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"Please," the mul gwisin rasps, clutching at the wound within her chest, streaming blue blood so dark that it almost seems black."Please, don't kill me." It almost sounds as if she is speaking underwater, her voice muted and muffled and wet.

Disgusting.

Seokga rolls his eyes, his sword leveled at her bloated neck, ready to bite into the mottled flesh and end the battle here. He is cold, and damp, and utterly irritable as he stands waist-deep in the Han River, trying not to shiver in the freezing water and wishing he was still asleep. His nap had been short as, unfortunately, tracking down this water ghost had been a priority. "Enough with the dramatics," he snaps. "You're already dead. I'm just getting rid of you. You can't be on Iseung any longer."

"No," the mul gwisin insists. "Please. Don't. I helped you, remember…all those years ago…I came to your aid, I journeyed to Okhwang from Gamangnara, I terrorized the gods at your side…"

The mul gwisin doesn't look even remotely familiar, except in the vague way that all water ghosts do. Either the mul gwisin truly was part of Seokga's twenty thousand from the Dark World, or she's lying. Unrulies often do, as if claiming comradery with Seokga the Fallen will somehow spare their pathetic little souls.

Which is ridiculous.

He could kill them all for fleeing from Okhwang when he needed them the most.

"I understand," Seokga continues icily, ignoring her previous claim, "that you've been having the time of your life—or, pardon me, death—drowning humans. Making them suffer like you did. Which sounds pitiful, but the bottom line is that you're an Unruly. So, the next river you'll find yourself in"—he tightens his grip on the sword—"will be the Seocheongang. Goodbye."

"No!" the mul gwisin sobs. "Please, my king!"

King. That word, that title, gives Seokga pause. Once, he'd desired nothing more than a crown. A throne. Unbeknownst to the rest of the pantheon, Seokga had taken the throne of the Dark World by assassinating its former dokkaebi king in a spectacular show of bloodshed and his own general superiority.

Seokga had then ruled over the creatures residing in that shadowy realm, training them until he'd (verymistakenly) thought that he had a glorious army at his disposal. Armed with nothing but his folly, he set out to claim the crown that truly mattered—and ended up losing both, along with an entire realm.

After his humiliating fall, the rest of the pantheon raided Gamangnara. That plane of chaos and trickery has been locked ever since, inaccessible to both the fallen Unrulies and Seokga.

Which is fine. The realm had always been too dark for his taste. He'd constantly been bumping into things. And it hadn't been Gamangnara's throne that he'd really wanted, anyway.

Derision curls Seokga's lips. "King?" the fallen god sneers, his insides twisting. "You're no subject of mine." Although he despises his brother just as much as the Unrulies do, he also despises the Unrulies just as much as his brother does. Betrayed by both sides.

The mul gwisin is hyperventilating, which is ridiculous, because mul gwisin do not breathe. "Please—please, send me back! If you unlock the realm, I'll leave! Anything but Jeoseung—"

The fallen god rolls his eyes. This plea is nothing new. It's pathetic, really, how many of the creatures believe that Seokga has the capacity to unlock an entire plane of existence when he cannot even shape-shift into a rabbit. A rabbit.

The ghost's appeal cuts off as Seokga flicks his sword across the mul gwisin's neck in a silver blur. He watches, dispassionately, as the mul gwisin turns to a blue ash that floats atop the river's surface before slowly dissolving.

He stands there for a moment longer, glowering with as much revulsion as he can muster (which is a truly impressive amount). Unrulies, the foul things, turn to that disgusting dust when they die—unlike their law-abiding counterparts.

"Ten thousand and fifty-three," he mutters bitterly before dunking his blade in a clean patch of water and trudging toward shore.

Inside the haetae's precinct the next morning, Seokga folds his arms and warily eyes the jeoseung saja that stands above his cramped desk. Chief Shim stands next to him, sipping at a cup of coffee from the Creature Café. It is an effort not to scowl at that paper cup as the memories of his own experience at the café the day prior come flooding back. Seokga—still exhausted from the previous day's interrogation—would like nothing better than an iced coffee with one sugar and one cream, but he refuses to encounter that audacious gumiho again.

"Seokga," Chief Shim is saying, "this is Chang Hyun-tae. He is with Jeoseung's New Sinsi division."

