Little Pink Starfish

“Ah…”

Aiden smiled.

“I suppose I’ve been making quite a mess.”

Aiden’s gaze shifted toward ‘The Archangel Who Burns for Eternity.’

‘The Archangel Who Burns for Eternity’ stood at a distance, watching Aiden. His face was reflected in her blood-red eyes, which gleamed amidst her festering skin. Smiling, was he? She found Aiden’s expression curious.

<Aren’t you afraid?>

She asked calmly. Aiden tilted his head, then rose from his chair. He slowly walked toward her.

Tiny luminous particles floated in the air. The constellations called this “faith.” The faith that surrounded them belonged to both Aiden and ‘The Archangel Who Burns for Eternity.’ But neither of their faiths penetrated the other’s body; instead, they drifted in the space between.

<There’s not much time left. Before the constellations who question your judgment begin to move.>

“It doesn’t matter.”

Aiden spoke, then turned his head. On the bed lay Jeong Hangyeol, sound asleep. After briefly looking at his peaceful face, Aiden reached out and held ‘The Archangel Who Burns for Eternity’s’ hand.

“Today, I fragmented the souls of 21 humans, 45 animals, and countless objects.”

Aiden whispered softly.

“I always thought it was strange that this wasn’t sanctioned earlier. By human ethics, my actions are absolutely unacceptable. Though, I suppose ethics are like a trend… what was once considered a sin can later become permissible.”

He wasn’t judging his actions as wrong solely through the lens of ethics. Ethics are not absolute. At one time, even discrimination and hatred were justified as part of ethical systems. Ethics merely pretend to be absolute, coercing people to obey.

“Do you think I’ll die?”

Aiden asked in a whisper.

<Who knows.>

She answered flatly.

<Death holds many meanings. The cessation of biological life, the erasure of memory… Or the act of abandoning malice and repenting can also be seen as a kind of death—often called being born again.>

Her lips trembled faintly.

<Do you… still have humanity left?>

“Of course.”

Aiden replied without hesitation.

“I haven’t fully become a constellation yet. A tiny bit of humanity still remains. A small sense of guilt too… I know what I’m doing is outrageous.”

He smiled as he gently stroked the back of her hand.

“And my feelings for you… are closer to human than to those of a constellation.”

<But you resent humans, don’t you?>

She asked, gazing down at his thumb sweeping over her hand.

<You resent not only humans but also constellations. Your actions are not simply due to a loss of humanity—they’re rooted in rebellion against everything.>

You are broken.

She spoke with quiet certainty.

“Yes, I am broken.”

Aiden had no intention of denying it. He was broken. He no longer ate, no longer slept. It wasn’t the process of becoming a god—it was simply the process of breaking down. An eternal sleeplessness and absence of hunger were merely symptoms for humans.

If humans marvel at beautiful scenery only to forget it days later—

And gods smile down at those humans, then fall into ennui, forgetting even that they once smiled—

Aiden knew he belonged to neither. He was simply falling apart in between.

But it didn’t matter. Reviving his friend wasn’t his true goal. That was only a small part of it.

“I’m curious.”

Aiden whispered.

“Though Hangyeol chose to erase himself, in a way, he was annihilated by the public. Of course, I can’t place all blame on the public. Some fabricated lies, others—those who should’ve helped—turned a blind eye to his suffering.”

He wondered: what would happen if they all came to realize this?

Death often serves as both a trial and an efficient form of absolution. Even those who are pursued for their sins can end investigations by taking their own lives. Aiden believed that Hangyeol’s choice to erase himself was closer to rejecting that kind of absolution.

Love and hatred are two sides of the same coin. They oppose one another but can easily flip. If Hangyeol had chosen an obvious suicide, people would have mourned him. They would’ve grieved, and annual memorial articles would’ve been published.

“But he rejected that.”

<No.>

She firmly corrected him.

<He probably just didn’t want others to grieve.>

“Perhaps. But then… why am I the only one who still remembers him? Did Hangyeol expect that I wouldn’t do this? That would be disappointing. I wouldn’t just sit and mourn him.”

<No, you wouldn’t.>

She agreed.

He had likely hoped for more.

She, too, thought the same. In life, he had been an exceptionally compassionate being, far too kind to be bound as a mere contractor to a constellation. That’s likely why. Because of that compassion, he left a memory behind—for at least one person to hold onto. She believed that was Hangyeol’s choice.

But he could never have predicted this outcome.

Such is humanity—drenched in endless ignorance.

Humans can never escape their ignorance. Even those called sages only appear to have found wisdom. In truth, they hover near ignorance.

Every scholar constantly rediscovers humanity’s ignorance. Astronomers, mathematicians—regardless of field. As one discovery leads to a new unknown, even greater mysteries emerge.

Thus, humanity will remain ignorant until the very end.

<You still know so little.>

She whispered to Aiden.

<But you’ll never know everything. And that’s okay. That little bit of ignorance is probably the only reason your humanity still remains.>

Aiden silently gazed at her.

She reached out and stroked his face.

The flesh, scorched and marred, could never become soft again. No matter the emotion, the moment her hand touched his skin, it was rough.

<You’ll likely die. I don’t know exactly how. In any case, we can never win.>

Well, so be it.

She smiled faintly.

<You will surely watch the chaos unfold with delight. So death won’t matter much to you.>

Then that’s enough.

She thought quietly.

<I’ll enjoy watching as well.>

You will never win.

You will achieve nothing.

And I will watch your demise.

---

<Mr. Eunyul, did you check today’s schedule?>

“Ah… yes.”

I forced a smile.

<Are you hungry? It seems we have a little free time. Shall we pull over and get something to eat?>

“Sure. You should eat something too, Hyung.”

<I was just thinking that. How about donuts?>

“I’m not really in the mood for sweets.”

<Really? But didn’t you say yesterday you were craving donuts? You don’t remember? I could help you remember, if you’d like.>

“…Let’s just go get some.”

I sighed and stared ahead.

Inside the car, Satbyeol and I sat as a camera filmed us. The crew had set it up beforehand. Their vehicle followed alongside us. At least until today’s schedule ended, I’d have to smile under these cameras.

I felt like throwing up.

Since morning, Satbyeol and I had been carrying on like this. With his ever-gentle smile, he constantly addressed me formally, while I acted like a loyal artist trusting my dependable manager.

We had no choice. We couldn’t possibly film our usual interactions. Even setting aside the fact that Satbyeol was Satan, we couldn’t have our bickering and grumbling aired.

“Hyung, by the way…”

I glanced at him.

“You’re really the perfect manager.”

<All of a sudden?>

He asked while staring ahead at the wheel.

I noticed his eyes twitch slightly.

“Of course. There’s no manager like you. You’re handsome, kind, and always diligent. I’m really lucky to have you as my manager.”

<Hahaha! You’re too kind.>

No doubt he felt just as nauseous as I did.

<You’re amazing yourself, Mr. Eunyul.>

As he parked, Satbyeol turned to look at me.

<Ah, you’ve got a gray hair! You must be stressed. Take care of yourself.>

With a sweet smile, he reached toward my head.

<Here, a gray hair.>

He showed me the single gray strand.

“Thank you, Hyung.”

I smiled as best I could.

At this point, it was like a contest to see who would puke first.

Of course, I had no intention of losing.