Kiho’s steps echoed through the sterile hallway of the hospital. The white walls, which had once seemed so bright and hopeful, now felt oppressive, suffocating. The hum of the fluorescent lights above flickered as if it, too, was struggling to stay alive. He had been gone for an entire day, though it felt like mere hours, long enough for his mind to start unraveling.

  The hallway of the hospital seemed longer this time.

  Kiho’s shoes padded quietly against the polished floor as he returned to his room, but everything felt... wrong. Not a nurse in sight. No distant chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights above and the low buzz of silence that pressed too closely to his ears.

  No one asked where he had been.

  No one even noticed he was gone.

  He opened the door to his room. Same walls, same scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers, but it felt different—like he had stepped into a memory already fading. The air had weight. His limbs moved slower, heavier, as if time dragged differently inside this pce now.

  He sat on the bed.

  The weight of his thoughts pressed harder now. Weeks of careful pnning, endless nights spent memorizing routines, quiet steps rehearsed in the dark — all of it had colpsed the moment Nurse Oh Mi Rae barged into his escape. One wrong second, and he was dragged back to where it all began. To them.

  The Choi Mansion — once a pce his past self had called home — stood like a cruel monument to everything he had lost. Faces from another lifetime greeted him with hollow warmth: his father, the man who had abandoned him here, locking him away like a mistake to be hidden. His younger brother, the smiling serpent who had slithered into the hollowed-out space where a family should have been, ruining everything Jihoon had once known.

  He thought he could sever the past by running.

  But the past had cws. It had teeth.

  Now, back within the sterile, suffocating walls of the hospital, he couldn’t tell what unsettled him more — the silence outside or the noise roaring inside his mind. His emotions were not what they had been before. They had curdled into something heavier: a thick, churning storm of anger, betrayal, and uncertainty.

  When he had walked out of his room st night, he hadn't thought twice. He just needed air. Escape.But now, as he stepped back across the threshold tonight, everything inside him had shifted.

  Something deeper had cracked.

  Something irreversible.

  He turned the corner to his room, but a flicker of movement caught his eye in the dim hallway. A fsh of red, almost like a stain in the monochrome corridor. It was gone in an instant, but Kiho’s pulse quickened.

  His eyes scanned the hall, but there was nothing there. No nurses, no patients. Just the silent, empty space. He paused, a strange feeling coiling in his chest, as if something—someone—was watching him.

  Was it the isotion of being here for so long, or was something darker creeping inside him? The question gnawed at him, but he didn’t have an answer.

  Kiho continued toward his room, his steps purposeful but somehow heavy, as if the very air around him had thickened, as if the walls themselves had grown more oppressive. He reached the door, pushing it open with a quiet click.

  But something felt wrong.

  The room, though dimly lit by the soft glow of a mp, seemed even smaller now. The bed, the sterile chair, the white curtains—everything felt suffocating, the space too confined, like it was closing in around him.

  A strange sensation crawled up his spine. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to leave. To run. To disappear.

  His hand trembled slightly as he closed the door behind him, then locked it without thinking. The key in his palm felt heavy, like a secret he wasn’t meant to keep.

  The air seemed colder, sharper. And then, there she was again.

  The woman in red.

  She stood in the corner of the room, partially hidden by the shadows. Her figure was almost impossible to make out fully, but the red—sharp, vivid—was unmistakable. The color of danger. Of warning.

  Kiho froze, staring at her, but she made no move. Her presence was not imposing, but it was unmistakably there. She didn’t speak, but there was a pressure in the air, like the quiet before a storm. She watched him with a gaze that pierced through him, as if seeing him for what he truly was, all the parts of him that were buried and hidden.

  “You're not real,” he whispered to himself. The words left his mouth like a half-formed question, unsure even as they left his lips.

  But she remained silent, her presence solid and unyielding.

  Kiho swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. His gaze fell on the chair by the bed, the one where he had once spent hours sitting, staring at the walls, contempting what was left of his life. Now, it seemed insignificant. A reminder of a past version of himself he wanted to forget. It was all so distant now. The life he had been leading—the people he had known—felt irrelevant. His mind was somewhere else now.

  Somewhere dark.

  “Everyone,” he thought, a strange thought creeping into his mind, “everyone who comes close is a burden.”

  The thought was chilling, like a whisper that lingered in the back of his mind. The people who had tried to care for him, the people who had once been his family—they all felt like weights, dragging him down. What if... what if he could make them disappear? What if they could be gone, just like that, without a trace? Would it be better? Would it make everything easier?

  He looked at the woman again. Her presence had not wavered, though she had not moved an inch. She stood there, watching him as if she understood the dark thoughts swirling inside him. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  The air felt colder now, and he could hear the faint sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His breath quickened. Was this what the hospital had done to him? What had this pce—this life—reduced him to?

  It wasn’t just about escape anymore. It was about control. It was about silencing the noise in his head, the weight of all the expectations, all the false smiles, all the obligations he had never asked for.

  Make them disappear.

  The thought was a temptation, a twisted urge cwing at him from the inside. He didn’t want to feel like this. He didn’t want to think this way. But the more he tried to resist, the stronger the urge became. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a fire he couldn’t put out.

  The woman in red stepped closer, though not a single sound could be heard. Her movements were smooth, fluid, as if she were floating just above the ground. She was only a shadow now, nothing but a faint figure in the darkness of the room.

  Kiho’s heart raced. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

  She tilted her head slightly, as though considering something. And then, as if offering him something, she extended her hand. It wasn’t an invitation—it was a command. A demand.

  He hesitated.

  Then he took a step forward, drawn to her, his mind racing with thoughts that didn’t feel like his own. His pulse thudded in his ears as his fingers brushed against hers, cold as ice, sending a shock through his body.

  For a split second, he felt it—something unspoken between them, something dangerous. His thoughts, his desires—they didn’t belong to him anymore. They were hers. Or perhaps, they were something darker, something beyond him.

  Kiho pulled his hand back, as though burned. The air crackled with tension, thick with the weight of a decision he hadn’t yet made, but knew he was about to.

  The woman in red, still standing in the corner, watched him silently. Her eyes seemed to glint, a flicker of something dark, something ancient.

  And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. No sound, no movement, nothing to indicate her departure. Just the feeling of her presence lingering, like a cloud in the room, suffocating him from the inside.

  Kiho stood there, breathing heavily, his mind reeling. Had it been real? Had she been a vision, a figment of his imagination? Or something worse?

  His gaze turned back to the locked door. No one had knocked. No one had checked on him.

  But that feeling... the feeling of something watching him, of something pulling at the edges of his sanity... it hadn’t gone away.

  And now, more than ever, Kiho was sure of one thing: The hospital was no longer just a pce of healing. It had become a prison. And he wasn’t sure who or what was keeping him here. The woman in red had been a warning. Or perhaps, she was a promise. Either way, the truth had never felt more unclear.

  And for the first time since he had arrived, Kiho wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave. Or if he even could.

  For a moment, he thought he saw her again.

  The woman in red.

  She stood by the window, her back to him, blood-colored silk clinging to her form like a second skin. Her presence didn’t scare him—it never had. But there was something about her stillness, something in the way her head tilted slightly toward him, as if listening to a song only she could hear.

  Kiho blinked.

  She was gone.

  But something else was there—someone else.

  A boy.

  Himself. Or rather, the boy he used to be.

