Don’t Tame It [Novel]

1.

“Has the Broom not arrived yet?”

Irene, who had been about to push the lounge door open, paused. She had heard her own name from beyond the thin wood—or, to be precise, her nickname.

She remembered the story of how the name came to be: someone had mocked her for her stiff, frizzy hair and her gaunt frame, claiming she looked just like a broom handle. The voice that giggled as it coined the label still rang vividly in her mind.

“The Broom? Ah, you mean the Iron Wall? No, I haven’t seen her.”

The Iron Wall was another of her nicknames. As far as Irene knew, there were several more: lighter ones like Ice Pick, Iron Mask, and The Slasher; heavier ones like Nutjob, Witch, and Maniac.

Irene always found it fascinating when she listened to her peers. Someone would call her an Ice Pick, another a Nutjob, yet they all understood exactly who the other was referring to without a word of explanation. The conversation would simply flow.

If asked whether she was hurt by these names, the answer would be no. It was a draw, anyway; she had her own labels for them. She thought of her peers as Sea Anemones and Jellyfish.

Sea Anemones and Jellyfish were the types of cnidarians she despised most in the world.

“But why the Iron Wall? Do you have business with her?”

Only then did Irene recognize the two people inside the lounge: On, the hairy jellyfish, and Maxy, the arrogant sea anemone.

The sea anemone answered with a shrug.

“I’m in charge of anatomy prep today.”

“Ugh.”

On made a sound as if the mere thought made him want to retch.

Whenever On felt inclined, he would make a face like he was about to vomit and say, “Ugh.” Every time he did, Irene would step back, point to the door with her gloved hand, and signal that the restroom was downstairs.

Usually, instead of the dim-witted On, Maxy would retort: “You don’t actually think On is going to throw up, do you? It’s just an expression.”

Irene, who had genuinely worried that On might vomit—or rather, who didn’t want to attend a lecture that smelled of his bile—merely turned her head with an indifferent expression.

“Hey, Broom! I told you to look at me when someone is talking to you!”

Even the most optimistic observer wouldn’t say the relationship between Irene and her peers was good.

It wasn’t just the ostracization of the few women admitted to the Royal Medical College; she hadn’t even managed to form close bonds with the only three other female students.

Irene suspected the problem was her. According to her younger sister, Leticia—who gnashed her teeth whenever she saw her—Irene was a hopeless troublemaker.

It didn’t matter what Leticia thought. Irene called her “Elegance” in her own mind. Elegance was a type of stony coral. In other words, Irene hated Leticia, too.

While Irene stood lost in thought, the jellyfish shuddered.

“Anatomy prep—you mean cutting open a corpse and taking out the organs before class? Ugh, just thinking about it gives me the creeps. I heard barbers used to do that in the old days; I don’t know why they make students do it now.”

“Barbers? What era are you talking about? Do you think this is a menial task? You have to be excellent in both grades and manual dexterity to cut open a corpse in the professor’s stead. Students like me, that is.”

As the sea anemone acted pompously, the jellyfish nodded. “Yeah. You and one other person—the Iron Wall. The two the professor entrusts that task to.”

“Tch.”

Maxy clicked his tongue. Irritated, he stared at Irene with furrowed brows.

Whatever.

Irene, having no intention of lingering, pulled the door wide.

“So what if you’re good at it? You’re such a weirdo….”

Maxy stopped mid-sentence, his mouth snapping shut. Even in his brazen state, he seemed flustered to see the woman he had been bad-mouthing appear right before him.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the lounge. The sea anemone glared with a sullen expression; the jellyfish scratched his head, looking embarrassed.

Amidst it all, only Irene moved with composure. She didn’t spare them a glance.

Maxy frowned. Her attitude—the way she acted as if people like him were of no consequence—fueled his anger.

“Hey, if you see someone, the least you could do is say hello, right?”

Irene gathered her belongings from the corner. She put on a freshly washed white apron and pulled on a clean pair of gloves, tucking a few spares into her pocket just in case.

Maxy approached her with an agitated expression. On tried to stop him, but it was too late. Maxy grabbed Irene’s shoulder, forcing her to turn toward him.

“Look here! If someone is talking to you, at least pretend to look—!”

