There were two hours left until South Korea's first visual-equivalence execution.
8:03 a.m.
The enforcement staging room on the fourth basement level of the National Equivalence Authority.
Baek Hyunwoo was putting on leather gloves.
Starting with his right hand.
He pushed each finger in one at a time.
Index.
Middle.
Ring.
Pinky.
Finally, the thumb.
After confirming the feel of the glove's tip touching his fingernail, he pulled it tight around his wrist.
The wrinkles disappeared.
He did the same with the other hand.
The equipment to be used today was laid out on the table.
A corneal stabilizer.
An intraocular pressure gauge.
An optic nerve stimulator.
A microcurrent regulator.
And three syringes filled with clear liquid.
The execution subject's name was Choi Minseok.
Thirty-eight years old.
Last September, he had smashed a glass bottle into the face of a man he'd gotten into an argument with outside a bar.
A shard of broken glass had pierced the man's left eye.
The victim, Kim Jaehoon, had lost vision in his left eye.
The court had found Choi Minseok guilty of assault causing bodily injury.
Then the case had been transferred to the National Equivalence Authority.
The Equivalence Authority's conclusion was simple.
Loss of the victim's left-eye vision.
100%.
Loss of the execution subject's left-eye vision as well.
100%.
It was South Korea's first visual-equivalence execution.
Hyunwoo looked down at the tablet screen.
[Execution subject: Choi Minseok]
[Finalized Harm Value: 100% left-eye visual function]
[Scheduled enforcement time: 10:00]
[Enforcement method: irreversible loss of left-eye visual function]
Three electronic signatures appeared below the last line.
The Harm Assessment Division.
The Legal Review Division.
The Enforcement Division.
Hyunwoo's finger stopped over the first signature.
Yoon Taekyung.
First-grade harm assessor, National Equivalence Authority.
He was just about to turn off the screen when the door opened.
An employee poked his head in.
“Chief.”
“Yes?”
“The press corps is starting to come in.”
Hyunwoo checked his watch.
8:07.
“That's earlier than scheduled.”
“There are 112 domestic outlets alone. Foreign press is coming in too.”
“They can't enter the enforcement chamber.”
“I know.”
“What about the broadcast?”
“The official footage will only be released through the result-verification scene.”
Hyunwoo was silent for a moment.
“Result verification.”
“Yes.”
“So they call the scene where they check whether a person has lost an eye the result.”
The employee couldn't answer.
Hyunwoo checked the equipment again.
“Follow procedure.”
“Yes.”
The door closed.
Hyunwoo smoothed out one wrinkle in the glove on his left hand with the thumb of his right.
There couldn't be any mistakes today.
Not even 0.01%.
People had been gathering in front of the National Equivalence Authority since dawn.
The slogans differed on either side of the main gate.
One side held blue placards.
Give back as much as the victim suffered.
The other side held black placards.
The state must not blind people.
The police put up barricades.
Broadcast vans stood in a line.
Individual streamers had also gone live on their phones.
The real-time viewer count climbed rapidly.
The comments came even faster.
— Finally.
— He blows out someone's eye with a glass bottle and gets to keep his own? How does that make any sense?
— Now that's justice.
— They should do the death penalty like this too.
— The victim has to live with one eye for the rest of his life, while the offender does a few years in prison and walks out? That's more barbaric.
— An eye for an eye is about to become legendary today.
— Let's get this equivalence show started.
8:21 a.m.
The top search term had already been decided.
“Visual-equivalence execution.”
Second.
“Choi Minseok.”
Third.
“Kim Jaehoon.”
And seventh.
“Yoon Taekyung.”
At that hour, Yoon Taekyung was in his office.
Three monitors were on.
Kim Jaehoon's medical records filled the center screen.
The accident-date emergency-room record was on the left. The final harm-assessment report was on the right.
A cup of coffee, long since gone cold, sat on the desk.
He hadn't touched it.
Taekyung scrolled up on the center screen.
[202X.09.17]
[Penetrating wound of the left eye.]
[Corneal laceration.]
[Lens rupture.]
[Vitreous hemorrhage.]
