In Lookism as the MOAB

Rachel awoke with a start, her dreams fading into the morning light that seeped through the curtains of her new room. The smell of something familiar wafted through the air, reminiscent of her childhood home—wood, fresh paint, and a hint of flowers from the garden. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her mind still foggy as she struggled to grasp the remnants of her dreams.

Suddenly, her parents' voices broke through her sleepy haze, their excited and frantic tones pulling her into reality.

"Rachel! Get ready! We need to go see the shaman!" her father called from downstairs.

Still half-asleep and disoriented, Rachel lay in bed, dumbfounded. A shaman? Why on earth would they need to see a shaman? She quickly threw on a t-shirt and shorts, her mind racing with questions as she made her way down the creaky wooden stairs.

"Dad, what's going on?" she asked, her voice still laced with sleep.

Her father looked serious, his brows furrowed with worry. "The house is haunted, Rachel. Your mother and I think the spirits of your grandparents are still here."

Rachel blinked at him, trying to process his words. "Haunted? Are you serious?" She turned to her mother, who stood by the window, her expression pale and troubled.

"Yes, sweetie. Our neighbor mentioned it, and we've been experiencing some… strange occurrences." Her mother glanced at her father, who nodded gravely in agreement.

"But… do you really believe in all that?" Rachel asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"Your grandparents' souls are tied to this place," her father insisted, his voice firm yet anxious. "Come outside, you'll see what I mean."

Feeling a mixture of curiosity and dread, Rachel followed her parents outside. The moment she stepped onto the porch, a chill ran down her spine. The walls of their home, once a bright shade of cream, were now splattered with red. It looked like blood. The sight was both shocking and grotesque, making her stomach churn.

"It looks like what our neighbor said was true," her father murmured, staring at the walls as if they were a reflection of his own fears. "They say the spirits are restless."

Rachel swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. "But can't we just… ignore it? Maybe it's just paint or something?"

Her mother shook her head, her eyes wide. "No, Rachel. This is different. The shaman is a great person; he might help us."

Rachel crossed her arms, feeling a surge of frustration. "But I don't believe in any of this! What if it's all just a myth?"

"Please, Rachel," her father implored, his voice growing more desperate. "You need to come with us. The presence of the whole family is necessary for this. It might be the only way to save us all."

With a sigh, she relented. "Okay, fine. I'll come."

Once inside, Rachel rushed through her morning routine, her thoughts still swirling with doubt. After a quick shower, she stood in front of the mirror, contemplating the recent turn of events. The red walls felt like a bad dream, yet reality had a way of crushing hopes.

As she towel-dried her hair, her phone buzzed on the counter, catching her attention. Two missed calls from Doo. She paused, staring at the screen displaying his picture, showing him in an annoyed pose. A pang of longing hit her. Should she call him back? Part of her wanted to hear his voice, to share her worries, but another part hesitated.

Why should she? It's not like she was that important to him. She pushed the phone aside and finished getting ready, dressing in a simple sundress that felt too light for the heavy atmosphere surrounding her.

By the time Rachel joined her parents again, her heart raced with anxiety. The drive to the shaman's house was filled with a silence that felt heavy and foreboding, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

They arrived at a small, nondescript building, the walls painted a dull gray, the door adorned with talismans and charms. As they stepped inside, the scent of incense enveloped them, filling Rachel's nostrils with an earthy aroma that was oddly comforting yet unsettling at the same time.

The shaman stood before them, a figure draped in colorful traditional clothing. His presence was commanding, yet something about him made Rachel uneasy. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering far too long on her chest and hips, an unsettling warmth spreading through her.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of something darker. "I've been expecting you."

"Um, hi," Rachel replied awkwardly, trying to ignore the way he seemed to be scrutinizing her.

As he stepped closer, she felt an instinctual need to back away, but her feet were frozen in place. The shaman reached out, attempting to touch her neck, but she swatted his hand away.

"What the hell is your problem?" Rachel snapped, her voice sharp.

"Patience," he murmured, his expression shifting from intrigue to seriousness. "This is more serious than I thought."

"What do you mean?" Rachel asked, confused.

"It seems like the spirits of your grandparents are using you as a medium," he explained, his gaze locking onto hers with unnerving intensity. "That's why they are rejecting my touch. They're protecting you."

Rachel felt her heart skip a beat. Using her as a medium? It sounded ridiculous. "But I'm not possessed! This is crazy!"