Seokga regards the boy with very little interest. He is dressed like any other jeoseung saja, in the crisp black work suit, and clutching the standard black briefcase undoubtedly brimming with necessary paperwork. There is no telling his true age—jeoseung saja are as immortal as death itself, but he seems to be in his early twenties. Or perhaps even younger—he's fresh-faced and eager-looking. Seokga's attention is caught by the circular wire frames the boy wears. "The glasses," Seokga drawls. "Do you even need them?" It is rare that inhuman creatures do not possess perfect vision, most cases being only in elderly age. "You're clearly not as wrinkled and ancient as Shim," the god adds, unable to resist cutting his gaze to the bespectacled chief.

To his credit, Chief Shim chuckles wryly, unperturbed by the jab. "If I'm ancient, Seokga, I'd hate to wonder what you are."

"It's rather convenient that you remember my seniority only when it benefits you," Seokga drawls coldly.

The jeoseung saja blinks—clearly unsure what he should think of this entire exchange—and hesitantly takes off his hat to reveal shock-white hair. He bows. "Hello. It is nice to meet you."

Seokga sighs, turning his attention back to the reaper. Corporate workers.

So boring.

He turns his gaze to Chief Shim. "Why, exactly, is he here?"

Chief Shim rubs the bridge of his nose wearily, as if he wishes that Seokga could acquire some manners. Seokga frowns. His lack of manners is of no consequence to him. He is a god, after all. Being held to mortal standards is wearisome. "Hyun-tae collected two souls last night in downtown New Sinsi. You may be interested to know the circumstances."

A case. Seokga straightens and gestures impatiently for the jeoseung saja to begin. Almost mechanically, Hyun-tae does so.

"At eleven p.m. last night, in the downtown residential sector of New Sinsi, I was called to assist in the migration of souls from Iseung to Jeoseung. Two mortal men, age twenty-one and twenty-two, had been found dead on the sidewalk by a passing pedestrian. There are no witnesses to the crime, but…"

"Was the cause an Unruly?"

"Possibly." Hyun-tae dips his head in a nod. "The bodies were both missing their livers."

Seokga flicks his brows upward. "Interesting." An Unruly gumiho?

"I spoke to the souls," Hyun-tae adds. "It was hard to communicate with them, though, because they were missing their tongues. It seems," he continues, oblivious to Chief Shim's cough of surprise, "that their attacker was a woman with claws."

Ah. Definitely a gumiho, then.

"What's even more interesting," Chief Shim chimes in, "is that at ten fifty-four last night, we received notice of an energy flare in the same location that the bodies were found. It was a fox bead flare. One of the most potent ones I've heard about since 1888."

"That date," Seokga muses. "It sounds familiar." In 1888, he'd been in Joseon, hunting down an elusive imoogi who'd been gorging himself on young children. But there'd been something else demanding his notice at that time, too…something in England…something Unruly…

"The Scarlet Fox was in London at that time," Chief Shim supplies. "Five hundred men, all missing both souls and livers. Five women, all brutalized in horrid ways. She'd been nicknamed Jack the Ripper by the humans—"

The Scarlet Fox.

The legendary Unruly of old, named such for her rumored mane of rich red hair. The gumiho that has killed more people than any other gumiho in existence. The gumiho that Seokga knew he should probably, at some point, try to stop.

He straightens in keen interest. London, 1888. It's coming back to him now. That was the year that the consuming of souls and livers became taboo. Once, it had been done in moderation, but after the Scarlet Fox's little stint, it was banned entirely for drawing too much attention from the fearmongering mortals.

"No," Seokga replies slowly, "no. The murders of the men are separate from the murders of the women. Like all gumiho, the Scarlet Fox only touches men. The women were Jack's. The Scarlet Fox killed Jack the Ripper in November of 1888. He's thought to be her final kill." Because what followed has been more than a century of silence, the world's most notorious gumiho having seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. Until, quite possibly, last night.

How very, very interesting.

Seokga stands. "I want to see the bodies. The souls, too."

Hyun-tae shifts uncomfortably. "Each soul must be deposited in Jeoseung at most two hours after the incident of their death. Each man is currently awaiting judgment from King Yeomra. It is company procedure to bring them in on time." At Seokga's darkening visage, the jeoseung saja winces and averts his gaze.

Chief Shim sighs almost inaudibly. Although his face gives nothing away, it is clear by the cadence of his voice that he is miffed by this "company procedure," as well. "The bodies, Detective Seokga, are in the morgue. Lee Dok-hyun is currently examining them."

Seokga grabs his cane from where it leans against the side of his desk in the busy haetae workroom. "I will pay them a visit, then." If the Scarlet Fox is truly back…Well. It is Seokga's job to catch her, and catch her he shall. He stalks through the precinct, wasting no time as he heads toward the morgue.

