Unfinished Flame of Hatred

The moment he thought of her, the words “that rotting bitch” spilled from his mouth like bile. In regional Jeolla dialect, “rotting bitch” didn’t just mean someone who should rot and die—it carried a deep, seething hatred, thick as tar.

He hated her not just for betrayal, but for the humiliation—raw and unforgettable. The way she’d been intercepted by that kid, the one he treated like a younger brother. (Intercept: in basketball, stealing a pass meant for someone else.)

That kid had stolen her—his woman—with nothing but a clean, cold move.

He could’ve cursed the kid. But no—every ounce of blame, every shred of rage, he pinned on her. That rotting bitch.

Even before all this, he’d often brought her along when he hung out with friends. And every time, he saw it—her, drunk, slipping into other men’s arms on the dance floor, swaying, laughing, playing the coquette while he sat passed out beside her.

He had a habit—drink just a little, and he’d collapse anywhere, unconscious. But her? She could down an entire bottle of soju and not even blink. Two drinks, no effect. A woman built for sin.

He’d first met her at the factory. He ran a small workshop, a handful of employees under him. Among them, she stood out—fast, sharp, unnervingly perceptive. While other women managed one and a half tasks, she crushed twice that. So he raised her pay, slipped her bonuses in secret, watched over her like a shadow.

At first, it was just employer and employee. Then his mother died.

He left to handle the funeral, and she stepped in—working day and night, filling the silence with labor. She showed up at the funeral hall, scrubbing floors, serving tea, doing the grunt work no one else would touch.

Relatives praised her. He remembered.

After the mourning ended, he bought her a small gift—nothing grand, just a token. But it meant something.

Then one day, she said, “Close your eyes.”

When he did, she kissed him—soft, quick, on the lips. And just like that, fire lit in his chest.

After that, everything changed.

Office. Factory floor. Storage room. Even motels after hours—he met her in secret, hiding from his wife, drowning in a heat he hadn’t felt in years.

Her body was greedy. Her hunger, endless. The more she drank, the bolder she became. Her hands, her mouth, her rhythm—each time, more skilled, more ruthless.

But all things crack, given time.

She started acting like she owned the place. Used her status as the boss’s woman to bully coworkers. If someone annoyed her, she’d threaten to get them fired.

His wife found out.

An ultimatum: divorce her, or fire the bitch.

He chose to fire her.

But it wasn’t over.

He kept seeing her—behind his wife’s back, slipping her cash, meeting in motels, their bodies twisting together like vines choking a tree.

Then came the final betrayal.

While he was away on business, she turned her eyes to the young worker—the one he’d treated like a little brother.

He knew. But he pretended not to.

And she? She grew bolder. Played both men like cards in a rigged game.

One night, he called. “Where are you?”

She laughed, soft and knowing. “Come quick.”

He knew she wasn’t alone.

That night, drunk and trembling, he wandered near her apartment.

And then he saw her.

She stumbled out of a taxi, collapsing onto the pavement. Her pants were soaked, zipper open. Her panties—torn. The stench of sweat and sex clung to her skin. A taxi driver and some stranger—both had used her. Left her broken on the curb.

He saw it all.

And still—he didn’t take her home.

Instead, he led her to a motel.

One last time, he took her. Rough, desperate, punishing. Her body answered, slick and yielding, even in ruin.

Afterward, he sang softly, voice hollow:

“Let’s never think of this again.”

But deep inside, beneath the ash and silence, the flame still burned.

Unfinished hatred. Unfinished, bitter desire.
And her—still burning in the dark.