  Choi Ji-hoon, age ten. Standing across the room, barefoot on the cold tiles, wearing a blue hoodie with the sleeves too long. His dark eyes mirrored Kiho’s own. Sad. Confused. Angry.

  The boy stared at him. Unblinking.

  Kiho opened his mouth, but the words stuck. He wanted to say, I’m sorry. Or maybe, What do you want from me?

  The boy raised a hand—just a little, palm facing outward—as if trying to warn him.

  Then everything went dark.

  Instant.

  A sharp, suffocating kind of darkness. One that folded around his body and squeezed his thoughts until they slipped like water through his fingers.

  A voice pierced the bck.

  “You shouldn’t let them take anything from you.” A woman’s voice—familiar now. Velvet, ced with something sharp underneath. “They took enough already, didn’t they?”

  The darkness deepened.

  “You don’t owe them kindness. Or mercy.”

  Kiho wanted to resist—something told him he should—but his mind was too loud, too cluttered. And then, silence again.

  And then—

  Everything shifted.

  The smell hit him first—musty, like old wood and mold. Damp. Cold.

  He opened his eyes.

  He was no longer in the hospital.

  The room was small, rotted at the edges, the beams above him sagging with time. An old shack. Somewhere forgotten. Rain tapped the tin roof softly, like fingers drumming. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Or how he got there.

  In front of him stood the Lady in Red. This time, she was real.

  The shadows curled behind her like they belonged to her, as if the darkness itself made way when she moved. Her face was too beautiful, too perfect to exist in a pce like this. And she was smiling.

  “You did well today, our dear Ji-hoon,” she said.

  Her voice poured into him like warm syrup. Soothing. Terrifying.

  She stepped forward, gently patting his head. Her hand lingered there, and something in him shuddered.

  Then—bck again.

  “Kiho.”

  The voice pulled him back like a rope around his chest.

  “Kiho.”

  His eyes blinked open. Pale daylight spilled into the room.

  The hospital.

  Again.

  He was seated on his bed, facing the window. His hands y in his p, motionless. He looked at them. No blood. No bruises. Just the tremor of something he couldn’t name crawling under his skin.

  His clothes were the same. But the clock had jumped.

  The whole day… gone.

  “I’ve packed your luggage,” Mr. Jang’s voice came from behind, casual, like nothing was wrong. “Just some shirts left. I’ll leave that out for tonight.”

  Kiho didn’t answer. He kept staring.

  Outside the window, clouds floated by, indifferent and slow. People walked through the hospital garden below, their ughter faint and meaningless. He didn’t know how long he sat there. How long he'd been missing from his own body.

  Mr. Jang moved methodically, folding shirts, zipping compartments.

  “In five days,” he said, “we’ll be in Seoul. You’ll like the apartment. It’s quiet. The company’s ready to receive you. You’ll be briefed the day before.”

  Kiho nodded, but he didn’t hear a word. He was still checking his hands. His arms. The room.

  Had he really never left? Or had he done something?

  He couldn’t remember. And that, more than anything, terrified him. He gnced at the sky again.

  Still no thoughts. Only the cold weight of something waiting. Waiting to return.

  A Dream Too Loud

  That night, sleep came without permission. Kiho hadn’t meant to lie down. One minute, he was staring bnkly at the window, at the faint city lights in the distance beyond the hospital garden—and the next, the shadows of the room swallowed him whole.

  Then he was dreaming.

  But it didn’t feel like a dream.

  He stood in the middle of a street he didn’t recognize. The sky above was dark, tinged in unnatural crimson, like it had been bled dry. The buildings stretched high but seemed unfamiliar, warped and hollow—echoes of pces he might’ve once known.

  Fog clung to the pavement like a living thing, moving at his ankles as he walked.

  He looked down. His shoes were soaked in blood.

  Not his. But warm. Fresh.

  Yet his heart didn’t race. His hands didn’t tremble.

  Instead, he kept walking.

  People passed by him, their faces blurry, mouths moving in silence—as if the world had been muted. Some looked right through him. Others didn’t seem to see him at all.

  But then—

  A figure ahead. Standing still.

  Choi Ji-hoon. His younger self again. Older this time, maybe in his teens. Wearing the school uniform Kiho didn’t remember putting on, backpack slung zily over one shoulder, bruises blooming like purple flowers down his jawline.

  This time, the boy didn’t raise a hand.

  He looked at Kiho—eyes full of warning, or was it pity?

  “Why are you still pretending?” the boy asked, voice ft and tired. “They already took everything from us. What’s left to protect?”

  Kiho tried to speak. To argue. But no sound came out.

  Behind the boy, a woman in red appeared again. Closer this time.

  Her lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s starting to remember,” she whispered—not to Kiho, but to the version of him still watching silently.

  The younger Ji-hoon nodded, lowering his gaze.

  “Good,” the woman murmured. “It’s time, Jihoon.”

  She stepped toward Kiho, each click of her heels louder than the st—too loud, like thunder ricocheting through his skull. And with every step she took, the world began to fracture—the buildings crumbling, the sky breaking apart like shattered gss.

  “Let them disappear,” she said. “One by one.”

  Then—her lips were at his ear.

  “They deserve it.”

  The world colpsed.

  Kiho gasped awake.

  His body snapped upright as if dragged out of water—lungs burning, heart pounding against his ribs like a fist smming on a door. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking through the thin hospital gown. The room around him shimmered faintly in the dark.

  Moonlight poured in through the high window, cold and ghostly, painting the walls in twisted silhouettes. The curtain swayed though no wind came through, and shadows stretched like long, crooked fingers reaching from the corners—like something wanted to pull him back under.

  He gripped the bedsheet tightly, chest heaving.

  Where was he?

  His eyes darted around the room—the familiar dull cream-colored walls, the scent of antiseptic and faint floral detergent. The old cabinet. The soft beep of machines from the hallway. Mr. Jang's suitcase by the door, packed and ready for their departure to Seoul in five days as what he remembers.

  But none of it felt real.

  The walls felt too far, the ceiling too low. Like the room was a box closing in. His body was here—but his mind was elsewhere. Drifting. Unanchored.

  He pressed his palm to his chest, willing his heart to calm. “It was just a dream,” he whispered aloud, voice hoarse. “Just a dream.”

  But even as he said it, the lie trembled on his tongue.

  Because the scent of iron—the faint, unmistakable tang of blood—still lingered in his nostrils.

  He stared down at his hands.

  They were clean. No blood. No dirt. No bruises. Steady fingers. But they trembled at the tips like they were waking from something they shouldn’t remember.

  He flexed them, watching the movement like it belonged to someone else.

  They felt like his.

  But also—like they were remembering something he had forgotten.

  The woman’s voice echoed, faint and terrifying, like a whisper from the depths of water: Let them disappear.

  He flinched.

  It wasn’t just a dream. It couldn’t have been. Not with how heavy it still felt in his bones. Not with how real the darkness had been—the cold, the airless quiet beneath the shack floorboards, the smirk of a woman he knew yet didn’t.

  He swung his legs over the bed and pnted his bare feet onto the cold linoleum. The chill shot up his spine, grounding him only for a moment.

  He sat there, hunched, unmoving. Staring at his palms.

  Had he touched something he shouldn’t have?

  Done something he couldn’t remember?

  The thought slithered in like a whisper behind his ear: What if it wasn’t a dream at all?