The precinct's mortuary is silent and still as Seokga strides through the door, his shoes clacking on the tiled floor. The walls are white and washed out, spidery cracks running through the thick, bumpy paint. Overhead lights hum and buzz, illuminating the steel examination tables and the white sheets in a glaringly harsh light. He wrinkles his nose in distaste as his eyes flick to the steel vaults in which bodies are typically stored.

"Seokga." Lee Dok-hyun, the precinct's hired forensic pathologist, looks up from where he stands over one of the sheet-covered bodies. The doctor manages a tired smile, and Seokga cannot help but feel a prickling of respect. The mortal's job is not easy. Lee Dok-hyun is one of the few humans who is aware of the supernatural world around him—his family line had been chosen, long ago, to help serve the haetae in this way.

His father before him, Lee Dae-song, had been a skilled pathologist, as well. One of the precinct's best. Dae-song passed four months ago from a heart attack, but truly, Seokga doesn't feel his absence at all.

His son is basically a carbon-copy of him: Dok-hyun shares the same slightly crooked nose, lanky form, and notably bad eyesight (common, Seokga thinks in disdain, for mortals). Like his father, Dok-hyun wears a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that distort the sides of his face due to their heavy prescription, and the black lab coat with the golden embroidery of a haetae that signifies his position.

Like his sire, Dok-hyun is also a skilled worker. The precinct expected to be set back by Dae-song's death, going from two pathologists to one, but Dok-hyun has completely devoted himself to pulling twice his weight.

"Good morning," Dok-hyun says wearily.

"Debatable." Seokga makes his way so he stands beside the forensic pathologist, looking down at what he can make out of the body through the sheet. A hawk-like nose lifts the fabric a few inches from the dead man's face. He turns to Dok-hyun. "Have you begun examinations?"

"Not yet." Dok-hyun shakes his head. "The haetae brought the bodies out for me, but I had a feeling that you'd be coming, so I waited." He rolls his shoulders and glances down at the sheet below. His hazel eyes are shrewd and dim in a way that suggests he has seen many, many deaths. Dok-hyun cannot be more than in his mid-thirties, but in these moments in the morgue, the man always appears much older. The illusion is only enhanced by the new, prominent streaks of gray in his dark hair, which appeared after Dae-song's sudden death. "I am aware, though, that both men are missing their livers."

"The work of a gumiho," Seokga mutters. "Undoubtedly."

"Well," says Dok-hyun with a sigh, "we shall see." He makes to pull the surgical mask hanging around his neck upward. "Kim Beom-seok," Dok-hyun declares, glancing down at his clipboard. "Age twenty-one. Undergraduate at New Sinsi University. Male."

"And dead," Seokga murmurs, his eyes drawn to the cavity underneath the right rib cage, splattered with gore. "Very, very dead."

"Yes. And dead." Dok-hyun makes his way over to the dead man's mouth, and Seokga watches as he gingerly examines the wound, both with his fingers and with a set of hemostats that he retrieves from a nearby metal cart. "The tongue is gone," Dok-hyun says slowly, examining the mouth. "It was pulled out by…fingers. Pulled out by fingers with very, very sharp nails." He glances toward Seokga, who tilts his head in catlike consideration, his sharp mind honing a theory.

"Not nails," he replies slowly. "Claws."

"Claws?" Dok-hyun frowns. "They were attacked by a gumiho in its fox form?"

"Gumiho in their human form can summon their claws at will," Seokga replies, staring at the dead man. Although his face is still in death, there is an underlying cruelness there, a predation that sends Seokga's lips tightening in aversion. "This one certainly did."

"An Unruly gumiho," Dok-hyun agrees, still examining the body.

Seokga frowns, a memory rising to the surface of his mind. A memory of fearful whispers of scarlet blades, ruby-red daggers flashing through the night, slicing into skin. Those knives had once been said to be the Scarlet Fox's weapon of choice. "Do you see any marks from a blade? Not from the claws, but from twin daggers?"

"Ah…" Dok-hyun frowns in concentration, moving from the mouth to the cavity on the right rib cage. "I'll need a few moments to examine this wound more thoroughly," he says slowly, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, "but it seems that it was a dagger that did this. The cut is more precise. More accurate. Cleaner, even."

Eyeing the gaping wound, Seokga swallows a dark laugh. If this truly is the work of the Scarlet Fox…Well. This shall be a much more interesting case to follow than that pathetic mul gwisin from last night.

The Scarlet Fox is back.

"I estimate the times of death around ten-fifty to eleven p.m." Dok-hyun glances at Seokga. "Would you like to see the other body?"

"There's no need," Seokga says, still looking down upon Kim Beom-seok, the beginnings of a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I've seen enough."