Molka

by Monika Kim

Genres: Feminist

Synopsis

From the award-winning author of The Eyes Are the Best Part, praised by The New York Times Book Review as “violent, smart, gruesome and wildly original,” a provocative journey into a perilous world of voyeurism, scandal, female rage, and vengeance . . . pursued with a very sharp kitchen knife.

Molka: an abbreviation of molrae-kamera, a “sneaky camera” hidden to capture covert images and videos for voyeurs.

In an unassuming Seoul workplace, IT technician Junyoung’s network reaches throughout the entire building. He sees every entrance. Every lobby. Every bathroom. The women in this building may be cold and dismissive, but he can always pull up his favorite images of them and remember who holds the real power. Until one, Dahye, sets herself apart from the rest.

Dahye, ever the romantic, yearns to be cherished after years of living in the shadow of her perfect older sister, who tragically drowned years ago. Only her boyfriend seems to appreciate Dahye. He’s rich, handsome, and generous—and she’d do anything to hold on to the happiness he brings her.

But when a hidden camera scandal rocks the city’s elites, Dahye’s dreams of a fairy-tale romance twist into a grotesque nightmare. Her boyfriend abandons her. Her parents reject her. Her grip on reality begins to shatter as visions of her dead sister suddenly appear. And as Junyoung’s interest in Dahye turns to obsession, and the truths of their troubled lives are revealed, Dahye must go to extreme lengths to bring the truth to light . . .

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The women’s restrooms were empty.

It was early on Monday morning. Only a few people had arrived at the office, and the security guards stood in the lobby, watching as a sleepy-looking woman walked slowly through the revolving doors. She bowed to them, stifling a yawn, and badged in just as the elevator arrived, the doors sliding open with a chirp.

On the fifth floor, the woman stepped out, shuffling in the direction of the restroom. She yanked the door open, stepping over the threshold. Instantly, the motion sensor bulbs blinked on, flooding each stall with light.

Michelle entered the first stall, carefully securing the latch on the door. Then, after unbuttoning her pants and pulling them down, she sat on the toilet. Her panties—a lacy black thong—were bunched around her knees.

Michelle was one of the few American-born women in the office. When she was first hired, her foreignness had been as obvious as a lingering stench. Now, months into the gig, that line had become blurred. She had purchased an entirely new wardrobe and shied away from the heavier style of makeup preferred in the States. Her Korean had improved, too, and the frequent typos of her early emails had lessened before disappearing completely. Anyone who met her now had no idea she was even American until she switched to English—which she did infrequently, and only when directed to by her superiors.

But the truth was just under the surface. In Michelle’s case, right under her neatly pressed slacks.

After all, everyone knew that thongs were not something well-behaved women of society would wear. Real Korean women—at least the ones Junyoung knew—wouldn’t even consider it.

Static ran across the screen, and Michelle’s figure grew blurry. Junyoung frowned. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching the monitor, and clicked his mouse a dozen times in rapid succession. The video froze: Michelle, standing in front of the mirror, her face still and expressionless, fingers stopped mid-stroke as they brushed through her hair.

Voices echoed down the hallway, and Junyoung glanced at the clock. It was almost nine. Annoyed, he took one last look at Michelle before closing the window and switching to a blank spreadsheet. Morning was the worst time. His cubicle was close to the elevator, and all the foot traffic made him anxious. For good reason: His coworkers were nosy rats, peering into his cubicle as they passed by.

“You’re working too hard, man! What time did you get here?” Yoonseok said, reaching over to slap Junyoung’s back.

“Junyoung!” Hyunwoo called. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Ugh, you beat me in again …” Kangmin groaned. “I’ll get you tomorrow.”

Junyoung smiled and shrugged, though he didn’t look back. He kept working. Pretending to, anyway, because he was having a hard time staying focused. His mind kept wandering to Michelle and her little black thong, the dark fabric bunched up around her knees. Her glossy thighs. Her bare pussy.

The first time he had seen the hairless triangle of her sex he had made a mess—first by spitting out a mouthful of water all over his keyboard, and again minutes later, when he had stumbled out of his cubicle and into the bathroom to jerk off, hands clasped tightly around his erection. He had finished while leaning hard against the side of the stall, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle his moans.

Before meeting Michelle, he had never known a woman without hair down there. Once, when he was young, his father had told him that no self-respecting woman shaved that part of her body. Only porn stars and prostitutes. Junyoung couldn’t fathom why Michelle had chosen to do such a thing. Maybe her salary wasn’t enough. Maybe on the weekends she fucked men for money.