*Slap.*

Irene struck the back of his hand with her gloved palm. A warning siren rang in her head; the hair on her body stood on end, and her breathing quickened.

Hiding her pale face, Irene wiped the spot where Maxy’s hand had touched her, scrubbing the fabric of her shoulder vigorously. It wasn’t mere discomfort; it was terror. But no one noticed.

Another, deeper silence passed. On covered his forehead with his hand, as if he had seen this coming.

“Ha.”

Maxy tightened his jaw. It wasn’t the first time he’d been treated with such contempt, but it felt as filthy as the first. He pulled one corner of his mouth up.

“Just how noble is your body that you can’t stand another person touching you?”

Despite the sharp sarcasm, Irene’s expression remained like a fortress. She didn’t retort; she simply continued to brush off her shoulder with a blank face.

In truth, she had plenty to say. The arrogant sea anemone had touched her—who could stand that?

She remembered why she hated cnidarians. Having existed since ancient times, they were primitive creatures that didn’t distinguish between an anus and a mouth; they excreted waste through their mouths. She had seen Maxy walk around without washing his hands after dissection too many times. To borrow the jellyfish’s word, it was a total “Ugh.”

The sea anemone possessed toxins in its tentacles. There was no better nickname for Maxy, who stung with every word he uttered. Of course, she had never said it out loud.

After a long while, seemingly satisfied that her shoulder was clean, Irene threw away the cloth and grabbed a fresh one.

Maxy delivered another sting.

“So what if your grades and dexterity are excellent? You’ll never be a doctor. A doctor who hates human touch—I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. With a body so ‘noble,’ how do you plan to treat patients?”

“…….”

“And that’s not all. You can’t empathize with pain. You have no emotions. If anyone here becomes a great doctor, it’s going to be me. You know that.”

If Maxy had intended to hurt her, he failed. That level of criticism was as familiar to Irene as the air she breathed. She attended the Royal Medical College, but no one knew better than she that she would never be a doctor.

She hated human touch with a terrifying intensity. A mere thought of it gave her goosebumps. It hadn’t always been this way; it started with the tragedy when she was seven.

*Don’t think about it. Don’t bring it up. Keep it buried.*

The dust-covered Pandora’s box in her mind began to rattle. Irene shook her head and fastened the lock on her memories tight.

No matter what, she would never open that door.

No matter what.

Having packed her things, Irene turned to leave. Maxy’s brows twisted. It was always like this—he was the one left unilaterally angry, while Irene didn’t even consider him a person of interest.

Clenching his fists, he spat out, “The professor says you’re in charge of the cadaver dissection today.”

Only then did Irene look back. For the first time, Maxy was captured in her eyes, which were like clear glass beads.

Maxy’s chest bubbled with rage. He didn’t know why seeing her always provoked him, but it was too late to question it now. He lifted his chin.

“A very noble guest is visiting today. Since I have to attend to them with the professor as the graduate representative, you’ll have to do the anatomy prep. You can’t handle greeting guests anyway, can you?”

Irene nodded once. Maxy couldn’t hold back.

“Better off, right? Since you like cutting open corpses.”

“I do like it.”

“!”

Irene had opened her mouth for the first time. Her tone was indifferent, devoid of emotion, but Maxy’s eyes widened in shock.

He parted his lips, but his throat was blocked. After licking his parched lips several times, he stammered, “Wh, what did you say?”

“I like it.”

“No, I mean….”

“I like dissecting corpses.”

“…….”

Maxy shut his mouth, finally realizing her meaning. He glared at her blue eyes, which reflected him like a mirror.

“At least more than I like conversing with you.”

With that, Irene turned her back.

It was the truth. She found it much more comfortable to deal with the dead than the living. The dead didn’t touch her without warning; they didn’t demand reactions to unsolicited goodwill. They simply existed.

Behind her, Maxy called out, “Irene Rios!” It was an unusual occurrence, but she did not look back.

That *Irene Rios* was not her real name was a secret no one knew—a secret that remained vivid only in her own memory.

*Bang.*

The door closed. On, who had been standing back quietly, tapped Maxy’s shoulder.

“Let it go, Maxy. It’s not like it’s just today or yesterday that the Iron Wall has been like that.”

Maxy glared at the firmly closed door with terrifying intensity, as if he could force her to walk back through it.