[Traumatic retinal detachment.]
He scrolled down.
Surgical records.
Rehabilitation records.
Visual-disability determination.
He had seen all of it before.
Not just once.
Taekyung had performed the assessment himself.
Since the accident, the victim's left eye had been unable to distinguish even gross light perception.
Essentially, complete blindness.
That was why the value was 100%.
It wasn't a difficult case.
If anything, it was too clear.
The problem was below that.
Taekyung stopped the mouse.
[Medical history]
No hypertension.
No diabetes.
No glaucoma.
No retinal disease.
No significant medical history.
Taekyung brought a finger beneath his right eye.
He pressed.
Once.
Then he scrolled back up.
This time, he looked at the records from before the accident.
Insurance records.
Health-screening records.
Military-service records.
Driver's-license renewal records.
There was nothing.
More precisely, there was far too much nothing.
Taekyung's gaze stopped on one line.
[Exemption from the driver's-license fitness examination.]
The mouse stopped.
He read the sentence again.
Exemption.
Taekyung tapped on the keyboard.
Kim Jaehoon.
Resident registration number.
Road Traffic Authority linked records.
Access authorization approved.
The screen changed.
License category.
Class 2 ordinary license.
Date first obtained.
Fifteen years ago.
Renewal history.
Twice.
There was a small mark beside the second renewal.
[Substitute vision-test documentation submitted]
Taekyung opened the file.
A scanned document appeared.
The resolution was low.
It was a visual-function test certificate issued by a private eye clinic.
Taekyung zoomed in.
Right eye.
1.0.
Left eye.
0.08.
Taekyung's hand stopped.
The only sound in the room was the computer fan.
0.08.
Taekyung read it again.
The test had been conducted three years before the incident.
Left eye.
0.08.
At that level, he would already have depended on his right eye for most of his visual function in daily life.
Taekyung looked for the next record.
Issuing institution.
Saebom Eye Clinic.
Closed down.
Some of its medical records remained with the Health Insurance Review and Assessment Service.
Taekyung requested access.
[Enter reason.]
He typed:
“Pre-enforcement Harm Value revalidation.”
Access request submitted.
Three seconds.
Five seconds.
A pop-up appeared.
[Emergency access approval.]
Taekyung opened the records.
At first, they were routine visits.
Conjunctivitis.
Dry eye.
And six years ago.
[Suspected left-eye amblyopia.]
Five years ago.
[Corrected visual acuity in left eye: below 0.1.]
Four years ago.
[Suspected macular degeneration in left eye.]
Three years ago.
[Corrected visual acuity: right eye 1.0 / left eye 0.08.]
Two years ago.
[Detailed examination discontinued due to patient's personal circumstances.]
Taekyung leaned away from the chair.
He reopened the emergency-room record on the left screen.
The victim's statement from the day of the incident.
“I was hit with a glass bottle, and I can't see out of my left eye.”
It was true.
He hadn't lied.
He couldn't see out of his left eye after the incident.
The problem was what came before.
Taekyung picked up his phone.
He dialed a number.
It rang once.
“Yes.”
It was Baek Hyunwoo.
“Where are you?”
“In the enforcement chamber.”
“You haven't started yet, right?”
A brief silence.
“Two hours remain.”
“Stop preparations.”
Hyunwoo didn't answer immediately.
“State your reason.”
“I'm recalculating the Harm Value.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“The enforcement is today.”
“I know.”
“It has already been finalized.”
“I know.”
Hyunwoo's voice dropped.
“What did you find?”
Taekyung looked at the screen.
Left eye.
0.08.
“Preexisting condition.”
“How severe?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Assessor.”
Hyunwoo said,
“We're enforcing at ten.”
“That's why I told you to stop.”
“We need an official suspension order.”
“I'll send it.”
“How many minutes do you need?”
Taekyung didn't answer.
There was another record at the bottom of the screen.
Eleven months before the incident.
Referral to the ophthalmology department of a university hospital.
He clicked the file.
Access denied.
[Protected record held by another institution.]
Taekyung said,
“All of it.”
“What?”
“Stop until everything is verified.”