+

Junyoung’s phone rang all morning. He was on support desk duty, which was by far the worst part of working in IT. He and his coworkers were each assigned to a day: Kangmin had Tuesdays; Cheolmin, Wednesdays; Yoonseok, Thursdays; and Hyunwoo, Fridays. Luckily, the first few calls were easy—mostly people who were locked out of their accounts—and all Junyoung had to do was reset their passwords.

Working in IT, Junyoung had seen quite a few examples of moronic behavior over the years. One time, a woman tried to access her superior’s email account to delete a complaint someone had sent about her and was caught after seventeen failed login attempts were traced back to her work laptop. On another occasion, a man sent a picture of his penis to everybody in the company. It was an accident, of course. The man had inadvertently carbon copied the company’s global distribution list, which included the CEO and all seven members of the board of directors. He was promptly fired and escorted out of the building.

Today wasn’t nearly as bad. Of all the idiots, the biggest was a man who claimed someone had sent an obscene email from his account the night before to the head of his department.

“It wasn’t me,” the man insisted. “I was asleep when it happened.” He paused, grasping for words, but Junyoung, listening absentmindedly, already knew what was coming next. As if on cue, the man said, voice pleading, “I was hacked. You have to help me get to the bottom of this. I can’t get fired—my wife will kill me.”

Junyoung accessed the email remotely and read the single line of text, stifling his giggles. You’re a balding goatfucker, and I hope you die in your sleep. It had been sent past midnight, at 12:24 a.m. No doubt an impulsive, drunken act fueled by soju.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could be more helpful,” Junyoung said pleasantly. The email was sitting in the inbox, unread. If he really wanted to, Junyoung could have deleted the message. Poof. Like it had never existed. But he didn’t feel like it today. The man let out a choked sob, and the line went dead.

Between each request, Junyoung peeked at the camera feeds. Michelle flitted in and out of the fifth-floor restroom. A gaggle of female interns, young and scared looking, whispered to each other as they hurried to use the toilets on the third floor. The phone rang again, loud and insistent. Junyoung answered, only half listening to the croaking voice on the line. Something about spam emails?

Cradling the receiver between his neck and shoulder, he zoomed in to watch the interns in the stalls. Blue-and-white panties. Pink panties with roses. Panties with lace. The last one, the prettiest of them all, wore granny panties. Junyoung made a face. She was so young. Why did she insist on wearing such terrible underwear? Nevertheless, he watched as she finished her business, and when the group left, he moved to the second floor. It was empty. He switched back to the blank spreadsheet and began to type.

By then, it was lunchtime. Junyoung feigned concentration as his coworkers passed his desk to get to the elevators. The floor was silent as he poked his head out, looking around at the lines of empty desks before sitting back down. It was what he had wanted all morning … some goddamn peace and quiet. He unhooked his desk phone, which was mid-ring, silencing it and throwing the cord aside. He opened the program for the hundredth time that day and stared at his computer screen, hypnotized by the movement in each of the forty boxes.

He didn’t care much for money, but this? It made him feel rich. He ran his fingers across the monitor lovingly, leaving smudges behind. Then he stopped. Squinted. Was it just his imagination, or was one of the cameras in the third-floor stalls crooked? He pulled up the video library on his cellphone. Hundreds of videos, all taken from the restrooms, populated the screen. He found the ones from that specific stall from the previous week and compared them to the current feed.

Somehow, the camera had moved. Perhaps the interns had bumped into the wall, or someone had slammed the door a little too hard. Junyoung stared, fingers drumming on his desk. An itch was growing under his skin, crawling into his bloodstream. It bothered him. Just that slight difference in view meant that he would miss the full picture of whoever used the stall.

If Junyoung waited until the workday was over, there would be little risk. Most people were gone after eight. But what if he missed something important in the meantime, like the interns coming back to make out with each other in secret? It was unlikely, but not impossible; he had seen it happen in a porno before. Sitting there, Junyoung reasoned with himself. It was lunchtime, and the floor was probably empty. It was just one camera. Plus, he was an expert now. He was quick. He had done this hundreds of times before.

And if he was caught?

Junyoung shook his head. He certainly wasn’t about to let it happen today. He logged out, glancing around one last time at his cubicle. Stacks of paper, neatly organized by date. Next to them, a brand-new notepad with a green cover. A white mug filled with pens. He flicked a speck of dust off his mouse pad and headed to the stairwell.

He had expected it to be empty, but a woman was making her way down the stairs just as he was walking up. He stopped and bowed, flattening himself against the wall even though there was ample room for her to pass. She was a slim, horse-faced woman who worked on the second floor, in contracts. He had helped her recover some corrupted files several months ago, and she had been overly thankful then, bordering on irritating.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully, with a familiarity Junyoung didn’t like. She gazed out the window. “Strange weather we’ve been having.”

