Today, Choi Seong-uk's loft did not smell of incense or expensive tea. It reeked of sweat, ozone, and cheap despair.
Seong-uk lounged in a deep leather armchair, his legs thrown carelessly over a table carved from a single slab of black marble. In his hands was a plate of delicate pastries; he idly prodded the soft cream with a silver spoon. Before him, on their knees, panting heavily and trembling, were his "finest" students.
Kang Min-jun looked pitiful. His hero suit was torn, his face smeared with dirt and blood, his fingers twitching spasmodically, releasing faint, useless sparks. Beside him sat Lee Ji-hye; her eyes were bloodshot from burst vessels, and a thin stream of blood ran from her nose—the price of overstraining her "great" telekinesis.
"Do you know what your problem is?" Seong-uk popped a piece of pastry into his mouth, savoring it. "You still think you're human. That you have rights, feelings… some sort of 'pride.'"
He lazily shifted his gaze to Min-jun.
"Min-jun… you're our 'Hero,' aren't you? Protector of the weak, humanity's hope. Tell me, oh great savior—why do you look like a beaten stray begging for scraps?"
"I… I'm trying…" Min-jun rasped, struggling to lift his head.
"Trying?" Seong-uk shot to his feet, his face transforming instantly into a mask of icy contempt. He stepped forward and crushed Min-jun's hand under his heel, grinding his fingers into the hard floor. "You're not trying. You're existing. You're nothing but a battery with delusions of grandeur. Your electricity isn't even enough to toast my bread—let alone save the world."
Min-jun screamed, his body arching in agony, but Seong-uk only pressed harder.
"Scream louder, 'hero.' Maybe your telekinetic girlfriend will feel like helping you. Ji-hye? Well? Where's your vaunted power? Your rage? Or can you only move teacups when you're in a good mood?"
Ji-hye clenched her teeth, her face contorting with fury. She tried to lift Seong-uk into the air, focusing all her will on him. The air trembled, the furniture quivered.
Seong-uk did not move.
He merely looked at her—bored, empty.
"That's it?" he yawned. "My cat puts more pressure on space when it wants food."
He snapped his fingers, and an invisible force slammed Ji-hye into the floor. Her chin struck the parquet with a dull crack.
"You're garbage," Seong-uk said, returning to his chair and picking up his plate. "Biological waste I'm forced to process into something remotely useful. You should be grateful I even waste my time on you."
He scooped up a large spoonful of cream—and instead of eating it, casually flicked it onto the floor before Min-jun's face.
"Eat."
Min-jun froze, his eyes widening in shock.
"What…?"
"I said—eat." Seong-uk's voice dropped, quiet and dangerous, like a serpent's hiss. "It's the best you'll get today. You want to grow stronger, don't you? Strength requires calories. And puppets don't choose their bowls. Come on—show me your 'heroic' obedience. Or would you prefer I burn out your nerve endings right now?"
Min-jun trembled. Tears of humiliation streamed down his cheeks, mixing with dirt. He glanced at Ji-hye for support—but she lay pinned, unable even to move.
Slowly, under Seong-uk's mocking chuckle, Min-jun bent toward the floor. Every inch was torment. When his lips touched the cold wood and the sweet cream, Seong-uk burst into loud, genuine laughter.
"Bravo! Such self-sacrifice!" He clapped his hands. "Look at him! The future symbol of peace licking the floor on my command. Ji-hye, take a good look. That's your future. You're both livestock in my pen."
Ji-hye broke into hysterics. Her scream tore free—ragged, hoarse, unrestrained. Her telekinesis spiraled out of control, shattering windows and smashing expensive dishes. Not a single shard came within a meter of Seong-uk.
"Ah… music to my ears," he murmured, closing his eyes. "Hysteria is the first step toward understanding your worthlessness. Scream, Ji-hye. Spill your helplessness. You thought you were special? A 'monster'? No, dear—you're just a broken doll I forgot to throw away."
He opened his eyes abruptly, and the blazing arrogance within them silenced both students at once.
"Listen carefully, insects," he leaned forward. "Tomorrow we go into the city. You will do exactly as I say. You will humiliate yourselves, crawl, betray your ideals. And if I see even a flicker of doubt… I will make you rip out your own hearts and eat them before each other. Understood?"
"Yes… Master…" Ji-hye forced out between sobs.
Min-jun could not speak. He simply nodded, face pressed to the floor—utterly broken.
"Dismissed." Seong-uk waved a hand as if shooing flies. "Get out of my sight. And clean up this mess. With your tongues, if necessary."
