Chapter Text
Byeong-ho never thought it would take dying and waking up in the demon realm to find people who would love him as he is, not who he’s “supposed” to be.
But here he is.
For a long time there was no Byeong-ho.
Or well, there was… but he was buried beneath the fact everyone expected him to be someone else. Someone quiet, docile, polite, delicate, female.
There was a name he had before (even if he can’t remember what it is) and with it came expectations. Expectations to be the little sister who would support his older brothers. Expectations to fill the role their mother left when she passed away after giving birth to him. Expectations to be a homemaker, a woman.
Anything he did that went against these roles was believed to be an unfortunate consequence of being raised in a house with five men and no female role model. He didn’t feel like a girl, even at a young age, but everyone made it clear that he wasn’t a boy.
He was stuck. Trapped. Wrong.
He remained trapped when the war broke out, and his four brothers were conscripted into the army, leaving Byeong-ho home with only his father, who made it increasingly clear what his role was supposed to be as the “woman” of the house.
Even at 18, his father refused to allow him the option to volunteer for the army or move out (it’s not like he had any money to do so anyways, and his father refused for him to have any other men in his life.) He was trapped at home, the same way his brothers became trapped by the law that required them to fight. As terrifying as it could be to think about serving on the front lines, Byeong-ho couldn’t help but wish he was in his brothers’ place, to be allowed out of the house, to be able to help his country, to fight, to be a man.
(To be something other than his father’s toy. His father’s pet. His father’s favorite.)
Eventually, it became too much, and he took his father’s time at work as an excuse to leave. To be free, even if only for a little bit. He finally was able to explore, dressed in his brothers’ clothes to obscure his identity, he explored town, something he was only ever allowed to do when accompanied by someone else (which his father made very clear.)
That first day, while he was out, he finally felt free. Not just because he wasn’t being loomed over by his father and the way he could only ever see Byeong-ho as a replacement for his mother. Not just because he was able to go out with his long hair concealed and chest bound under his brother’s shirt. But because he discovered music.
Sure, he had heard records at home before, but this was his first time being able to see it performed live, and it was amazing.
The three women on stage had a way of singing that reached into his soul, elevating people who had an aura of melancholy looming over them due to the uncertainty that came with war. Their dance movements seemed almost supernatural, and he could swear the air seemed to grow lighter as their song went on.
It gave Byeong-ho a sense of euphoria not too dissimilar to how it felt when he looked in the mirror after putting on his brother’s clothes, and with it came the clear thought in his mind:
I want to do that.
And this gave Byeong-ho a direction, a purpose, a light at the end of the tunnel of expectations and pain.
He kept sneaking out, finding bars and stages to watch people perform on, finding quiet places where he could practice on his own. Dancing was something he had never tried much of before, but he picked up on it insanely fast (even if he had to wear less… confining clothes to do it safely.) Contorting his body and moving on beat just felt natural, and even if the body he was in still didn’t feel like his, it gave him something else to focus on (other than just how wrong it was, how curved it was, how small he was, how he could still feel the touches of-)
There were times still where every movement he made just reminded him of the fact that something about him was wrong, times where it felt like he was being crushed, but he tried to ignore that in favor of the euphoria he felt while dancing.
And singing… he couldn’t deny that sometimes the sound of his own voice sent waves of discomfort through him (because why did he sound like that?) but from an objective standpoint he also knew… he sang well .
(Ultimately, dancing felt more freeing because it didn’t care about what gender he was born as. While with singing it was still something that loomed over him.)
In regards to gender, Byeong-ho’s time in crowds and bars, meeting all different types of people that his father never would have let him associate with before, allowed him to get a better understanding of who he was.
Transsexuals: people born in the body of one gender but felt like the other.
It was something that was often only whispered about, and considered taboo, but the fact that such people existed, that his experiences weren’t necessarily unheard of was… nice .
(And devastating when he found out in some countries surgeries existed so people could feel more in line with their inner selves. Crushing because these were not yet popularized in the Republic. Crushing because even if they were, he knows his father would never allow it.)
Ultimately, it was something he tried to push aside in favor of performance, using the euphoria he felt while dancing to relieve the crushing feeling he felt in his chest.
And eventually, it got him the attention of an upstart group that was looking for a backup dancer. Costume aside (which he traded out for baggy clothes whenever he got the chance and refused to look at reflective surfaces while wearing), the fact he was able to do something he had grown to love was amazing (even more so when they didn’t question the clothes he wore after performances, or the way he would change privately rather than in the locker room, or the fact that after not too long the costumes they gave him to wear became less revealing and more gender-neutral.)
Any chance he had to not be home he took, because being away meant he could forget. Forget the fact that his brothers were fighting in a war and he hadn’t heard back from some in months. Forget the fact that his father saw him as nothing more than a replacement for his late wife. Forget the fact that his father has never loved him , and his brothers may never get the chance to.