“Hm,” Junyoung said. Already his mind had wandered to his videos from the bathroom on the second floor where she worked. Cellulite-dimpled legs. Gray underwear that sagged at the bottom, with a loose and fraying elastic band. A big, fat bush.

Eugh.

Junyoung shook his head, returning to the stairwell. The handrail was cold underneath his fingers, and he realized the woman was staring at him with a puzzled expression. “Sorry, what were you saying? I … didn’t hear you.”

“I’m trying to buy a laptop for my son. Do you have any recommendations?” she asked, repeating herself.

“Ah! Sorry. I’m a little slow today. You know how it is.” He grimaced, and at the same time, they both groaned, “Mondays.”

The woman laughed. Junyoung smiled and said, “I can help with that. Send me your specifications and budget, and I’ll email you some recommendations.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re always so helpful.”

Junyoung bowed. “Absolutely,” he said, before gesturing toward the stairs. “Sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Crazy day.”

She bowed in return as he unstuck himself from the wall and moved past her, his shoulder brushing against her arm. He walked quickly, afraid she would stop him again, and exited the stairwell once he reached the third floor.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the windows and into the hallway where Junyoung now stood. He blinked, his eyes aching from the brightness. The IT department was housed in the basement, where they had no natural light. On some days, if he arrived early enough, he didn’t see the sun at all.

As he had anticipated, everybody had gone to lunch, and the third floor was quiet. There were no voices drifting from the conference rooms. No clamoring through the double doors that led to the cubicles. The bathrooms were tucked at the end of the hall, the women’s to the right, the men’s to the left. Junyoung marched toward them, confident and cool. If anybody asked, he had an excuse prepared: He was helping someone with a support ticket and, on the way out, was making a pit stop at the restroom. Small bladder. He’d inherited it from his mother.

With a quick glance at his phone, he confirmed that the women’s bathroom was still empty. He hurried inside, ignoring the dress-clad silhouette on the door, and made his way into the first stall. Once he was certain the latch was secure, Junyoung turned toward the wall, running the pads of his fingers along the cracks that branched along the tiles like cobwebs. Most of them he had made himself. He had learned that the easiest way was to drive a metal toothpick into the tile with a hammer. One good hit was all it took, though it had taken some practice.

Junyoung quickly found the tiny camera. It was nearly invisible unless you knew exactly where to look. With the pointed end of the metal toothpick he’d brought with him, he poked at it, adjusting its position little by little until he was satisfied. On his phone, he saw that the camera had returned to its previous angle and gave himself a thumbs-up, grinning.

It was easy work. Three minutes, tops. Why had he been so anxious in the first place? He was about to reach for the lock when the door to the bathroom swung open. Without thinking, Junyoung retracted his hand and sat abruptly on the toilet seat, lifting his dirty shoes up and hugging his knees to his chest. He fumbled for his phone and unlocked it to see on the cameras that a woman had just walked in.

It was Mirae, one of the new employees who had started that week. She was doe-eyed and quiet, beautiful in a subdued way, and Junyoung had been salivating over her for the last few days. White panties. Plain. Cotton, if he had to guess. Mirae’s footsteps stopped at the first stall, where Junyoung was hiding. A hot spike of fear pierced through him as she pushed against the metal door. When she realized it was locked, she shook it, looking perplexed. She bent over to check for feet, and Junyoung, holding his phone so tightly his fingers ached, stifled a gasp. The ends of her long hair poked out from the bottom of the door.

Go to the next one, Junyoung thought. He flicked his eyes toward the ceiling, the blood pounding in his ears. The next one, please!

Mirae straightened up. “Hmm,” she muttered.

A wave of relief swept over Junyoung as she went into the last stall. Half aroused, half fearful, Junyoung listened to the gentle scrape of metal as she unbuckled her belt and began urinating. She flushed, washed her hands, and, without a second look at the first stall, disappeared through the door. Alone again, Junyoung waited, straining to hear beyond the door. He still hadn’t put his feet back down. When he looked at his phone, he saw himself framed in the center of the screen. He chuckled. It was a funny sight. He counted to three, then quickly put his feet on the ground, and bolted out of the bathroom like a crab on the beach running for cover.

Hyukjoon shouldn’t have been driving. Dahye knew this, but she said nothing as they rolled through the streets of Gangnam. At least he was driving slowly; the traffic helped keep him in check. With every stop, she felt the slosh of wine in her stomach. Everything appeared out of focus through the windows, and the brake lights of the cars in front of them blended into a single, long smudge of red. Hyukjoon’s hand was hot on her thigh. She smiled and squeezed his hand tight, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He looked at her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Dahye said.