  What if there were blood beneath his fingernails only hours ago?

  He blinked hard, trying to banish the fog.

  Out the window, clouds drifted zily across the moon, darkening and revealing its pale glow in turns. It looked far away, too far to reach—like a watchful eye.

  He felt it again then.

  That strange presence inside him.

  Like a shadow that had taken residence in his ribs. Something old. Something that had been waiting. Waiting in the cracks of his memory, in the folds of dreams he couldn’t shake.

  It stirred.

  Softly, slowly.

  Too quiet to name. Too loud to ignore.

  His body felt borrowed. His thoughts out of sequence. And beneath it all—an ache. A deep, gnawing ache for answers he feared might destroy him.

  He didn’t notice the door creak open slightly.

  Didn’t hear the quiet steps from the hallway.

  But even in that stillness, Kiho knew one thing—

  Something inside him had awakened.

  And it wasn’t going back to sleep.

  The silence of the hospital room pulsed—deep, thick, almost alive. Kiho sat still on the edge of his bed, staring bnkly out the window. He could feel the st fragments of that terrible dream peeling away, but something didn’t settle right in his chest. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed heavier. The hum of the hallway lights beyond the door—too distant. Wrong.

  Then—

  Everything shifted.

  Like blinking and forgetting where you were. Like waking inside another dream.

  The air was suddenly damp. The sharp scent of mildew and rust filled his nose. Gone was the hospital room, the pale light, the beeping machines.

  Kiho was sitting on the wooden floor of an old shack. A different one than before. Rotten wood beneath his hands. Dust in his lungs.

  He blinked hard, but nothing changed.

  He wasn’t dreaming.

  This time, he felt everything. His eyes darted to the side.

  An old metal tch sat inches from where he knelt, slightly ajar—like someone had opened it in a hurry and never closed it. Cold air drifted upward from below. There were sounds—whispers, maybe breathing—echoing from the space beneath the floor.

  He didn’t want to move.

  But something—something in his body—forced him to.

  His hand reached out, trembling fingers wrapping around the rusty tch. He lifted it fully, the wood creaking beneath him, and peered down into the dark.

  At first, it was hard to make out anything.

  Then his eyes adjusted.

  Two figures.

  A man and a woman, sprawled on the dirt-covered ground below. Their hands and feet bound, mouths sealed with tape. One of them twitched—or maybe it was just the shadows. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t breathe.

  Were they alive?

  Were they—

  The world tilted.

  Kiho stumbled back, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His pulse roared in his ears as he reached out and smmed the hatch shut, chest rising and falling in uneven heaves.

  His head throbbed. His thoughts turned violent.

  His skin felt too tight.

  And that’s when he saw what he was wearing.

  Not hospital clothes. Not even his old attire.

  He was dressed in all bck—thick, durable fabric, the kind you’d see in car repair shops or on someone trying not to be seen. There were bck gloves on his hands. A bck cap tight over his head. A dark mask rested around his neck like he’d just pulled it down.

  What is this?

  He yanked the gloves off like they were on fire, tossed the cap to the side, heart smming against his ribs. None of this made sense. None of this felt like him.

  But the worst was yet to come.

  Click.

  The soft, deliberate sound of heels.

  Red heels.

  He didn’t need to look up.

  He knew.

  At the doorway, a figure stood, the light behind her creating a silhouette that swallowed all details. All he could see were her legs, pale and poised beneath the hem of a crimson dress, and those heels—blood red, pristine even on the dirt-covered floor.

  And her voice—

  Soft. Sweet.

  “You did well today, our dear Jihoon.”

  The words felt like ice sliding down his spine. He wanted to run. Scream. Tear at his own mind.

  But then—bckout.

  The Hollow Morning

  Kiho awoke once more, sitting upright in his hospital bed, a sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. His shirt stuck to his back. He didn’t know how long he’d been like that. The sun was rising now—faint, pale light creeping in from the edge of the horizon.

  The confusion in his mind swirled like fog, thick and impenetrable. He had been dreaming again, hadn’t he? Strange, disturbing dreams… or were they memories? He couldn’t tell anymore. They felt so real, like they had happened only moments ago.

  A low sound filled the air, a soft rustling at the door.

  Then the creak of it opening slowly.

  “Kiho,” Mr. Jang’s voice broke the silence — calm, controlled, but with a hint of concern. Familiar. “You alright? I’ve been trying to wake you for a while.”

  Kiho's body was soaked in sweat, his breathing erratic as if caught in a nightmare that gripped him tightly. Mr. Jang stood there, watching quietly for a moment, unsure if Kiho even knew he was there.

  Kiho slowly turned, eyes hollow, his mind still racing to pce everything. The remnants of a dream clung to his thoughts like a shadow. He thought he saw blood again, fshes of a woman in red, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

  “I’ve packed your luggage,” Mr. Jang continued, walking in and setting a small travel bag near the wall. “I’ll load it into the car shortly. Let me know if you need anything. We head out in two days. You’ll want to rest before then.”

  Kiho’s heart skipped a beat, but his mind couldn’t catch up to what Mr. Jang was saying. Two days? He barely remembered the st few days. Hadn’t Mr. Jang said this before? He felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine.

  Kiho opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind was a void, like something had been ripped from it, leaving only fragments of thought in its wake. He tried to hold on to something—anything—but it slipped from him like sand through his fingers.

  He looked around the room. The neatly folded hospital bnket. The gss of untouched water on the bedside table. The soft cck of Mr. Jang’s shoes against the floor. The steady hum of the hospital air conditioning. And then—his own hands. Still trembling.

  He stared at them, unable to reconcile the images in his head. The clothes. The gloves. The darkness. The two bodies.

  Were they real?

  Were they his?

  Was any of it real?

  It felt like his memories were pieces of a shattered puzzle—fragments too distant and disjointed to form any kind of coherent picture. The more he tried to piece them together, the more they slipped away, until he couldn’t be sure what had actually happened and what had just been a dream.

  “Kiho?” Mr. Jang’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  Kiho blinked, feeling as though he’d been pulled from a fog. He couldn’t focus. “I… I…”

  Mr. Jang’s brow furrowed. “You alright?”

  Kiho stared at him, unable to answer. A feeling of disconnection clung to him, a sense that he wasn’t truly there. The room felt distant, as if he was floating, untethered from everything. The hospital, the bed, the walls—it was all so foreign. His hands clenched tighter, fingers digging into his palms. He didn’t remember the st few days. How could he be moving to Seoul in two days when everything was so unclear?

  Mr. Jang seemed to notice his unease. He walked over to the bedside, looking at him carefully. “You’re going to be fine, Kiho. This is your chance, okay? A fresh start.”

  A fresh start? Was it? Or was he just running from something? Something he couldn’t even remember.

  Kiho’s thoughts scrambled. His gaze drifted toward the window, the soft light spilling into the room. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Then, almost as if pulled by an invisible force, he turned back to his hands. They still shook.

  Was he even the same person anymore?

  “Two days,” Mr. Jang repeated, his voice steady but with a hint of something Kiho couldn't quite pce. “We'll move tomorrow. Everything will be alright.”

  Kiho didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. It was as if words had slipped away from him along with his memories. Instead, he looked back at the walls, the empty space around him, the things that felt so strangely familiar and so utterly foreign at the same time.

  He heard Mr. Jang turn to leave, but the words lingered.