Dancing, he could be someone else. And after not too long he also was asked to perform backing vocals (something that was less uncomfortable than singing by his lonesome because at least then his voice wasn’t front and center for him to hear and critique.)
And he started making money. Through gigs hiring him, through tips people would leave. The fact he was able to make money from this made him finally feel like his own person, rather than someone who was being puppeteered and unable to live their own life (even though it did feel like he was still outside of his own body at times.)
But of course, with comfort came sloppiness. Came mistakes.
Gwi-Ma tends to pick and choose which memories he lets his cursed souls keep.
It was something Byeong-ho suspected early on in his time with the demon realm, and only further cemented when he met others like him, other ex-humans. Other jeoseung saja.
Because the good times were hard to hold on to. He couldn’t remember the stages or bars he performed in. The kind faces he met. The people who made him feel like he had a community. The music groups that allowed him a place. His brother’s names or faces or attributes (which one didn’t like beans? Which ones would always treat him like an equal? Which one did he sneak into town with that one time?)
It was foggy, like facts he knew from someone else’s life. Impersonal. Distant. Not his.
But he could remember the feeling of self-hatred that coursed through him every time he looked in the mirror, every time a piece of clothing was just too tight on him. He could remember his father’s face, hands, voice. He could remember the amount of nights he spent shaking or throwing up, he could remember wishing everything would just end.
He could remember the day all his happiness finally caught up to him.
Vividly.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” A cold, male voice asks the second Byeong-ho steps through the front door. And the voice makes him freeze, because this man shouldn’t be home. This man was supposed to be away for another two days.
This man never sounded like this. He tended to wear a mask of false happiness, luring people into a feeling of safety, rather than sounding so outright dangerous.
He could afford to though, because he knew when it came to Byeong-ho he didn’t need to lure in his prey, Byeong-ho was already caught.
Still, the flier in Dae-sung’s hands made Byeong-ho feel like his world was going to collapse (if it hadn’t already), because he knew that flier. He knew what it said. He had just come from that event himself.
And so, it seems, has his father.
“I-”
“And what do you think you’re wearing, ____ ?”
(Byeong-ho can’t remember his old name. One of the few mercies Gwi-Ma gave him for some odd reason.)
His father’s eyes trace over his body, now covered in baggy clothes Byeong-ho had borrowed from one of his brothers. And from the look of disgust on the older man’s face, he can tell that Dae-sung doesn’t like what he sees.
“You sneak out. Of my house. Dress up and dance like some geolle gateun nyeon , and come home wearing your brothers’ clothes, looking like a dyke?!”
“Father-”
“Are you trying to disrespect your family? Your brothers? Me?! You were told to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that?! ”
He’s getting closer, grabbing onto Byeong-ho’s arms tightly, and Byeong-ho can’t move, can’t breathe. He’s stuck. Frozen. Trapped.
“The only person you’re allowed to be a maechunbu for is me, remember? You’re mine. ”
His father moves even closer, breath going right into Byeong-ho’s face, the scent of budae-jjigae from the man’s dinner still strong. And there isn’t room for Byeong-ho to back away, already pressed against the door that he stupidly let close behind him.
The rest that happens follows the format of what has happened countless other nights, but with it comes a more intense pain. Because Byeong-ho is reminded that in the end there is no escape. That he’s too weak to be anything but his father’s “good girl.”
The one safe place he had has been breached, and the idea of going back to perform on stage, knowing his father could be in the audience, fills him with nausea.
“You’re too weak to escape on your own, but I can help you. I can make you strong. Make you something other than that terrified little girl who hides under the covers whenever daddy comes knocking. I can make you into someone most people wouldn’t dare mess with. The epitome of a man.”
Lying on the floor shaking, disgusting from the events of the night and unable to think beyond the screams in his mind that he should run, that he should have fought, the voice comes to him.
It sounds like a dream, like everything he ever wanted. Too good to be true.
But he doesn’t have much he can lose.
The hand of whispered promises reaches out to him, and Byeong-ho takes it.
And that’s when Byeong-ho is born. That is when he trades his life from one abuser to another, even if he hadn’t realized it quite yet.
Still, he can’t give himself to completely regret it. There are things his father did that Gwi-Ma never does.
Plus, even if his body is ultimately a gift from Gwi-Ma, it still feels more like his than his old body ever did.
Running from home, it doesn’t hit Byeong-ho until he’s halfway into town that he doesn’t have a place to stay.
It doesn’t matter. Byeong-ho would take even the streets over spending another night in that house. Thankfully, the meager amount of cash he made from performing is enough to get him a spot in a hotel for a few nights.
