Prologue
Seoul. November. A Tuesday nobody will remember.
I killed the girl who wanted to be a butterfly.
Not with violence. Not with intention. I did it the way most murders happen — slowly, reasonably, in increments so small they never felt like a choice. A little less noise. A little more compliance. A little more I'm fine said quickly enough that no one thought to check.
She was five years old the last time she lay in a field and believed the world was made for her.
By thirty-one, I had made myself so small I could disappear into a room without changing its temperature.
This is the story of how I did it.
What it cost me.
And what it took to begin — imperfectly — to come back from the dead.