  “Rest up, Kiho. We’ll get through this. We will.”

  The door clicked shut.

  Kiho sank back against the pillows, staring bnkly at the ceiling. He tried to remember the faces from his dreams, the blood, the red shoes… but everything felt like a dream, too. Something he couldn’t hold on to, slipping away.

  Tomorrow? Was it really tomorrow?

  He didn’t know.

  Stillness Between the Walls—in Mr. Jang’s eyes

  The halls of Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital always carried a certain hush after sundown, as if the walls themselves knew not to disturb the quiet unraveling of fractured minds. The soft buzz of the overhead lights filled the space where voices should have been, and the faint scent of disinfectant clung to every corner like a ghost refusing to leave.

  Mr. Jang closed the door to Room 405 with a careful hand, his eyes scanning the familiar space. The moonlight filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor and over the young man who sat on the bed—back straight, unmoving, hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them.

  Kiho hadn’t spoken since they returned.

  He hadn’t asked what day it was, hadn’t commented on the weather, hadn’t even flinched when the receptionist had mispronounced his name.

  Mr. Jang cleared his throat softly, keeping his voice low. “The doctor’s review went well. They’ve approved your release as scheduled… five more days, and we’re out of here.”

  Kiho didn’t answer.

  He didn’t even blink.

  Instead, he sat like a statue carved from memory, eyes fixed on the window but not truly looking out. His gaze hovered somewhere between gss and shadow, unfocused, adrift. The breeze from the cracked window barely moved the fabric of his hospital-issued shirt.

  Mr. Jang sighed quietly and crossed the room. “You’ll start fresh in Seoul. New pce. New job. The Chairman made sure everything is ready.”

  He paused, hoping for some flicker of acknowledgment.

  Nothing.

  “Do you want tea? I can ask the nurse for some.”

  Still silence.

  Mr. Jang stood beside the bed now, watching him closely. The boy—no, the man—before him had always been quiet, but this was different. Kiho was present in body alone. Whatever tethered him to this world was fraying—and fraying fast.

  “Kiho?” he tried again, lowering himself slightly to Kiho’s eye level. “Are you listening?”

  Kiho’s head turned just slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, not enough to confirm awareness. It was just enough to register that something had moved. Like a puppet responding to the tension of an invisible string.

  “I need you to focus,” Mr. Jang continued, voice gentle but firm. “We're almost done here. A few more days, then everything changes. You’ll like Seoul. It’s busy. Alive. You’ll be working with people again.”

  Again, no answer.

  Mr. Jang’s voice dropped even lower. “And no one there will know who you were.”

  There was the faintest twitch in Kiho’s jaw.

  A shift.

  But then—stillness again.

  Mr. Jang stepped back and picked up a small travel bag near the closet. He began to sort through the items he had packed earlier: clothes, toiletries, a file with the documents Kiho would need. He worked in silence for a few minutes, only stealing gnces every now and then toward the man on the bed who hadn’t moved an inch.

  When he turned to zip the bag, something about the quiet began to feel unnatural—too heavy, too still.

  He turned.

  Kiho hadn’t moved, but now… his head was tilted up toward the ceiling, lips parted just slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  Mr. Jang straightened slowly. “You all right, Kiho?”

  Kiho’s head snapped toward him suddenly—too fast, too sharp.

  But his eyes weren’t focused. They were wide and hollow, like someone had opened a door inside him and never bothered to close it again.

  Then, just as quickly, Kiho looked down at his hands. Slowly, deliberately. He turned them palm-up, then back, then pressed them against his knees.

  Mr. Jang watched carefully, uncertain whether to speak or stay silent.

  After a few long moments, Kiho’s voice finally broke through the stillness.

  “…Did you hear that?”

  Mr. Jang blinked. “Hear what?”

  Kiho didn’t look up. “She was here.”

  “Who?” Mr. Jang asked, stepping closer again. “Kiho, who was here?”

  “She said something,” Kiho whispered, barely audible. “She always says something before it happens.”

  Before what happens?

  Mr. Jang didn’t ask. He couldn’t.

  Because something in Kiho’s voice—ft, distant, almost childlike—told him the answer wasn’t meant for this world.

  He sat down slowly on the chair across the room, just within reach if anything went wrong. The air felt heavier now. Charged with something unseen. He would stay tonight, he decided. He wouldn’t leave the room until morning.

  Five more days.

  Just five more days until Seoul.

  But the Kiho sitting in front of him was slipping, like sand through fingers.

  And if Mr. Jang didn’t act soon—didn’t watch closely enough—he feared what might be left of the boy they had tried so hard to protect… would be something no new identity could ever bury.

  The next morning began like any other inside Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital, sterile and quiet, with the occasional echo of footsteps down the linoleum corridors and the distant hum of medical equipment. But for Mr. Jang, nothing about this morning felt ordinary.

  He had been up since before dawn, already dressed, already watching.

  From his assigned room down the hall, he made his way toward Kiho’s room, his steps light and deliberate. He paused by the slightly ajar door, eyes scanning the interior. The curtain was only half drawn, letting in slivers of cold gray light from the overcast sky.

  Kiho was sitting at the edge of the bed, unmoving, staring intently at his hands. His posture was stiff, his back unnaturally straight. His fingers twitched slightly—as if trying to remember something they had touched, or done.

  Mr. Jang knocked lightly on the doorframe. “It’s already morning,” he said, his voice calm, practiced. “You should eat something.”

  No reply.

  Kiho didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just sat there, eyes hollow, his lips slightly parted. He wasn’t looking at the room. He was looking through it.

  Mr. Jang stepped in slowly, careful not to make a sudden move. “Kiho,” he said again, this time with more weight. “We leave in four days. You’ll want your strength.”

  Still nothing.

  Mr. Jang’s jaw tensed. He walked to the side of the bed and gently pced a tray of warm porridge and tea on the table. The porcein clinked softly, but Kiho didn’t react.

  His voice dropped into something softer, something meant to reach a mind that had slipped away. “It’s going to be a long trip. Seoul is noisy. Fast. You won’t have the quiet like this anymore.”

  Kiho blinked—once, twice. But his gaze never changed. Mr. Jang stepped back and watched in silence.

  He'd been observing him for weeks now after he finally remembered who he was, and the shift had been gradual at first—subtle gaps in memory, long silences, unexpined fatigue. But in the st three days after their visit in the Choi mansion, the changes had sharpened, like a sudden crack in ice after weeks of pressure.

  Kiho had started speaking less. Or not at all. He would walk to the corner of the room and just... stand there, staring at the wall, his breathing barely audible. Sometimes he’d wake up screaming without making a sound. His body would jolt violently upright in the dark, but no voice would follow. Just that look of panic, of confusion. Sometimes—terror.

  And now, this—this hollowed-out stillness.

  Mr. Jang crossed his arms and leaned against the far wall, his eyes narrowing. He’s slipping again, he thought. And it’s happening faster.

  His thoughts moved in quiet calcution. Was it the medication? The memory suppression? Something resurfacing?

  He reached into his pocket and took out a small device—his personal recorder. No one else knew he used it, not even Chairman Choi. He clicked it on with a soft beep and spoke under his breath.

  “Subject appears detached. Deyed response to external stimuli. Possible dissociative episode in progress. Will monitor throughout the day. No physical aggression, but mental instability worsening. Will report to Seoul if no change in next 48 hours.”

  He clicked it off.