Before she could protest further, she turned to her father, who was kneeling before the shaman, his hands clasped together in prayer. "Please, save my daughter! I will do anything! Please return my daughter to me!"

"Dad, what are you doing?" Rachel gasped, disbelief washing over her.

The shaman, however, seemed unfazed. He considered her father's plea for a moment before speaking again. "I will have to perform a ritual for her. Only then will she be free from them."

"What?" Rachel felt a wave of anger surge through her. "No way! You can't just decide that! I'm not staying here!"

As she moved to leave, she opened the door only to find two tall Japanese men standing there, blocking her path. Their muscular frames towered over her, and she felt a surge of panic.

"Let me go!" she shouted, looking back at her parents for support, but they were entranced, still kneeling, their faces etched with desperation.

"Please, Rachel," the shaman interjected calmly. "You must listen. You need to stay here for a while and serve the gods by helping me."

Her legs felt like jelly as she collapsed to the floor, her heart racing. "What's happening? Why are you all acting like this?"

Tears brimmed in her eyes as the shaman's words sunk in. The whole situation felt surreal, as if she were caught in some nightmarish scenario. "Am I really possessed?"

Her parents' gazes were fixed on the shaman, their bodies trembling with fear. They looked like lost souls, desperate for salvation. It was as if the very essence of who they were had been stripped away, leaving behind only shells of the people she loved.

Rachel felt the weight of despair pressing down on her chest. She was supposed to be the strong one, the one who held everything together, yet here she was, feeling utterly powerless.

"Enough!" she cried out, frustration and fear flooding her voice. "I'm not your pawn! I won't play along with this!"

But her protests fell on deaf ears. The shaman's expression remained placid, and the two men continued to block her escape. "Your fear is a part of this process, Rachel. It's time to embrace your destiny."

A feeling of hopelessness began to creep into her mind. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake from this nightmare. She could hardly breathe, feeling trapped in a cage she had never agreed to enter. She struggled to make sense of the situation, to understand why her parents had surrendered so completely to this man and his strange beliefs.

As the realization settled in, a strange mix of anger and sadness surged through her veins. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake from this nightmare. Memories of her grandparents flickered through her thoughts—her grandmother's warm smile, her grandfather's gentle laughter echoing in her mind. But alongside those memories was a deep-seated fear, one that she couldn't shake.

"Listen to me, Rachel," the shaman said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "This is not just about you. The spirits want to be heard. They have messages, and you must help them communicate."

"Why me?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "I didn't ask for this!"

"You are the one they chose," he replied, his tone calm yet unwavering. "You are connected to them, more than you know."

Rachel shook her head, trying to deny the growing weight of his words. The room felt stifling, and the shadows seemed to stretch around her, as if they were alive. "I don't want to be connected to anything! I just want to go home!"

Her father finally looked up, his face etched with worry. "Rachel, please, just listen to what he has to say. It's our only chance to help your grandparents find peace."

"Peace?" Rachel scoffed. "You think this will help them? You think surrendering me to this fake shaman is goin—" but her vision suddenly blurred as a hard slap landed across her face.

"Looks like the spirits are trying to halt the gods' revelations," the Japanese man with glasses said, looking down at her expressionlessly adjusting his glasses.

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As the old man poured a glass of expensive amber liquor, the light catching on the rim, he looked over his three guests with a calculating eye. His bushy eyebrows shadowed his small, cunning eyes, and his M-pattern baldness gleamed under the light. Clad in his traditional grey attire, he took a slow sip before speaking, his voice calm but laced with tension.

"The joint development with Charles Choi has begun," he announced, swirling the drink as if to punctuate his words. "But there's one thing that has me worried—Seongji Yook. He's still up in that mountain, and if I simply let him be, he may become a suspicious variable."

He eyed the three figures before him, ordinary-looking at first glance, but any who truly knew them would recognize them as members of the Old Generation Gapryong Fist—their experience in violence and survival honed from a time when such skills were commonplace.

The man with grey and black hair, Beoulgu Lee, leaned forward with a smirk. He had an arm wrapped around a girl beside him, who was dutifully serving him alcohol. "Stop, stop. We get the idea. You want us to take care of Seongji Yook, right? Basically, eliminate that bastard?"