And it’s in the privacy of a moldy, single hotel room, he is able to see the extent of the changes his body has undergone, making it clear that whatever voice he heard wasn’t lying or made up.
It can’t be, because the growing muscles on his arms and abdomen feel real, feel hard. The sacks of fat on his chest that used to only bring discomfort morph into firm pecs.
The clothes that were once baggy are now straining against his new musculature. His face has hardened out and become more angular. He’s grown over half a foot in height. The only remnants of the person he once was was his amber eyes and long, dark hair.
Which he promptly cuts, wrapping a towel around himself and going down to the innkeeper’s to borrow some scissors, as well as some clothes from the lost and found that can better contain his body.
His abs. Because he has abs. Abs most men could only dream of.
Going downstairs in nothing but a towel doesn’t even bring with it a sense of discomfort, because this body no longer is a source of shame, but a source of pride.
Pride. Because this body is art. This body is perfection. This body is strong. And nobody would dare say otherwise.
(An outside observer would say Byeong-ho’s body isn’t the only thing that changed when he accepted Gwi-Ma’s offer, but Byeong-ho wouldn’t care.)
(This picture of strength he has become is better than that weak individual he was before.)
Despite this version of Byeong-ho having never been seen before, he somehow manages to get jobs even quicker than he did before.
Maybe it’s because the town is lacking young men in general, given the ongoing war. Maybe it’s because Byeong-ho’s body seems like something out of a magazine (and beauty sells). Maybe it’s because men just have an easier time getting hired and gaining popularity than women.
Whatever the reason, Byeong-ho reaps the benefits, becoming a visual focus and lead dancer rather than someone who supported from the background.
And his voice-
The first time he speaks, he is shocked, because that deep voice is his. It doesn’t make him cringe or nauseous, it sounds like him. Like the kind of person he wants to be.
And the same thing happens when he sings, because it sounds like him.
Dancing and singing bring him even more joy, even more euphoria, because this is his .
Revealing clothing no longer becomes the source of dread, but the source of honor. Because it doesn’t bother him to dress like this. Other people like him dressing like this.
And it’s nice, because he feels like he can finally breathe after spending so long smothered by layers upon layers of clothing.
For a while he feels untouchable, because he’s finally strong. He smiles off propositions when they get too real, waves off hands that linger too close.
And when someone finally does touch him?
He snaps their wrist.
(Just like he wishes he could have with his father.)
More people fawn over him than his old self, but at least none of them are him. And discomfort is beat over by the fact that anyone he approaches he could take in a fight (the cautious, buried part of him tries to remind him that he’s not untouchable, that physical strength doesn’t always win out, that things can still happen, but the strength he didn’t have before is so apparent that it’s easy to feel invulnerable.)
But that bubble of safety breaks when he wakes up after a show and one too many drinks in some unnamed woman’s bed.
(He’d never slept with a woman before then, especially not while using his new equipment, and after this incident that he couldn’t even remember, he never did again.)
He throws up in the bed, picks up his clothes, and leaves the room before the woman can even wake up. He doesn’t want to see her face, doesn’t want to hear her excuses. He takes the crumb of control he had and leaves, something he never had the opportunity to do before.
When he gets back to his hotel room (which has become more of a pseudo-apartment after staying there for months), he takes a long shower, washing the hands off of him, dresses in one of the few pairs of baggy clothes he has, and crawls into bed. He avoids looking in the mirror, disgust crawling on him for the first time in this new body, something he hoped he had left with the person he once was.
(But if he had looked he’d have seen purple markings starting to stretch up his arms and along his abs. Shame stronger than ever, because his body being strong wasn’t enough. In the end he’s still weak.)
After this, he takes more notice of the eyes that follow his body. The hands that come too close. Every person is a threat. And shame fills him with each night, each time he flinches away from someone who ends up being seemingly harmless. Because he should be stronger than this.
But he’s not.
He’s still weak.
And his father returns just to make sure he knows it.
“You gaejasig ! You killed my daughter!”
Byeong-ho is slammed against the walls of an alleyway before his body can even freeze up at recognition of who is speaking.
Despite the fact he’s now taller than his father, he feels just as small as he always has. And he hates it.
He is supposed to be stronger now. He’s supposed to be someone other than this human landfill’s “good girl.”
He shouldn’t freeze. Not this time. Not when he actually has power.
As Dae-sung continues to yell about how Byeong-ho “killed his little girl”, Byeong-ho realizes just how weak this feeble old man is. He doesn’t need to bend to people anymore. The fact he did for so long is pathetic.
And he’s done being pathetic.
He pushes his father back against the opposite wall, slamming his head so hard against it that he hears a crack.
And then there is blood. So much blood. (He didn’t know head wounds bled so much.)
