Waiters carry platters of hors d’oeuvres through the winding paths. None of them are Kisa. The red thread stretches far beyond the greenhouse—she’s likely still working in the ship’s clinic. Not knowing whether he’s disappointed or relieved, Seokga takes a flute of champagne, downs it, grimaces in disgust (coffee is the only drink besides water he more than tolerates) and then places it back on the tray as a live band—hidden somewhere in the foliage—begins to play soft classical music.

Dr. Jang is chatting away with an elderly couple who seem to be fawning over her dress and laughing as she contorts her voice to a surprisingly good imitation of a popular daytime show host. Staring at the rubber ducks, Seokga hopes that terrible fashion sense isn’t an incurable disease of the old. He is, after all, ancient. Hwanin attempts, futilely, to engage Seokga in conversation with a few other guests—all of whom mumble their excuses as he turns his penetrating green gaze onto them.

“Seokga,” Hwanin says, “you’re scaring them away. Stop it.”

But Seokga doesn’t hear him. No, Seokga is staring over Hwanin’s shoulder, feeling his blood steadily begin to boil as he catches sight of something—someone—whom he has dearly wanted to throttle for some time now.

It was Hani’s last wish that Nam Somi go free. If it were up to Seokga, he would have hung Somi’s pelt in his palace long, long ago. Thirty-three years ago, to be exact.

She looks different now. The years have hardened her. He realizes, with growing disgust, that her clothes mirror what Hani would once wear. Perfect, polished, fashionable in the nineties but perhaps a bit outdated now, out of place amongst the more modern wear of the party. The way she flirts, laughs…Somi is mimicking Hani. Mimicking her former friend, her mentor, the most notorious gumiho to ever exist.

His stomach rolls.

But oh, how Somi pales in contrast to Hani. This air of cheer and confidence is so calculated. So plastic and fake. For years, Somi terrorized country after country, eating her way through their supply of men—almost as if following in the Scarlet Fox’s footsteps. But some paws are too small to fill the prints left by the Scarlet Fox.

She’s a cheap knockoff.

Seokga feels a bitter regret that he was not the one to end her life or put her on this ship.

But now that she’s dead…

A wicked smile curves Seokga’s lips. It’s the same curve that graced them moments before he unleashed a horde of Gamangnara monsters into Okhwang. The same crooked grin that Hwanin stared at as Seokga rode a roaring Unruly jangsan beom into the throne room, the massive tiger-shifter launching for the throne.

Now that she’s dead, he can really begin to torment her.

How Seokga adores loopholes.