Another figure, Jaesu Nohj, spoke up, adjusting his green cap with the yellow logo. His dark curls fell messily beneath it, contrasting with the plaid shirt and blue jacket he wore. "Will you be giving us a satisfactory pay for this? We might look young on the outside, but we're not exactly at an age where we can ignore the need to prepare for our later years."

The last man, Gwang Yu, sat with his arms crossed, his muscular frame rigid as he glowered slightly. "The prestige of the Gapryong Fist has fallen rock-bottom if we're now chasing after First Generation punks for money. If only Boss Gapryong hadn't entered politics…"

The old man's eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement at their reactions. "I'll prepare a satisfactory pay for each of you, rest assured," he replied. "However, be warned—this is no easy task. Seongji Yook is no ordinary First Generation member. In fact," he leaned forward, letting his words hang provocatively, "there's a chance he might even beat each of you down to the ground."

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The young man stood at the bus station counter, his patience hanging by a thread as he stared at the clerk. "What do you mean there are no buses or cabs to Cheongliang for two days?" he demanded, voice echoing through the station. His brows were furrowed in a mixture of frustration and confusion, and a few passersby stopped to watch the commotion.

The office lady gave him a nervous smile, trying to placate him. "I'm really sorry, sir! There's some construction blocking the main routes, so no vehicles are heading that way for the time being."

He huffed, ruffling his own hair in exasperation. "Fine, fine. Just tell me the way. I'll take my bike or something."

"Oh, well, the route's not that complicated," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, as if the directions were top-secret information. "You'll start out on Highway 3 and follow it east for about twenty kilometers until you see a small green sign that says 'Gongju.' Don't actually go to Gongju, though, or you'll end up in the wrong province."

The young man blinked, already lost.

"From there, you'll take the right fork at the road with the three big rocks painted red—don't go left, or you'll end up in the forest with no exit."

"Wait… three… red rocks?" He squinted, trying to imagine that.

"Yes! Then, you'll cross a narrow bridge over a river—don't worry if it creaks, it's been like that for years—and then turn left at the abandoned gas station with the graffiti that says, 'Cheonliang is hell!'"

The young man's face grew more incredulous by the second. "What?!"

She continued, oblivious to his bewilderment. "After the gas station, you'll see a big scarecrow in the middle of a field. Turn right there, but only after midnight because that's when the farmers take it down."

He stared at her, mouth slightly open, feeling his brain slowly short-circuiting. "So… scarecrow, midnight..."

"Right! After that, keep going straight until you see a single glowing lantern by the roadside, which means you're close. But if you see two lanterns, turn back immediately. That's not Cheongliang."

The young man could practically feel smoke rising from his ears as he tried to follow her endless list of instructions. His head started throbbing.

"Just… forget it," he mumbled, stumbling away from the counter with a dazed expression, the directions tumbling around in his head like an unsolvable puzzle.

Doo Lee grumbled under his breath as he stared at the number saved in his phone as Never, Ever Call, Ever. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, "Fuck my life," before pressing the call button.

The line rang a few times before the other end picked up, and an all-too-excited voice boomed through the speaker. "Doo! I knew it! It's fate, isn't it? Heaven's will, you calling me just as I was about to call you! Destiny!"

Doo pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting his decision. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"See! I was just thinking, 'Man, you know who would make the perfect best friend? Doo Lee!' And look, here you are, calling me first. It's practically a divine sign!" The voice went on enthusiastically, not giving Doo a chance to interrupt. "I swear, Doo, we're destined to be besties! Soulmates, even!"

"Right… Anyway," Doo replied in a flat tone, "can you help me or not? I need to get to Cheongliang. It's an urgent issue."

There was a dramatic gasp on the other end. "Cheongliang! Doo, you must have telepathy! I was literally about to call you and ask you to come to Cheongliang myself! Fate works in mysterious ways, don't you think?"

Doo sighed, holding back an eye roll. "So… can you get me there or not?"

"Of course! I'll be there in twenty minutes flat," the voice chirped, excitement spilling over. "Get ready! I've got a brand-new custom race car that'll make the trip a breeze. Like I said, Doo, this is heaven's will—bringing us together in style!"

"Twenty minutes," Doo replied tersely. "Got it."

"Oh, and Doo," the voice added with an overly dramatic pause, "don't forget your sunglasses. We're going to roll in looking legendary."

Doo hung up, his patience already wearing thin. "Sunglasses… right."