“It can’t be nothing. You’ve been staring at me since we left the restaurant.”

Warmth spread down her neck. “If you noticed, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it’s cute to see you embarrassed.”

“Oppa,” she protested. Grinning, he leaned in and kissed her temple. Her heart fluttered. Still looking at Hyukjoon, she pinched the inside of her elbow. Would he vanish? Disappear into dust? Several seconds passed, but thankfully, he remained.

They had just finished a meal at Nereids, the newest Michelin-starred restaurant in Seoul. It was the best meal she’d ever had, consisting of nine courses, each one paired with wine. The wagyu tartare, charred octopus, and foie gras were among her favorites, and the dinner had far surpassed Dahye’s expectations. It had also cost as much as a month’s rent in Seoul, a thought that made her head spin. Before meeting Hyukjoon, she would never have dreamed of visiting such a place.

They crossed the bridge and made it into downtown Seoul. The skyline was dotted with lights from the many thousands of windows in the buildings overlooking the Han River. Dahye stared, wondering distantly if any of the people in those windows were as happy as she was now. She peeked at Hyukjoon’s handsome profile, at his graceful forehead, full lips, strong chin. Sometime during dinner, he had taken off his glasses and stowed them in his shirt pocket. Faint indents were still visible on the sides of his nose.

No, she decided, warmth flooding her chest. Such a thing was impossible. Nobody could be this happy.

Tonight, Hyukjoon’s hair was carefully combed back and gelled, and he was wearing a linen shirt with short sleeves and khakis. The Rolex on his left wrist—a blue and gold Submariner—gleamed. Out of curiosity, she had googled the price of it after their first meeting and had nearly gone into shock.

He pulled up to the curb on a quieter street not too far from her building before putting the car into park. The BMW, freshly washed and polished, shined in the dark. On the adjacent sidewalk, a couple walked past, holding hands. Dahye watched them through the window. A vacant metal bench rested directly under the streetlamp on the opposite side of the street, the light beaming down on it like a halo.

Hyukjoon’s hand slid up her leg. He leaned over, nuzzling her neck, his breath hot against her collarbone. She pushed him away playfully as he reached for the zipper of her skirt.

“We’re in public,” she panted, drawing back.

“It’s dark out. Nobody can see,” he said, voice husky. His lower lip glistened. He reached for her again.

At that exact moment, a mother and her daughter tottered by. The girl’s high, childlike laughter drifted into the car, startling Dahye. On impulse, she pushed Hyukjoon, shoving him back toward his seat.

“Ow!” He rubbed the side of his head. She had knocked him into the rearview mirror. It now sat at an odd angle.

“Oh god. I’m so sorry. It was an accident—” She reached over to touch him. His head was tilted to the side, and his eyes were closed in obvious pain. The girl and her mother, oblivious, disappeared around the corner. They hadn’t even glanced in the direction of the car. Feeling foolish, Dahye adjusted the mirror. “Is that okay?” she asked. He didn’t respond. She adjusted the mirror again, aiming it more squarely toward the back of the car. A note of pleading crept into her voice. “Or this?”

“It’s fine.”

But it was obviously not fine. Hyukjoon had grown quiet, and Dahye could hear her mother’s acerbic tone in her head: “There you go, Dahye, ruining everything again.”

She would fix it. Her fingers crawled up his thigh, to his groin, as he slipped his hand into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and took a deep breath as she began to squeeze him gently over his clothing, urging him back to life. Within seconds, he was hard. She unbuttoned his pants and reached into his underwear to stroke him.

+

Dahye dabbed at the sweat on Hyukjoon’s forehead as he let out a long, satisfied sigh. “I love you,” he said. She picked her skirt up from the floor. The windshield was steamy, and as Hyukjoon rolled down the window, cool air rushed into the car.

“Do you?” she teased. “Are you sure you aren’t just impressed with my … performance?” She lifted her eyebrows suggestively, and he smirked.

She stuck her tongue out at him. The awkwardness from earlier had dissipated, and Hyukjoon grabbed her hand and kissed it. She turned to the window, watching as an old man made his way slowly across the street.

A girl was sitting on the bench now, her head bowed. Something about her seemed familiar. Dahye sat up and stared. Light pooled around the girl.

Look up, Dahye thought, concentrating hard.

“What is it?” Hyukjoon asked. Dahye started as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I thought I saw …” She stopped. Shook her head. “Someone I knew.”

“On the bench? Who?” He peered curiously out the window. “There’s nobody there.”

Dahye looked again. He was right. The bench was empty. She frowned, confused. “I swear someone was sitting there a second ago.”

“Maybe they left,” Hyukjoon suggested. Then he lowered hi. . .