I was afraid all of a sudden.

‘The woman might have other plans, Herjuno.’

If there was any truth to the legend, Herjuno was dealing with no ordinary woman.

‘That’s why I asked for your help.’

So Herjuno had dragged me into a dangerous stream. I might drown along with him.

—

That night, we left for the hotel separately. I set out first and waited for them in the hotel lobby, holding a newspaper up before my face like a film character and feeling ridiculous. Herjuno appeared two hours later with his gorgeous lawyer friend. He had paid for room number 324 for me, not far from his room, 320. I peeked at them from behind the newspaper. We pretended not to see each other. Herjuno had an arm wrapped around her waist. She was wearing a short, tight dress, black and dazzling. I looked at Herjuno and thought of a child impatient to play with a scorpion: he knows it’s poisonous, yet that only adds to the excitement. I was there to stand guard.

I went up to my room and worked on my laptop. Time inched towards midnight.

Fed up with working, I switched on the television. A thriller about a group of teenagers chased by a psychopath was on. After a narrow series of escapes, one kid took a bath, relaxing after all the tension. The mistake the victim always makes is breathing a sigh of relief. The boy didn’t realise the killer was nearby and drawing closer, axe in hand. He was wearing a mask. His black gloves drew the curtain away and brought the axe down. The wretched kid screamed. An ear-splitting scream. The axe fell again and again.

I winced, imagining an axe chopping through my flesh.

The bathtub became a sea of red. The killer had won the day.

The teenager in the movie fell face-first into the water, dead. But the scream lingered, piercing the walls. My heart raced.

The scream was real. It was Herjuno.

I was caught off guard. I’m no hero but I was frightened for my best friend; that woman, the scorpion, had stung him.

I ran to his room. None of the other guests did the same. Maybe they thought the sounds were only the cries of a couple making love.

I knocked at the door, calling Herjuno. I still hoped he was joking. But the cries got louder. The door was locked from the inside. My hands were sweaty. I pounded on the door. Should I break it down?

Before I could decide, it clicked open. I barged in to find my friend kneeling on the floor, clutching one hand with the other. There were crimson splotches on his unbuttoned white shirt. Something awful had happened and he had used what was left of his strength to open the door.

‘Jun!’

His left hand was covering his right. Blood was flowing, soaking into the carpet.