The call ended.
Taekyung immediately dialed another number.
The Legal Review Division.
“Connect me to Review Officer Seo Junkyung.”
Seo Junkyung was in a conference room reviewing the press briefing script.
“Let's cut ‘A new standard for South Korean judicial justice.’”
The public-relations team leader blinked.
“Why?”
“The Equivalence Authority has no authority to declare itself the representative of judicial justice.”
“But the media will love it.”
Junkyung smiled.
“That's exactly why we should cut it.”
The door opened.
An employee entered.
“Review Officer. A call from Assessor Yoon Taekyung.”
A little of the smile disappeared from Junkyung's face.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Put it through.”
His phone rang.
Junkyung answered.
“Yes, Assessor.”
Taekyung didn't bother with a greeting.
“I've submitted a review for the suspension of Choi Minseok's enforcement.”
Junkyung's expression went completely blank.
“On what grounds?”
“Omission of the victim's preexisting condition.”
“It was omitted?”
“The victim could barely see out of his left eye before the incident.”
Everyone in the conference room was watching Junkyung.
He stood.
“What was the figure?”
“Corrected visual acuity of 0.08, three years before the incident.”
“What about the most recent record?”
“I'm checking.”
Junkyung stepped out of the conference room.
He closed the door.
“It wasn't in the assessment report.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
“You checked his medical history from before the incident.”
“The public linked records didn't contain it.”
“So you're saying private records were omitted?”
“Some of them.”
“Some?”
Taekyung was silent for a moment.
“One university-hospital record is blocked.”
Junkyung stopped walking.
“Which hospital?”
“Semyung University Hospital.”
“I'll establish the legal basis for access.”
“Please hurry.”
Junkyung leaned against the wall.
“Assessor.”
“Yes?”
“What happens if the final assessment isn't 100%?”
“We change it.”
“Everyone in South Korea is watching this today.”
“I know.”
“We're two hours from enforcement.”
“I know.”
“The victim has already given interviews to the press.”
Taekyung's voice didn't change.
“So?”
Junkyung closed his mouth.
Taekyung said,
“When a person lost an eye isn't decided by public opinion.”
The call ended.
Junkyung looked down at his phone.
Then he murmured,
“Not ‘so.’”
The smile disappeared from his face.
“That is the problem.”
8:46 a.m.
The execution subject, Choi Minseok, sat in a separate waiting room.
Protective bands had been fastened around his wrists.
They weren't to prevent escape.
They were to prevent self-harm.
Across from him sat his court-appointed execution-assistance attorney.
Choi Minseok's legs were shaking.
“Am I really going to be unable to see?”
The attorney didn't answer.
“Sir.”
“Yes?”
“Completely?”
“The finalized enforcement order says so.”
“Just one eye?”
“The left.”
Choi Minseok smiled.
No sound came out.
Only his lips moved.
“He's only got one too.”
“That’s right.”
“Me too.”
“Yes.”
“Then it's the same.”
There was no answer.
Choi Minseok lowered his head.
“I didn't really mean to kill him.”
“I know.”
“I was drunk.”
“That was already addressed at trial.”
“That bastard insulted me first.”
The attorney looked at him.
“That isn't important right now.”
Choi Minseok looked up.
“I have to live like this for the rest of my life.”
The attorney was silent for a moment.
Then he said,
“Kim Jaehoon said the same thing.”
Choi Minseok's mouth shut.
At that moment, an announcement tone rang from the ceiling speaker.
[The enforcement preparation procedure has been temporarily suspended.]
Choi Minseok looked up.
The attorney looked at the speaker too.
[The execution subject is to remain in his current location.]
Choi Minseok asked,
“What is this?”
The attorney couldn't answer.
9:02 a.m.
The records from Semyung University Hospital were opened.
It was thanks to the emergency review order Seo Junkyung had secured.
Taekyung read the first page.
[Patient: Kim Jaehoon]
[Department: Ophthalmology]
[Chief complaint: decreased vision in left eye]
Ten months before the incident.
Detailed examination results.
Corrected visual acuity, right eye: 1.0.
Corrected visual acuity, left eye.