  Then, gncing back at Kiho—still motionless, still lost—Mr. Jang took a slow breath. What are you seeing in there, kid?

  He adjusted the tray, just in case Kiho snapped out of it and felt hungry, then turned to leave. His steps were silent. At the doorway, he hesitated. “You need to hold on,” he said without looking back. “Seoul is coming whether you’re ready or not.”

  He closed the door quietly behind him.

  But even as he walked away, the image of Kiho—so still, so eerily not himself—lingered like a shadow on the back of Mr. Jang’s mind. Something was breaking inside that boy, and Mr. Jang wasn’t sure if there would be anything left to fix by the time they reached Seoul.

  Fractures Beneath the Skin— Kiho's Perspective

  The first thing Kiho noticed was the light. Pale, washed-out, spilling through the window like milk diluted in water. It didn’t feel warm. It never did here.

  He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, though he didn’t remember sitting down. The bedsheet beneath him was wrinkled, but untouched — no signs he had slept. The window across from him had fogged slightly, faint handprints forming at the corners. His own?

  There was a tremor in his hand as he lifted it, palm open, fingers spyed. He couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined, but the skin on his hand felt tight — too tight — as if it didn’t belong to him.

  A knock.

  No — not a knock. A voice.

  “…Kiho?”

  Mr. Jang’s voice was soft, careful. Like a thread being pulled slowly so it wouldn’t snap.

  Kiho didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just blinked slowly, trying to remember where he was again. The hospital. Hwayang. Room 405. The number repeated in his mind like a code. He knew this.

  And yet.

  That shack.

  That woman.

  The voices.

  “You did well today, our dear Jihoon.”

  The words returned like a thorn snagged under skin.

  Mr. Jang stepped inside, shoes quiet on the linoleum. “You didn’t touch your breakfast,” he observed, voice neutral. “The nurse left it an hour ago.”

  Kiho said nothing. His eyes remained on the fogged gss. His reflection stared back — pale, thinned out, unfamiliar.

  Mr. Jang exhaled gently through his nose, more to himself than to Kiho. “We’ll be leaving for Seoul in four days,” he continued, setting a folded set of clothes on the small desk near the wall. “I’ve confirmed the apartment's utilities, arranged the car. Your appointment with the company’s HR is still on the fifth. Hwangjin Tech. Remember?”

  Kiho’s lips twitched — a subtle shift, but not quite a nod. It looked more like a tic.

  “You’ve got clean clothes,” Mr. Jang said, tone shifting just slightly. “Do you want to shower now?”

  Silence.

  “Kiho.”

  Finally, Kiho turned his head. Not fully. Just enough that Mr. Jang could see the side of his face — the gssy look in his eyes. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and slow.

  “…Did I… leave the room st night?”

  Mr. Jang straightened slightly. “What do you mean?”

  Kiho blinked. Once. Twice. He looked down at his hands again. “I was here. And then I wasn’t.”

  A beat passed.

  “I saw someone,” he whispered.

  Mr. Jang, across the room, paused in the middle of checking the luggage. He looked over, eyes narrowing with concern. “What did you say?”

  Kiho didn’t lift his gaze. His pupils dited slightly, as if chasing something that wasn’t there.

  “She… she wore red.”

  It was all he could say. The rest felt caught somewhere between his ribs, too fragile to take form.

  Red.

  Not just any red. The color bled into his memory, too sharp, too vivid. He couldn't see her face—only the glint of her heels. Shiny. Scarlet. Out of pce against the cold floor, like blood on fresh snow.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. The fshes came quickly—tree branches twisting overhead, the scent of metal and dirt, the weight of his breath catching in his throat. The tch. The darkness. Her shoes.

  Was it a dream?

  Or was it something real his mind couldn’t bear to hold?

  His hand reached up to his temple. It hurt. There was a strange pressure building inside, like a scream muffled behind a wall.

  “I think…” he started again, his voice rough and distant, “she said something to me.”

  “What did she say?” Mr. Jang asked, carefully.

  Kiho turned toward the window. He didn’t answer.

  Not because he couldn’t—but because the words didn’t sound like hers.

  They sounded like his.

  Mr. Jang didn’t move.

  “Was it a dream?” Kiho asked. His eyes lifted now — focused directly on Mr. Jang. Something desperate and disoriented was stirring behind them. “Or did I… go somewhere?”

  Mr. Jang met his gaze evenly. “You’ve been here all night. I would’ve known if you left.”

  Kiho stared at him, and in that moment, the tension in his body shifted. Slightly.

  But the unease didn’t leave.

  He stood suddenly. Too fast. The metal frame of the bed groaned behind him as he stepped toward the window. His breath fogged up the pane. He stared outside.

  People passed in the courtyard below. Nurses in mint uniforms. An old man talking to the trees. Two children ughing by the stone bench. All of it real. But it felt staged — like he was watching a world he no longer belonged to.

  “…It’s getting louder,” he murmured, barely audible.

  Mr. Jang tilted his head. “What is?”

  Kiho didn’t answer.

  He just pced his hand gently on the gss, and leaned his forehead against it.

  The cold seeped through. But it still wasn’t enough to wake him.

  Not fully.

  The Forest Knows

  The morning air was unusually still. Mr. Jang stood behind the counter of his quiet shop, pouring water over freshly ground beans. The bitter scent usually comforted him. Today, it only made the silence feel heavier. It was too quiet for a town like Gwangju.

  He had noticed Kiho slipping out more frequently tely, always silent, always unnoticed. But he let him. Mr. Jang told himself it was because the boy—no, the man—was simply trying to enjoy what was left of this town. There were only two days left before they left for Seoul. And once they moved, Kiho’s new life as Jang Ki Ho would begin—one tightly constructed by yers of false documents, memory gaps, and intentions that no longer belonged to him.

  So Mr. Jang allowed it. He pretended not to see.

  The Chairman already had eyes on him, anyway. That other man. Quiet. Efficient. Mr. Jang had spotted him once near the hospital fence, barely more than a shadow behind tinted gss. He knew Kiho was still being watched. Still protected.

  The te morning sun dipped behind the trees, casting long, twisted shadows across the Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital grounds. Two days left before the move to Seoul. Mr. Jang had spent the entire morning observing Kiho—quietly, from a distance. The young man had started slipping away again, always in silence, always unnoticed. But Mr. Jang knew. He always knew.

  He’d seen the way Kiho stared into space, like a puppet without strings. He would sit for hours by the window, unmoving, the outside world no longer reaching him. His meals remained untouched more often now, and when Mr. Jang tried to speak to him—gentle, cautious words—Kiho wouldn't even flinch.

  “Kiho,” he had said quietly that morning, pretending to tidy up the space. “You should eat something before it gets cold.”

  No response.

  “You're gonna need your strength soon. Seoul's fast. No pce for dreamers.”

  Still nothing.

  The only movement was the faint twitch of Kiho’s fingers as they drummed against the armrest. As if some distant rhythm pyed in his head, far removed from the world around him.

  Mr. Jang had let him go again that morning. He always knew when Kiho slipped out—he was just pretending not to. It felt easier that way. And besides, he knew Chairman Choi had someone else monitoring Kiho more closely now. Perhaps that gave him a small excuse to stand back. He convinced himself it was fine.

  Let him wander. Let him say goodbye to the only home he knew before Seoul swallows him whole.

