Chapter 1 — The Nest

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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When I divorced my wife, I couldn't shake the feeling of being severed from the world.

Everyone said we didn't have real reasons to split—that things like ours could heal with time. They called me reckless, impulsive, too quick to walk away.

The core of our conflict? Food. Or rather, what it meant to me.

My job made stepping into a kitchen unbearable. As a full-time party caterer, I spent every day drowning in ingredients, heat, and the stench of cooked food. By the time I got home, all I wanted was to collapse—just once, without picking up a knife or wiping a counter.

But my wife never understood. She'd glare at me as I dragged myself through the door, barely managing to kick off my shoes before collapsing onto the couch. To her, I was lazy. Shameless. "You come home and do nothing," she'd say. "Not even help set the table?"

At our wedding, guests joked that no one would ever go hungry with a chef as the groom. Reality was far different.

If I'd specialized in something distinct—French cuisine, maybe, or traditional Chinese—the balance might've tipped differently. But buffets? Endless events, nonstop prep, constant refilling under pressure—it drained me completely. Coming home to cook felt like being told to shit in a bathroom with no toilet paper.

And though I'd earned respect for my speed and precision, my wife dismissed me. "You're not even a real chef," she'd sneer. "Just some guy who chops vegetables for rich people's parties."

She had pride too—expectations. While I craved simple, rough meals after days of gourmet service, she demanded variety. When I suggested doenjang stew, she snapped back with spaghetti. I said boiled pork, she shouted Peking duck. Our conversations became battles.

We grew exhausted. The fights stopped mattering. Divorce began to feel natural.

We had no kids. No ties. "Let's just end this cleanly," she said. Reluctantly, I stamped my approval.

That was that.

During the divorce process, I missed shifts. Deadlines slipped. My head chef pulled me aside and handed me a resignation notice—"recommended." So I lost my job too. Suddenly, I was unemployed, divorced, hollow.

For a month or two, it felt surreal. I stayed in bed all day. Watched movies I'd never finished before. Slept when I wanted, ate when I wanted, shat when I wanted. No one judged. No one cared.

But freedom has limits.

I'd given up the apartment. Left with nothing but a suitcase, I watched my bank account dwindle. Something had to change.

I considered returning to catering—but the thought repulsed me. I wanted a new life. Yet every job agency turned me away.

Eventually, I walked into a staffing office.

"Any work experience?"

I didn't mention being a chef. It didn't seem relevant. And honestly, the only jobs available were manual labor—and even those were oversubscribed. Most clients here were looking for maids, not young men like me.

It felt less like employment and more like walking into an ad agency selling empty promises.

They took 50,000 won as a "registration fee" and sent me off with nothing but a slip of paper. Back in my dingy motel room, I cursed myself for wasting money.

Then the phone rang.

"Hello? This is Eric Jung."

Unknown number.

"Eric Jung? This is the agency. You said you'd take any job, right?"

"Yeah."

"There's someone looking for a male housekeeper. Live-in. Interested?"

I hesitated. I had nowhere stable to stay. Burning cash on motels wasn't sustainable.

"Sure," I said. "I'll do it."

They said I needed to pass an interview first. Fine. I agreed.

It's now or never, I thought. Years of living alone meant I could handle laundry, cleaning—no problem. And hey, I was a professional chef. One good meal and I'd win them over.

I picked up the address and map from the agency and headed out, light-hearted.

The location? A luxury high-rise in Gangnam—one of those buildings I'd only heard about. Expensive. Impeccable.

I pressed the doorbell.

"Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong."

No answer.

Out? Did I come all this way for nothing? I mashed the button harder.

The intercom had a camera—I knew they could see me. Still, silence.

After another minute, a sharp female voice barked from inside.

"The fuck? Who the hell is it so early? Can't you see I'm busy?!"

"Uh… I'm from the staffing agency…" I mumbled, suddenly sounding guilty despite doing nothing wrong.

I should be the one saying 'fuck.' Who starts screaming curses before breakfast?

The door creaked open.

A woman stood there, arms crossed, wearing only a man's dress shirt—legs bare, hair wild, lipstick smeared across her cheeks and chin. She looked like she'd been drinking all night, tangled up with some guy, passed out until noon.

Probably exactly what happened.

"Come in," she snapped.

Great. And she's using informal speech with me? Who does she think she is?

"Sit."

I perched awkwardly on the center of a sleek Italian leather sofa.

She ran a hand through her tangled hair, grabbed a cigarette from the coffee table. I instinctively lit it for her.

"Polite, huh?"

Polite? More like survival instinct. Don't piss off the woman who might hire you.

Then the bedroom door opened.

Two naked men walked out—fully exposed, cocks swinging freely.

What the actual fuck?!