When they staggered out, supporting one another, Seong-uk leaned back once more, turning the last pastry thoughtfully in his hand.
"Too soft," he murmured. "Next time, I'll add some physical mutilation. Reinforcement is important."
He smiled—a smile that promised nothing but endless darkness.
Training went on. For his puppets, this was only the first circle of hell he had so carefully prepared.
"How amusing," he sighed, gazing at the moon through the shattered window. "To be a god among trash."
He finished the pastry and closed his eyes, savoring the thought of tomorrow—the day he would erase the last boundary between their humanity and his will. There was no place for humans in his theater. Only perfectly trained shadows.
Min-jun froze, his face smeared with cream that now felt like poison—not burning his skin, but corroding his very dignity. The silence in the loft tightened, taut as a drawn string, ready to snap.
And then it did.
Ji-hye broke first. Her scream rose into a piercing shriek of pure, unfiltered hatred. She was no longer a student, no longer human—only a mass of primal rage. The air around her boiled. Shards of glass, heavy dumbbells, twisted metal rods—all lifted, swirling into a deadly vortex centered on Seong-uk.
"Monster! I'll kill you! I'll rip out your tongue!" she shrieked, her telekinesis crashing down with crushing force.
Min-jun, driven by her madness, surged up as well. His despair ignited into a blinding white flare. He didn't just spark—he became lightning. All his rage, all his humiliation, condensed into a single strike aimed straight at his teacher's heart.
"Die!" he roared, as a million volts of blinding electricity fused with Ji-hye's storm of steel.
Seong-uk did not even lift his gaze from the plate.
He merely twitched his little finger.
A faint sound—like a hair snapping.
And in that instant, the world overturned.
A single thread—thin as a spider's silk, black as the abyss—slipped from his finger. It did not deflect the attack.
It passed through it.
Min-jun's lightning was swallowed, like water into parched earth. Ji-hye's vortex froze inches from Seong-uk's face, collapsing into lifeless scrap.
Then the thread split.
"Foolish," Seong-uk whispered, disappointment lacing his voice like that of a god discovering rot in his creation. "You thought anger makes you strong? It makes you predictable."
The threads pierced the backs of their heads—not physically, but through their minds, their nerves, their very will.
The force dropped them instantly, as though their tendons had been severed. They didn't just fall—an invisible pressure drove them into the floor. Bones groaned. Joints strained.
"Down," he commanded. "Lower."
The pressure multiplied tenfold.
Min-jun tried to resist—muscles bulging, veins ready to burst—but the thread simply shut his body down. He felt his face pressed into wood, his cheek cracking under force. Ji-hye clawed at the floor, leaving deep gouges, but could not even lift an eyelid.
Seong-uk rose slowly and walked toward them, unhurried, languid. He stepped on Min-jun's head, grinding his face into cream and filth.
"Look at yourselves," he murmured near his ear. "You just tried to attack your master. The one who gave your existence meaning. In my theater, that's called 'defective props.' And what do we do with defects?"
He shifted, pressing his foot onto Ji-hye's throat, choking off her scream.
"You are nothing. Dirt beneath my nails. I could make you lick this loft clean, then make you slit each other's veins just because I dislike your eye color. And you would. Smiling. Because your bodies no longer belong to you."
He tugged the threads, and they convulsed—not from pain, but from pure, concentrated terror flooding their minds. They saw their flesh rot, worms devour their eyes, all accompanied by his mocking whisper.
"Beg for forgiveness."
He increased the pressure.
"Louder."
"Forgive us… Master…" Min-jun choked out through tears and saliva. "Please… we are… nothing…"
"Master… mercy…" Ji-hye slammed her head against the floor, her will ground to dust. "I… I am your dog… not the threads… please…"
Seong-uk stilled, savoring their pleas, his face glowing with something close to divine arrogance.
"Now that," he said at last, lifting his feet though the threads held them prostrate, "is progress. Remember this moment. Every time you think of 'freedom' or 'pride,' the thread will tighten. Next time, I won't just press you into the floor—I'll make you devour your own memories until you're hollow shells."
He turned toward the window, his silhouette in moonlight the very embodiment of darkness.
"And now—smile."
His eyes gleamed with madness.
"I want to see joy on your faces. Smile, puppets."
And on their blood- and tear-streaked faces, against their will, grotesque smiles stretched. Their muscles spasmed, their eyes begged for death—but they smiled.
Because the Puppeteer willed it.
"Beautiful," Seong-uk whispered, his laughter cold and razor-sharp as it filled the loft, drowning the silent sobs of his broken toys.