0.06.
Taekyung exhaled once.
Then he read the next sentence.
[Irreversible visual impairment due to scarring of the left macula.]
[Low likelihood of future recovery of visual function.]
And the doctor's assessment.
[In practical terms, the patient's binocular visual function depends on the right eye.]
Taekyung didn't close the file.
The next record.
Four months before the incident.
0.05.
One month before the incident.
0.06.
Taekyung opened a calculator.
Existing visual function.
Visual function after the incident.
Functional loss.
Contribution to daily life.
Binocular field-of-vision compensation.
Adaptation effect.
Loss of stereoscopic vision.
Contribution rate of preexisting disability.
Contribution rate of the accident.
The numbers began to change.
100.
101.
102.
103.
104.
Taekyung's hand stopped.
He entered the formula again.
6.4.
He applied a different standard.
5.8.
Median.
6.1.
Taekyung stared at the screen.
6%.
Until ten minutes ago, South Korea had been preparing to completely blind a man.
The actual harm was.
6%.
Taekyung pressed beneath his right eye.
This time, he held it there a little longer.
The door opened.
Seo Junkyung entered.
He was breathing a little heavily.
“I saw it.”
Taekyung didn't answer.
Junkyung approached the monitor.
The number 6.1% glowed on the screen.
Junkyung said,
“Is this final?”
“Not yet.”
“How much could it change?”
“Plus or minus 1.2.”
“Still, it's not 100.”
“No.”
Junkyung pulled over a chair and sat down.
“Did the victim conceal how severe his preexisting disability was?”
“He wasn't asked about it in his statement.”
“What?”
Taekyung opened the victim's statement.
Question.
“What harm did you suffer after the incident?”
Answer.
“I completely lost vision in my left eye.”
Junkyung read it.
“He didn't lie.”
“No.”
“So is this our mistake?”
Taekyung's eyes remained fixed on the screen.
“It was my mistake.”
“The entire assessment team reviewed it.”
“I signed off on the final assessment.”
Junkyung looked at Taekyung.
“This isn't the time to talk about responsibility.”
“I wasn't talking about responsibility.”
“You just said it was your mistake.”
“I stated a fact.”
Junkyung gave a humorless laugh.
“This is why talking to you is exhausting sometimes, Assessor.”
Taekyung didn't answer.
Junkyung looked at the screen again.
“Legally, we can suspend it.”
“Do it.”
“However.”
Taekyung looked at him.
Junkyung's expression was no longer gentle.
“There is one problem.”
“Tell me.”
“You can't just suspend the enforcement.”
“Why not?”
“Today's case is a public execution.”
“Only the result is being made public.”
“The public doesn't see it that way.”
Junkyung held up his phone and showed him the screen.
Real-time search terms.
Suspension of visual-equivalence execution.
Yoon Taekyung.
Going easy on the offender.
External pressure on the Equivalence Authority.
Taekyung glanced at it, then turned his eyes back to the monitor.
Junkyung said,
“If we suspend it, we have to explain.”
“Explain.”
“That the victim could barely see before the incident?”
“It’s a fact.”
“The media will attack the victim immediately.”
Taekyung looked at him.
“Are we hiding the truth?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Junkyung was silent for a moment.
“The victim didn't lie.”
“I know.”
“But people won't take it that way.”
“That is for people to decide.”
“And Choi Minseok?”
Junkyung asked.
“The offender came here knowing he was going to lose an eye. If we announce that it's actually 6%?”
“We enforce 6%.”
“Will people accept that?”
Taekyung's answer was short.
“They don't have to.”
“What don't they have to do?”
“Understand.”
Taekyung opened the final-assessment field.
“The law has no obligation to make public opinion understand.”
He entered the number.
6.1.
Applied the rounding rule.
6%.
Junkyung stared at the number.
“Are you really going through with this?”
Taekyung pressed Enter.
[Reassessed Harm Value: 6% reduction in left-eye visual function]
Finalized.
Taekyung said,
“The law only needs to be accurate.”
9:24 a.m.
A new order arrived at the Enforcement Division.
