghost stories tied to Kim Soleum, the black-and-white broadcast, and then...
The host’s voice.
“...Tuesday Quiz Show.”
He shot up from his seat.
Striding back to the phone, he dialed the agents again—this time with a clearer purpose.
—Citizen? Agent Podo reports no anomalies with—
“Do you know,”
Eunhaje wet his dry lips,
“anything about a talk show?”
—Sorry?
“No, a quiz show. An old-fashioned program on black-and-white TV. Did Soleum ever drop any hint, say anything connected to that? Something about Brown...”
—Brown?
The agent reacted.
‘Does he know about Brown’s Midnight Talk Show?’
But then:
—Do you mean the doll Agent Podo carries?
“What?”
—The rabbit doll.
Eunhaje’s mind jumped.
The pink rabbit doll Kim Soleum had carried in his front pocket, from some point onward. He’d assumed it was an item or something for mental stability.
And he’d seen him with a similar doll even now.
—That doll’s name is Brown, isn’t it?
......
“...!!”
***
“Hm. For a broadcast slotted in so suddenly, that went rather well. The ratings weren’t bad!”
—......
“Mr. Roe Deer, what do you think?”
I looked around the wedding hall.
The handful of trainee pupils who had survived. The blood left on the floor. The broken joints. The marks of those dragged away, struggling not to be taken.
Brown really had—
“Raised all hell for us....”
Ha...