They didn't even glance at me. Just shuffled past, opened the fridge, and started chugging water.

One of them leaned over, wrapped his arms around the woman from behind, and bit her earlobe.

"Sleep well, baby?"

"Ugh, fuck off! You haven't even brushed your teeth! Your breath stinks like ass!"

He just laughed, gave me a smirk, then sat down with a bottle of water.

"See this?" he said, gesturing around. "This is how she lives. No order. No routine. Tried hiring women before? They quit within a day. Bitches can't handle it."

Can't blame them. Who'd clean up after this?

"I can do laundry, cleaning, cooking—everything. Just tell me what you need."

"Damn, look at that! Ma'am, you might finally stand straight!"

Who the hell are these assholes to interrupt like this? Sit down, drink your damn water, and shut up!

I swallowed my anger, kept my head low. Money makes cowards of us all.

"Oh? That's great," she said. "Start today. Got it?"

I asked for an hour to retrieve my things from the motel. She agreed. I rushed out, caught a taxi, and returned with my single suitcase—containing little more than clothes and my cherished recipe notebook.

Using the key she'd given me, I entered without ringing the bell.

Silence.

Had they all left?

No.

From the master bathroom, I heard water running—and voices. Loud, giggling, unmistakably sexual.

I dropped my bag at the entrance and crept toward the bedroom.

The bathroom door was open.

Inside, one man lay flat on the floor, the woman riding him, grinding hard. Her legs trembled as he thrust upward.

The other man knelt behind her, face buried between her cheeks, cock fully inserted into her ass.

"Ah… ah… fuck! Harder! Shove it deeper!" she screamed.

"Your pussy's insane, ma'am. Sounds like a violin every time I hit it."

"Shut the fuck up! That's not music—that's air escaping your dick! And you—" she twisted her neck toward the one behind her, "why the hell isn't there lube on your cock? You're tearing me apart! Do you have brain cells or just shit in there? Ugh, ugh!"

I turned away and left.

How could anyone live like this? No shame. No boundaries.

I carried my bag to the small storage room beside the kitchen—the room she'd mentioned as mine.

Even from there, her screams echoed clearly.

"Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Yes! YES!"

No wonder no female housekeepers lasted.

About thirty minutes later, I heard laughter, footsteps, the front door opening and closing.

I stubbed out my cigarette and rushed out—but they were already gone.

In the living room, I saw her through the open bathroom door. Naked, sitting at her vanity, applying makeup.

"Uh… I'm back."

"Oh? You came fast. Those jerks left, right? I'm starving. Make something to eat."

I opened the fridge.

Empty.

Not just sparse—completely barren. Not even condiments.

I checked the pantry.

A few dried pollack fillets spilled onto the floor. Some scallion roots, garlic cloves, onions—all shoved into a sack.

That was it.

What did she eat?

I needed eggs for a proper broth, but there were none. I decided to make plain pollack soup anyway.

Luckily, there was sesame oil and seasoning. I heated the oil, pan-fried torn pieces of pollack, added water, simmered, seasoned, then tossed in chopped scallions.

I regretted not having eggs to enrich it—but you can't create what isn't there.

No sign of when she last cooked rice. The fridge was plastered with delivery stickers. Clearly, she lived off takeout.

"Here. Breakfast."

I served the soup simply. She sat at the table in just panties and a bra.

"Not bad. You're actually skilled. Where'd you learn? With zero ingredients, too."

She finished one bowl and asked for more. I poured it.

"Actually… there's almost nothing to eat. Could I get some money to go grocery shopping?"

"Yeah, sure. Wait."

She got up mid-meal, went to her room, and came back with a bag.

A designer one. The kind people say costs as much as a car.

"How much?"

"Enough for side dishes, drinks, fruit, rice… basics."

She pulled out four 10,000-won bills—40,000 won total—and handed them over.

Holy shit. She just tosses this around?

"Keep whatever's left. And I'll be eating out tonight. Don't go to sleep until I'm back."

She stood, disappeared into her room, changed, grabbed car keys from the hall table, and left.

"Have a good day," I muttered bitterly as the door closed.

God, what a pathetic life. Reduced to seeing off a woman half-dressed like that.

I shut the door, lowered my head, and sat on the couch. Humiliated. Angry. Lit three cigarettes in a row.

But I couldn't stay idle.

I rolled up my sleeves and started inspecting the apartment.

Luxurious furniture. Top-tier appliances. Then I opened a storage room beside the master bedroom.

I froze.

The room was packed—floor to ceiling—with clothes, shoes, bags. No space to step. Lingerie tossed everywhere—panties, bras—designer, expensive, some ripped.

Under the bed? Worse.