Baek Hyunwoo checked the tablet screen.
Previous.
[100% loss of left-eye visual function]
Canceled.
New order.
[6% reduction in left-eye visual function]
Hyunwoo stared down at the screen for a long while.
An employee asked,
“Chief?”
Hyunwoo said,
“Replace the equipment.”
“Excuse me?”
“We'll switch to a method calibrated for 6%.”
“Are we carrying out the enforcement?”
“The order has arrived.”
The employee hesitated.
“But the reporters outside—”
Hyunwoo looked at him.
The employee's words cut off.
Hyunwoo removed his right glove.
“Bring the micro-adjustment equipment.”
“Yes.”
“Minimize irreversible damage.”
“Yes.”
Hyunwoo removed the glove from his left hand as well.
The equipment they'd prepared at first was for 100%.
Equipment that would make someone completely unable to see.
It was no longer needed.
He went to the sink.
Turned on the water.
Pressed the soap dispenser.
Washed his hands.
Even though he hadn't carried out the enforcement yet.
9:41 a.m.
Emergency briefing room, National Equivalence Authority.
The reporters murmured.
Cameras faced the podium.
The head of the National Equivalence Authority's Public Relations Office looked down at the prepared script.
The original script had explained the historical significance of the visual-equivalence execution.
Now, every word had been deleted.
Only four lines remained.
9:43 a.m.
The live broadcast began.
The PR chief said,
“The National Equivalence Authority conducted an emergency reassessment in connection with the visual-equivalence execution of Choi Minseok, scheduled for 10:00 this morning.”
Flashes went off.
“The reassessment confirmed that the victim's preexisting condition had not been sufficiently reflected in the original Harm Value.”
The reporters' hands shot up simultaneously.
The PR chief continued reading.
“The original finalized Harm Value was 100% loss of left-eye visual function.”
He paused.
“The reassessed Harm Value is…”
The camera shutters quieted.
Everyone waited.
“6%.”
The briefing room exploded.
“Six percent?”
“The original assessment was 100%, and now you're saying it's 6%?”
“Did the victim give a false statement?”
“Is the offender's enforcement canceled?”
“Who is responsible for the assessment error?”
“Was there outside pressure?”
“Isn't this a problem with the Equivalence Authority's credibility?”
The PR chief opened his mouth, but the questions drowned him out.
At the same time.
Kim Jaehoon was watching the live broadcast in the hospital lounge.
His wife was beside him.
On the screen, a reporter shouted:
— Did the victim hide his preexisting visual impairment?
Kim Jaehoon's wife grabbed the remote.
She turned off the TV.
“Don't watch this.”
Kim Jaehoon said nothing.
An old surgical scar remained above his left eye.
His wife said,
“You didn't lie.”
Kim Jaehoon looked at the blank screen with his right eye.
“They're saying six.”
“What?”
“What I lost.”
He didn't smile.
“They're saying it's 6%.”
His wife bit her lip.
Kim Jaehoon said,
“My left side went completely black that day.”
There was no answer.
“And they're calling that 6%.”
9:52 a.m.
Choi Minseok heard the news too.
The attorney said,
“The assessment has been revised.”
Choi Minseok's face stiffened.
“How much?”
“Six percent.”
For a while, he said nothing.
Then he laughed.
This time, sound came out.
“So I won't go blind?”
“The complete-blindness execution has been canceled.”
Choi Minseok covered his face with both hands.
His shoulders moved.
He was crying.
“I’m alive.”
The attorney's expression didn't change when he heard that.
Choi Minseok kept repeating,
“I’m alive.”
“I’m alive.”
The attorney said quietly,
“Mr. Kim Jaehoon hasn't come back to life.”
Choi Minseok's sobbing stopped.
“What?”
“That doesn't mean the harm was minor.”
“But it's 6%.”
The attorney looked at him for a moment.
“It means what you caused him to lose was 6%.”
9:58 a.m.
Yoon Taekyung entered the observation room of the enforcement chamber.
Baek Hyunwoo was preparing on the other side of the glass.
This time, he was wearing thin medical gloves instead of leather ones.