  As he went back to his snack bar, Mr. Jang tried to distract himself. Sorted tools. Dusted shelves. But the unease kept rising in his chest like bile. He had been sorting through a stack of receipts when the door to the snack bar burst open, and the three kids stumbled inside, breathless, faces pale. His heart leaped in arm as he looked up. Something was wrong.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. His gaze flicked between them, nding first on Yna. Her face was streaked with tears, her body trembling. That was when he felt it—something heavy settling in his chest. Something was terribly wrong.

  Aky bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, trying to catch his air. Yna’s lips trembled, and though she looked like she was about to speak, no words came out. Her chest rose and fell erratically, the kind of breathing that only came from pure panic.

  Lyn, the calmest of the trio, was the first to regain composure. He wiped a hand over his face, then said, his voice low but steady, “We found a woman. She was covered in blood.”

  Mr. Jang froze. The words hit him like a cold spsh of water, but his response was instinctive. His eyes widened, and for a split second, everything around him seemed to blur. He stared at them, his expression unreadable. Then, it hit him. Yna's tear-streaked face, Aky's ragged breathing, Lyn's grim tone—it was all real. A knot formed in his stomach, and he fought to maintain control.

  For a moment, he said nothing. He just stood there, unsure of how to react. Yna, despite her panic, seemed to catch something in his eyes—something that made her stop crying, just for a second. She noticed it. The doubt. The hesitation. Something flickered in his mind, but he quickly masked it, forcing himself to focus.

  “Did you see her face?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with an urgency he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  Yna shook her head frantically, tears continuing to pour down her cheeks. “No. I… I couldn’t see…” Her voice cracked.

  He sighed heavily, rubbing his temple as though he could massage the tension away. His mind was racing. Blood. A woman. They weren’t making it up, but what did this all mean? Why did his heart feel like it was sinking? He had to do something. He had to remain calm. For them. For everyone.

  “I’ll call the police,” he said, his voice much more even than he felt. He forced himself to look at the kids, all of them now visibly shaking, exhausted from fear. “You three should go home.”

  They hesitated for a moment, lingering like they were unsure if they should leave him alone with whatever was out there. The weight of their fear was palpable, but eventually, the exhaustion of their panic began to settle in, and they nodded, slowly backing toward the door.

  As they left, Mr. Jang felt a quiet desperation growing in his chest, gnawing at him. The woman they found, the blood—it all felt wrong, far too wrong. He had his suspicions, but how could he be sure? Was it connected to Kiho, to everything that had been happening?

  His gaze lingered on the door long after the kids were gone. He stood there for a moment, his mind whirling, unsure of how to proceed. He was supposed to be the one keeping things under control, but now… now everything felt like it was spiraling out of his reach.

  With a final sigh, he moved toward the phone. His hand hesitated for just a second before he dialed. There was no choice but to face this head-on.

  He couldn’t afford to let whatever this was slip away.

  The moment they were gone, Mr. Jang locked the shop and headed toward the forest.

  He knew where to go.

  The path was burned into his memory now. Ever since he’d followed Kiho once, weeks ago, and found that shack—the one with the creaking roof and buried tch. It hadn’t been in use for decades. But Kiho had found it.

  And something told Mr. Jang he’d gone there again.

  He reached the forest edge and ran.

  He moved quickly. The narrow dirt path leading to the woods swallowed him whole, trees cwing at the sky as the light began to fade. When he reached the clearing, his breath caught.

  The old shack.

  Its door was wide open, swinging slightly with the breeze. Like it was waiting for him.

  And then… the smell.

  Iron. Earth. Something heavier, wrong.

  He stepped inside.

  His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim interior—and then he saw him.

  Kiho, seated in a chair near the center of the shack. His posture was slumped, hands resting limply on his thighs, and his eyes…

  They were wide open, staring at nothing. Lost. Distant.

  “Kiho?” Mr. Jang whispered, cautiously approaching.

  No response.

  And then—movement in the corner of his eye.

  A woman’s silhouette near the doorway. Cloaked in shadows, her face obscured by the poor light, but her red shoes practically glowed in the darkness. The Lady in Red.

  Mr. Jang froze. His breath caught in his throat.

  And then—

  Another figure stepped into view. From behind Kiho, he emerged slowly, as if he’d been standing there the whole time. His hands rested lightly on Kiho’s shoulders, like a protector—or a puppeteer.

  Mr. Jang staggered back a step.

  The dim light kissed the edge of the man’s face.

  Sharp jaw. Pale skin. Eyes like dark gss.

  “Ji Sung...?” Mr. Jang’s voice cracked.

  Choi Ji Sung. The youngest son of Chairman Choi. The boy everyone adored. Sweet. Bright. Always smiling.

  But the man in front of him now—was not that boy.

  There was something hollow in his gaze, something dangerously still. Not evil. Not angry. Just… bnk. Emotionless.

  “Ji Sung?” Mr. Jang asked again, quieter this time.

  The man’s lips curled ever so slightly into a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

  And then the Lady in Red stepped forward, her red shoes crossing the worn wooden floor with soft, deliberate grace. She stood beside Jisung, her head tilting slightly—almost lovingly—as she looked down at Kiho.

  “You did well today,” she whispered, her voice a chilling melody. “Our dear Jihoon.”

  And as she reached out to pat Kiho’s head, Kiho blinked once.

  Then—bckout.

  Like a film reel torn from its spool.

  The morning light cast long, cold shadows into Room 405 of Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital. Mr. Jang stood still, arms folded tightly across his chest as he watched Kiho sleep. His breath rose in soft, even intervals, his face peaceful—untouched by the horrors of the previous day.

  It made Mr. Jang’s stomach twist.

  Tomorrow was the move. Tomorrow, everything was supposed to be better. Cleaner. Controlled.

  But now?

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  His mind drifted back, unwillingly, to the images that had carved themselves into his memory the day before…

  Mr. Jang’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets as he trudged up the dirt path leading into the forest. The wind rustled through the trees, dry leaves crunching beneath his slow, deliberate steps. Up ahead, the old shack emerged from the shadows like a scar on the ndscape—its paint long peeled, windows gaping like hollowed eyes. Something was wrong. More wrong than he feared.

  The door was slightly ajar. His heart thudded painfully as he stepped in—and froze.

  There, seated stiffly on the lone chair like a discarded marionette, was Kiho.

  Expressionless. Detached. His eyes were open but gssy, staring ahead.

  “Kiho?” Mr. Jang called, voice trembling. “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  “Jihoon…?”

  Nothing.

  Then—movement.

  A pair of red heels stepped into view from the shadows behind him. The light from the open door spilled inward, illuminating her silhouette. Her face came into full crity this time.

  Yoon Ah Reum.

  Mr. Jang’s blood ran cold.

  “You…” he whispered. “You’re—Yoon Ah Reum. Madam Yoon’s daughter. You were supposed to be overseas.”

  She smirked, almost amused, brushing invisible dust off her crimson coat sleeve. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Mr. Jang? I see time hasn’t dulled your sense of duty.”

  “This isn’t duty,” Mr. Jang said sharply, his voice low and tight. “What are you doing? What are you doing to Kiho?”

  Another shadow moved. From the side of the shack, stepping into the pale daylight, came a man in a tailored charcoal suit.

  Choi Ji Sung.

  Mr. Jang froze, breath caught in his throat.