As he backs away, his father’s limp body falls to the ground, and Byeong-ho is just left staring at it.
He did that. He killed this man. This monster.
Then why does he still feel so weak?
(It won’t change. It will never change. It doesn’t matter what he does. He’ll always be the scared girl, crying when the sun sets and the lights go out, waiting for the monster to creep into her room once again.)
As blood drips down his father’s head, patterns creep up Byeong-ho’s own. It burns. It hurts. (He barely feels it.)
He’s drowning, he can barely breathe. Everything feels so heavy that it’s hard to even see through his screaming thoughts.
At some point he passes out, whether it’s from the shock, the pain of the patterns, or demonic intervention he doesn’t know.
But he must go unconscious at some point, because when he opens his eyes again he’s somewhere entirely different.
At first Byeong-ho is only able to pick up a couple things about the new world he’s in.
One: the voice he heard is some powerful being called Gwi-Ma, and he knows this because he keeps hearing the voice. Mocking him for every moment of weakness, every time he wasn’t strong enough to stop something. How even in the end, he was ruled by fear. He knows this because he hears other demons (because that’s what he is now, he’s a demon) whisper his name in reverence and fear.
Two: this realm is crowded , yet very few people (or demons? Is he still a person?) look like him (and he doesn’t just mean that they don’t have as large abs.)
While Byeong-ho is undoubtedly not human anymore, this is mostly shown in his grey-toned skin, patterned skin (and he was so stupid for not worrying more about those when he was human), fangs, pink hair, gold eyes, and claws. Some of the other demons here, while sharing similar patterns, seem to look a lot less human.
Seem to act a lot less human.
He doesn’t know if it’s because they’ve been down here so long, if that’s what he’s doomed to become, or because there are different kinds of demons, kinds that are “less human.” (He wouldn’t know until Su explains it to him, until Baek goes into depth about the demon hierarchy that exists here, until Min-seo answers questions he never even thought to ask in whispers.)
For a while he is just… existing. Letting the memories and demeaning words separate him from the present. Part of him feels hungry. But he doesn’t know if he needs to eat, doesn’t see the point of doing so (if he’s already a demon can he really die from hunger? Is the pain of hunger here nothing but another form of torture?)
He sleeps in an alleyway, covering himself up to avoid garnering any attention (he already stands out in a crowd because of whatever type of demon he is, and the abs are an immediate eye catcher.)
Eventually he gets too hungry though, and the question of testing if he can die is outweighed by the need to make the pain stop.
Watching the comings and goings of the marketplace, he can see there is some kind of currency in this world, but different than the one he’s used to.
Still, money is money, and he does what he usually does to try and make some extra cash, he performs. He takes his shirt off. He lets people’s eyes latch onto him, onto his body.
(It makes his skin crawl, but there is a power in owning what has hurt him for so long. A revolution of sorts.)
He gets a couple propositions, but he can’t bring himself to take them. (Saying yes feels like he’s giving up his ability to say no.)
But then, some demon, looking not too dissimilar from Byeong-hon approaches him. He looks more human than most of the demons Byeong-hon has seen, but there was an unnatural beauty about him. He was gorgeous in a way that felt impossible, features delicate but not breakable. Long pink hair (did it change like Byeong-hon’s or was it pink as a human too) luscious and soft.
“Hi, gorgeous.”
And Byeong-hon has heard this line before, but the look on this demon’s face seems different, less hungry and more performative, like he’s putting on a show while he looks for something specific.
And he seems to find it, because after Byeong-hon feels his body involuntarily move back a bit at his words, the demon’s smirk lessens, there is a flicker of something else in his golden eyes. Understanding.
Compassion.
When the demon directs him towards an alley with nothing but his eyes, respecting Byeong-ho’s desire to not touch him, Byeong-ho follows. When he asks him in a softer voice, less confident and flirty and more real, what his name is, Byeong-hon answers. And he answers in kind.
Su-hyeon. Su. (“Beauty” which fits so incredibly well, and did his name change when Su became a demon, or was this name always so well fitting?)
And when Su asks him if he has food, has a place to stay, Byeong-ho answers honestly (and maybe that’s stupid, but something about this demon feels genuine in a way he hasn’t seen in so long, both as a demon and a human.)
“What’s the catch?” He asks the other demon, because even as a human he knows most things don’t come without a catch, and in the demon realm that only seems more true.
But Su just gives a cocky smile in response.
“No catch. Not unless you want there to be.”
Byeong-hon is offered another hand, but instead of it being whispered promises in his mind, it’s physical, clawed, but ever so delicate. It’s real.
At the time it was possible he was making another mistake, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It’s a chance he’s willing to take. Because he hurts. He’s tired. He’s alone.
And later on he is able to admit it’s one of the best decisions he ever made, both as a demon and a human.