Choi Minseok lay on the enforcement table.
The area around his eye was immobilized.
Heart rate.
116.
Blood pressure.
158 over 97.
Baek Hyunwoo's voice came through the speaker.
“Execution subject Choi Minseok.”
Choi Minseok rolled his eyes.
“Yes.”
“According to the finalized Harm Value, we will carry out a 6% reduction in left-eye visual function.”
Choi Minseok swallowed.
“If it's 6%...”
Hyunwoo waited.
“It won't hurt much, right?”
Hyunwoo said,
“Pain-related harm was not assessed separately.”
“What?”
“The pain value experienced by the victim at the time of the incident is included.”
The relief disappeared from Choi Minseok's face.
Junkyung, standing in the observation room, looked at Taekyung.
“Do you really have to explain it like that?”
Taekyung was watching through the glass.
“He has the right to know.”
“You're always so considerate of him.”
“It's not consideration.”
“Then what is it?”
Taekyung said,
“Notification.”
Junkyung shook his head.
Hyunwoo lifted the equipment.
“We're beginning.”
Choi Minseok's fingers twitched.
Exactly 10:00 a.m.
The enforcement began.
Outside, people were cursing.
Why was it only 6%?
Wasn't the victim a fraud?
The Equivalence Authority had gone easy on the offender.
Had they taken a bribe?
The state only cared about criminals' rights.
On the other side, other people were shouting too.
See?
Wasn't it fortunate that the error had been found before they blinded someone?
This kind of law shouldn't exist in the first place.
Both sides were loud.
Yoon Taekyung didn't listen.
The enforcement ended in seventeen minutes.
Choi Minseok's left-eye visual function.
Before enforcement: 1.0.
After enforcement: equivalent to 0.94.
Margin of error.
0.003.
Baek Hyunwoo verified the final result.
“Enforcement complete.”
Tears streamed down Choi Minseok's face.
Whether from pain.
Or relief.
Taekyung didn't decide.
That wasn't a Harm Value.
10:31 a.m.
Yoon Taekyung returned to his office.
The coffee on his desk was completely cold.
There were twenty-three missed calls on his phone.
The Director's Office.
Public Relations.
The Audit Division.
The Media Response Team.
Unknown numbers.
Most of them were from the Director's Office.
Taekyung didn't call back.
A new alert appeared on his computer.
[Notice of emergency audit initiation]
[Subject: First-grade harm assessor Yoon Taekyung]
[Reason: Harm Value assessment error in the Choi Minseok case]
Taekyung read it.
Then closed the window.
More messages had arrived in his inbox.
Abuse.
Complaints.
Threats.
Support.
Requests for interviews.
One email subject caught his eye.
[You saved someone's eye.]
Taekyung didn't open it.
The email below it.
[Apologize to the victim.]
He didn't open that one either.
Taekyung reopened Kim Jaehoon's case file.
Case number.
Victim.
Offender.
Original Harm Value: 100%.
Reassessed Harm Value: 6%.
Taekyung's gaze stopped on one line.
[Initial medical-information linkage result: no preexisting condition.]
Something was wrong.
There had been a preexisting condition.
A clear one.
Yet the system showed none.
It wasn't something a person had missed.
The data itself had never come in.
Taekyung opened the original log.
Access history.
Hospital data request.
Response.
Filtered.
Excluded.
Taekyung's hand stopped.
[Exclusion reason code: 0000]
He zoomed in on the screen.
0.
It was a code he'd never seen before.
Taekyung searched the internal regulations.
No results.
The Harm Assessment Division codebook.
Nothing.
Medical-information linkage exception codes.
Nothing.
Taekyung's right index finger rose beneath his eye.
He didn't press.
It simply stopped there.
Four digits glowed on the screen.
0.
Taekyung typed into the search bar.
ENTER.
A moment later.
One result appeared.
Access-restricted document.
Date created.
Seventeen years ago.
Taekyung's hand didn't move.
He clicked Request Access.
[You do not have permission to view this document.]
Taekyung stared only at the document title.
CASE 0000.
And below it.
Registration date.
Eleven months before Yoon Seoa died.