  He hadn’t seen the boy in years—only glimpses here and there, passing moments that never required words. Jisung had always been polite, distant in a quiet way, but never cold. The kind of son who couldn’t bring himself to swat a fly, let alone raise his voice.

  But the man now standing before him…

  Still. Bnk.

  Not a single flicker of recognition. Not a hint of warmth. Just that unnerving, unreadable expression—like a mask stretched too tight over something hollow.

  “…Ji Sung,” Mr. Jang finally said, his voice cracking with disbelief. “You were never… like this. What happened to you?”

  Jisung said nothing at first. Then, slowly, he pced both hands on Kiho’s shoulders and said, “We’re just cleaning something that may go bad if left unattended.”

  Mr. Jang stepped back. “Cleaning—? What the hell does that mean? What did you do to him?!”

  “No one did anything,” Yoon Ah Reum said, her tone so casual it was jarring. “Jihoon simply… did what needed to be done. And he did it beautifully.”

  Mr. Jang’s hands shook. “No. No, he wouldn’t. He—”

  Then he saw it. The tch. Just barely open on the shack floor. He rushed to it and yanked it open.

  The sight took the strength from his legs.

  Ki Seon Gyeom and Oh Mi Rae—tied, gagged, unmoving. Bruised. Bloodied.

  He dropped to his knees.

  “God… what have you done?!”

  “We didn’t touch them,” Yoon Ah Reum said softly, stepping up behind him. “Your precious Jihoon did. We just made sure the mess didn’t go any further.”

  Mr. Jang turned to her, his voice rising in a tremble. “What did you make him do?! Things were going fine! He was going to start fresh—why now?! Why ruin it?!”

  Jisung’s voice was like ice. “Because it’s not fine when too many people are involved. Loose ends, Mr. Jang. You know how dangerous they are.”

  Mr. Jang stood slowly, his fists trembling. “Your niece, Ah Reum. The little girl, Yna—you do remember her, don’t you? She saw Nurse Oh. Blood, in the grass. She’s just a kid and already part of this nightmare.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Jisung said quietly.

  But Yoon Ah Reum tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered under her breath, as if to no one but herself, “Like mother, like daughter. Always putting their noses where they don’t belong.”

  Mr. Jang stared at them. He didn’t know what to feel anymore. Fear? Rage? Betrayal?

  He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. His throat was dry. His limbs numb. “You’re making monsters out of boys who were just trying to survive.”

  Neither of them responded. Now, back at the hospital, he stood quietly by Kiho’s bedside. Kiho was still sleeping, utterly unaware of the nightmarish truth. Mr. Jang watched the rise and fall of his chest, expression unreadable. His fingers twitched against his folded arms. He would check the shack again. Make sure nothing was left behind. He had to. He turned for the door—and stopped. Behind him, Kiho’s eyes opened. Not wide. Not sudden. Just slow. Empty. And watching.

  The Secret Toy Store

  Morning haze still clung to the forest like a thin veil, the mist curling between the trees, holding the world in a quiet grip. The air was thick, heavy with the unspoken, and the silence was suffocating. Mr. Jang’s breath came in shallow gasps as he walked toward the shack—his every step deliberates, though the unease gnawing at his gut made his feet feel as if they were made of lead.

  The shack stood before him, unchanged on the outside, as though time itself had forgotten to reach it. The walls were weathered, the roof sagging, the wooden pnks rotting from years of neglect. It looked like the forgotten remains of something once alive, now left to decay in the shadow of its own secrets.

  But inside—inside it was something else.

  The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the stale air hit him like a sp. The faint scent of blood was still clinging to the walls, but something else had repced it. A cold, antiseptic smell. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the kind of pce a child would dare to explore, but now, inside, it looked like a twisted version of a pyroom—a secret hideout.

  The sight inside stopped Mr. Jang in his tracks.

  Two men were unboxing shelves, their hands quick and practiced, setting up pstic crates, arranging tiny toys, assembling small figurines with meticulous care. Bright colors fshed in his peripheral vision—red, yellow, blue—a stark contrast to the darkness of the outside world. The toys were innocent enough, but their pcement, their exact alignment on the shelves, made everything feel wrong. It was like a sick joke—a child’s sanctuary, but only in the most deceptive, twisted way.

  Everything was too perfect. Too clean. It was a lie, an illusion carefully constructed to fool anyone who might look inside. The walls, once stained with the remnants of violence, were now pristine, like someone had scrubbed them clean of their history, erasing all trace of what had happened here. The stench of death had been repced by something artificial. A false sense of peace.

  The hatch on the floor — the one that had once held the bodies of the dead and dying — was no longer obvious. It hadn’t been locked. Instead, it had been carefully camoufged, disguised to look like any other part of the dusty, worn floorboards. No trace of the blood remained. No smell, no stains. As if none of it had ever happened. Mr. Jang’s heart skipped a beat. His gaze swept the room, sharp and wary, searching for any crack in the illusion. He knew what y just beneath his feet — the horror still hidden away, waiting.

  They would move the bodies ter tonight. Quietly. Carefully. Making sure no one would ever know.

  One of the delivery men noticed him standing there, silent, his eyes betraying the war within him. He stepped forward, offering Mr. Jang a bundle of bck fabric, neatly folded.

  “A mechanic’s jumpsuit,” the man said ftly. His eyes were dull, almost lifeless. “I was told to give this to you. You know what to do.”

  The words hung in the air, thick with implication. Mr. Jang’s stomach twisted further, a sickening churn rising from deep within. The weight of it all pressed down on him, like the weight of the earth itself had settled onto his chest. He didn’t take the clothes at first, just stared at them for a moment, almost hoping they would disappear. But they didn’t. They were real, the reality of it sinking in with each passing second. He nodded stiffly, mumbling a quiet thanks, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

  Once the men left, Mr. Jang stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind him. The room seemed to close in on him, pressing in from all sides. He felt suffocated, trapped in the small, artificial world created inside this shack. The air inside was thick with the smell of sterile cleanliness, almost too perfect, too calcuted to feel natural.

  He stood still for a long moment, staring at the suit in his hands. The fabric felt like a prison, tight and suffocating in his grip, as though it had a life of its own—twisting, writhing, desperate to break free from the weight he was about to pce upon it. It was as if the suit, like everything else in this nightmare, was a part of the entrapment he couldn’t escape. The tightness in his chest intensified, and a cold, nauseating sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Each breath he took felt bored, as if his lungs had forgotten how to function in a world so heavy with guilt.

  He pulled the suit on, the cold synthetic fabric scraping against his skin, sticking to him like a second yer of skin that he couldn’t shed. It felt wrong. So wrong. The weight of it bore down on him, its seams biting into his flesh as if to remind him of his complicity in this twisted mess. His bones seemed to ache under its coldness, as though the suit was made to swallow him whole, to shrink him down into something far smaller than he was. A pawn. A tool. A piece in a game he hadn’t signed up for, one he couldn’t escape. He felt the walls closing in, his growing smaller with each passing second, each moment spent slipping deeper into this nightmare he had no control over.

  The hatch beneath him—the one that hid the very horrors from yesterday—still sat there, a silent reminder of what he had seen. It was a reminder of the choice he was about to make. A choice that would forever mark him. He couldn’t face it. He didn’t want to face it. But in the silence of the shack, the stillness that hung thick and suffocating in the air, he knew there was no other way. He couldn’t run from it. Not anymore.