Thick dust. Used tissues. Discarded panties—many torn, likely ripped during sex. Trash cans overflowed with cum-stained tissues, cigarette ash, condom wrappers, pill bottles.

I gathered all the scattered clothes, brought them to the living room, sorted them—washables vs. dry-clean-only. Found more dirty laundry crumpled in closets.

Called a pickup service from the contact book.

The volume was massive. And carrying her stained silk panties to a public laundry? Absolutely not.

Once the laundry was out, I headed to the supermarket I'd noticed on the way.

No car. I bought heavy-duty bags, doubled them, paid extra for durability, and carried everything in three trips.

Before restocking the fridge, I had to clean it. No recycling bins. Bottles everywhere. Took over two hours just to tidy.

Finally, groceries in place. Kitchen tools—knives, cutting boards, utensils—began filling the space. For the first time, it felt like my domain.

I started the washing machine.

Bed sheets first. Dried semen stains clung stubbornly. I scrubbed them with a brush, soaked, then washed.

By 8 p.m., the apartment was nearly spotless.

I cooked rice, simmered soup, and began preparing side dishes—even though I planned to eat alone.

All morning I'd survived on instant ramen. But I refused to eat poorly. Even alone, dinner deserved dignity.

As the soft smell of soybean paste soup filled the air, I sat at the table and looked around.

Clean living room. Laughter from a comedy show on TV. The gentle bubbling of broth.

For a moment, it reminded me of my honeymoon. Warm. Peaceful.

I tallied the receipts, placed the remaining money on her vanity with a detailed note.

Ate quickly. Pushed the plate away. The thought of spending another quiet evening alone made me lose appetite.

Sat in the living room. Turned on the TV. Exhaustion hit me like a wall.

My body ached. Skin felt sticky.

Remembering my sensitivity to odors, I went to the bathroom near the entrance and took a shower.

Midway through, I thought: How will I deal with my own needs?

I lathered soap over my cock.

Stiffened instantly.

Started stroking slowly.

Faster.

Approaching climax—

Then voices. Laughter. The front door bursting open.

And then—the bathroom door, which I hadn't locked, flew wide open.

"Huh?"

"W—who are you?!"

I covered myself with soapy hands, heart pounding.

"So-jung! You keeping a pet now? Why's there a man in the bathroom?"

"Nah. Just the housekeeper. Not important."

Excuse me? That throbbing, rock-hard cock right in front of you isn't important? What the hell is important to you?

And why is she still staring, mouth half-open, instead of closing the damn door?

I dried off quickly, stepped into the living room.

Two women sat on the couch. The one who'd opened the door looked similar to the mistress—same energy, same wildness.

The mistress herself was already making out with a tanned, muscular guy—his skin dark as if permanently sun-kissed. His body was lean, toned, entirely bronzed.

Even his underwear line is gone, I noticed. Must've been nude tanning.

As they kissed, the friend reached over, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off.

Then, without hesitation, she dropped to her knees and sucked his erect cock—long, thick, glistening.

I backed away.

Again, I wasn't supposed to be here.

But they didn't care.

To them, I was invisible. Garbage.

I retreated to my room.

But sound traveled.

Their moans, groans, filthy talk poured in like a radio drama.

"So-jung, this guy's amazing. For a random pickup?"

"Tch, you said he looked like a thug at first. Now look at you—your pussy's getting destroyed. Slow down, bastard! Ah—yes, just like that… ugh, ugh…"

"Damn, look at that tight ass. Bet your pussy screams. Wanna try the ass?"
"Bitch, keep your tongue off my ass! It kills the mood!"

I couldn't listen anymore.

Sat in the corner. Lit a cigarette. Inhaled the chaos.

Eventually, I dozed off.

Then—a scream.

I jolted awake, rushed out.

Lights off. Only a dim lamp illuminated silhouettes.

The mistress was gone.

Her friend lay facedown on the couch.

The man stood behind her, drenched in sweat, thrusting violently into her ass.

From the angle, I guessed her scream came from anal penetration.

Then I saw her.

The mistress.

Collapsed on the floor nearby.

Face turned toward me. Shivering. Moaning faintly.

Something was wrong.

I rushed in, ignoring the couple still fucking.

Turned on the main lights.

"Wait!"

They cursed me, but didn't stop. Kept slamming into each other.

I knelt beside her.

She was foaming at the mouth. A sharp chemical smell rose from her breath.

I slapped her cheek. No response.

Pulled back her eyelids. Unresponsive.

"Hey! This is serious! She's unconscious!"

They ignored me.

I stormed into the bedroom, tore off the freshly washed sheets, rolled them into a bundle, and carried them back.

No time to dress her.

I wrapped her tightly in the sheet, lifted her onto my back.

The couple stared—half-drunk, half-amused.

"You animals," I spat, kicking the door open as I carried her out.

Flagged a taxi.

"Nearest emergency room. Now."

The driver grinned.

"Man, I always wanted to do something like this in real life! Like a movie!"

He flipped on the hazard lights, blared the horn, ran red lights.

A police sidecar appeared, followed us—then, realizing the urgency, led the way, clearing intersections.

"Hell yeah, this is exciting!" the driver yelled.

At the ER, I said she'd taken drugs.

They rushed her in for stomach pumping. Told me to wait outside.

The officer from the sidecar approached, asked what happened, wished me well, then left.

I'd forgotten my wallet.

"Could you come back tomorrow?" I asked the driver. "I'll pay you at the hospital."

"Nah, forget it. I had fun. You helped someone. I broke traffic laws. We both won. Just take care of yourself."

The doctor later told me: "She overdosed on sleeping pills mixed with strong alcohol on an empty stomach."

"You brought her in just in time. Another hour and she wouldn't have made it."

She woke up late the next morning in recovery.

"Do you remember anything?" I asked.

She listened silently as I explained everything. Tears streamed down her face. She covered her eyes with trembling hands.

I turned to leave.

"Eric Jung!"

"How do you know my name?"

"I looked you up. Before you came. I'm sorry you had to see me like that. You're a chef?"

I assumed the agency told her. But how did she know my profession?

"I live alone. I hired a man as a housekeeper. My family investigated you thoroughly. You divorced recently? I hope I didn't offend you."

Her tone was surprisingly gentle. I expected yelling. Instead, humility.

"Why did you take the pills? If life's that unbearable, why spend it like you do? Drinking, fucking, acting like you don't care?"

I spoke bitterly.

"You're right. I don't have an answer. I truly didn't want to live."

"Then why surround yourself with people? Why throw parties? Why invite that ex-husband's lover here?"

She paused.

"That woman… she's my ex-husband's current girlfriend. I still hate him. But meeting her yesterday… I found out she's going through the same pain. Different circumstances, but same path."

"Your family seems wealthy."

"Rich? Sure. Old money from land speculation. But money turns people shallow. My parents solved everything with cash. I grew up thinking love was transactional."

"We had everything—houses, cars, status. My husband? A prestigious judicial trainee—bought with money. He changed locks, replaced cars, upgraded homes. I gave him everything. But he called my family stupid. Took half my fortune and left."

"Officially, it was irreconcilable differences. Truth? He cheated."

I realized her recklessness wasn't just rebellion—it was erosion. Built on a foundation of wealth without warmth.

"I look wild now. But before the divorce? I was quiet. Devoted. Ashamed of my family's vulgarity. I thought loyalty would keep him. But he only cared about freedom. My parents forced the divorce. I got nothing. Not even dignity."

"His lawyer claimed he suffered emotional damage. Made me pay compensation. Took everything."

Her fall began with that loss.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Maybe I should've just died quietly. But you saved me."

"Why die? Life's worth fighting for, isn't it?"

"What hope do I have? Look, you can quit if you want. I'll just repeat this cycle—drink, destroy myself, overdose. Eventually, I'll succeed."

"When I divorced, I felt like the world left me behind. But self-destruction? That's not strength. That's surrender."

"You deserve better than men who only want your money. They don't love you. They use you. Don't you see that?"

"I do. But after everything… I don't know if I can be fixed. Maybe I should just let go."

"People adapt. But wounds caused by people? Only other people can heal them."

"Killing yourself with pills isn't the answer. How about this—try consuming something alive instead?"

"Consume? What do you mean?"

"Me. I'm offering myself. Damn, I'm bad at this. Look—I can cook, clean, manage a home. We've both been divorced. We know pain. We don't need to hide."

"No kids. No baggage. Why not start over? I can rebuild my career. We won't be rich, but we'll eat well. Isn't that enough?"

I sounded foolish. Desperate.

She looked down.

"You've seen how I live. My body's been torn apart. Used. I'm not someone worth saving. Are you sure?"

"When I cook," I said slowly, "I look at fresh ingredients and wonder—weren't these once thrown away? Scraps, waste, deemed useless?"

"But they return. Grown from soil, reborn on tables. Food teaches me that nothing is permanently broken."

"If you call yourself trash… then let me say this: as of yesterday, you're no longer waste."

"You're a fresh ingredient—planted in the soil, sprouting new life. Ready to become something delicious again."

She cried. But she smiled too.

Not because she found a good man.

Because she found someone who saw her.

After discharge, we moved in together—no ceremony, no fanfare.

We rebuilt the nest.

Both of us knew: after it's broken once, you must rebuild it stronger.

Was it coincidence we thought the same?

We didn't look back.

Too busy living.