  With a slow, reluctant movement, his fingers brushed against the tch. The cold metal felt foreign against his skin, alien and unwelcoming. He hesitated, his heart thudding in his chest, his palms cmmy against the handle. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to leave the tch locked and pretend that what he had seen the day before didn’t exist. But he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had seen too much. He knew too much.

  His fingers trembled as he twisted the lock open. The sound of the mechanism, that small click, was deafening in the heavy silence. It echoed around him like the slow tolling of a bell, signaling his descent into the abyss. The hatch creaked open, revealing the same darkness he had seen before. But it was darker now. The absence of light seemed to swallow the world, suffocating it in its depth. It felt endless, like staring into the void itself.

  The moment his gaze fell to the space below, a chill ran through him—a shudder so deep, it seemed to freeze his very soul. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse quickening as his eyes adjusted to the gloom below. The stench of rot, of decay, lingered in the air, thick and putrid. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He didn’t want to look, but the bodies were there, and his gaze was drawn to them against his will.

  Mi Rae and Seon Gyeom y as they had before—tied, their limbs cruelly bound. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe. Their bodies were eerily still, like lifeless dolls abandoned by their maker. The sight of them, like a grotesque tableau, made his chest tighten in revulsion. Were they still breathing? Were they even alive? The question gnawed at him, but he was too afraid to get closer, too afraid to touch them, to confirm what he already feared.

  He wanted to look away. He needed to look away. But his eyes remained locked on their forms, unable to escape the horror before him. It felt like a nightmare—one that he couldn’t wake from, no matter how hard he tried. The darkness around him seemed to close in, pressing down on him, suffocating him, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t escape it.

  Jisung’s voice cut through the silence, distant but sharp, like a cruel reminder of his helplessness: “Just move them. We’ll handle the rest.”

  How had it come to this? How had they ended up here? He had thought he could protect Kiho, protect everyone from this madness. But now? Now it seemed too te. There was no going back, no undoing the damage that had already been done. He wasn’t just standing on the precipice anymore—he was already falling.

  And there, in that moment, staring at the bodies of two people he knew were still alive—he felt as though he were suffocating in the weight of his own choices. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and his legs felt weak beneath him, like they might buckle at any moment. But he couldn’t look away. Not yet. Not until he had answers, not until he knew exactly what was happening.

  How had it come to this?

  His hands shook as he reached for the dder, but then—a noise from outside.

  Footsteps. Quick, sharp, approaching fast.

  Mr. Jang’s breath caught in his throat, panic rising like bile in the back of his throat. He smmed the hatch closed, but it didn’t lock. He rushed, almost tripping over his own feet, to the side door, pushing it open with frantic urgency. The door creaked in protest, but he didn’t care. He darted into the forest, heart racing.

  The footsteps stopped. For a moment, there was silence. Then, right at the entrance of the shack, there she was.

  Yna.

  Mr. Jang’s heart pounded in his chest. No.

  It was already starting. The unraveling. The thing he had feared most had already begun, and there was no turning back now.

  Yna’s steps slowed as she neared the old shack, her breath hitching slightly. The wooden structure looked even more fragile up closely, with its faded pnks and rusted hinges. Vines curled up its sides, weaving through the cracks, and a faint glow seeped through the gaps between the wooden sts. The air felt damp, heavy with the scent of moss and earth. Each crunch of the fallen leaves beneath her feet sounded too loud, too sharp against the eerie silence of the forest. A cold shiver ran down her spine, as though the shack itself was holding its breath, waiting for her.

  Just as she was about to take another step forward, a voice called from behind her.

  “Yna.”

  She flinched, whipping around to see Mr. Jang standing a few feet away. His face was bnk, devoid of the warmth she was used to seeing in the snack bar. His bck jumpsuit—the kind worn by mechanics—was smeared with streaks of oil and dust. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing his strong, veined forearms. The sight of him in this outfit unsettled her. She had seen it before, but never thought to question it. Until now.

  “Mr. Jang!” Yna gasped, pcing a hand over her racing heart. “You scared me.”

  He didn’t move, his dark eyes locked onto her with an intensity that felt unfamiliar. “How did you get here?”

  “I was looking for you,” Yna admitted, shifting uncomfortably under his unwavering gaze. “I went to the snack bar, but you weren’t there.”

  His lips pressed together for a brief moment before he spoke again, his voice low, sharp. “You shouldn’t be here, Yna. The forest isn’t safe.”

  His mind raced back to what Yoon Ah Reum had warned him about the night before. “Yna will definitely be nosy. She’ll find the shack before you can do anything about it. She’s a curious one, and kids don’t forget things like that.” The memory of her words weighed heavily on him as he scanned Yna’s face, unsure if she had already uncovered something she shouldn’t.

  The quiet in the forest seemed to deepen, and Mr. Jang’s chest tightened. Yna was far too close to the edge of something darker than she could comprehend.

  She hesitated, gncing back at the old shack, the pull of curiosity too strong to resist. “I... I just wanted to ask about the woman we saw by the river. The one covered in blood. Did the police come? What happened to her?”

  Mr. Jang was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes. I reported it. The police took care of everything.”

  Yna frowned slightly, a knot of unease forming in her stomach. “So she’s okay? Did they find out who she was?”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he replied smoothly, but there was something forced in his tone, something that set off arm bells in Yna’s mind. She pressed her lips together, trying to push the feeling away. Her gaze drifted back to the shack. “Is this... the secret toy shop you told us about?”

  Mr. Jang’s eyes flickered toward the shack, a hesitation in his posture that sted only a moment before it was gone, repced by a slow, almost calcuted smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Would you like to see it?” he asked, his voice soft, like the invitation was something he had already anticipated.

  Yna hesitated. Her gut told her to turn back, to listen to Mr. Jang’s earlier warning, but another part of her—the part that had always been drawn to secrets, to the unknown—urged her forward. She swallowed hard, gncing at him one more time before nodding.

  “Can I?”

  Mr. Jang stepped aside, extending his hand toward the door. “Go ahead.”

  Yna took a hesitant step forward, her fingers brushing against the weathered wood of the door. The moment her skin made contact, a voice suddenly cut through the silence, sharp and insistent.

  “Yna!”

  She flinched, her body tensing at the sound. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Aky. His voice held that familiar mix of frustration and concern. Her heart raced as she turned, spotting him at the edge of the trees. His hands were pnted firmly on his hips, his chest rising and falling as if he had been running to catch up with her.

  Yna hesitated before gncing back at Mr. Jang, an apologetic look in her eyes. “Next time, okay?” she said quickly. “Aky’s probably looking for me because my grandma came home and is asking where I am.”

  Mr. Jang’s lips curled into a slow, unreadable smile. “Of course,” he said, his voice steady and calm. “Another time, then.”

  Yna bowed slightly, as was her habit, then turned and sprinted toward Aky. As she disappeared into the trees, Mr. Jang’s expression shifted. The smile fell away, repced by something colder, something far more calcuting. His dark eyes tracked her retreating form, his gaze never wavering until she was out of sight.

  He slowly reached into the deep pockets of his bck jumpsuit, fingers brushing against something metallic—something sharp. He exhaled slowly, staring down the path toward the road, his thoughts hardening as they shifted away from Yna.

  The door to the shack creaked open behind him, and without another word, he stepped inside, disappearing into the dim glow of its interior.

  END OF CHAPTER 18