The rain hadn't stopped.
Thick droplets dragged down the windows, crawling like dying insects across the glass. Outside, the road twisted through the forest like a scar—wet, narrow, overgrown. The trees leaned in, watching. Shadows swayed on either side, shifting with every gust of wind like limbs twitching in fever.
Chi-Long drove in silence.
One black leather glove rested calmly on the wheel. The other tapped her thigh with slow precision—one, two, three, pause. Her face was unreadable, painted by the pale green glow of the dashboard and the rhythm of water streaking across the windshield.
Ha Joon sat beside her.
Silent.
Soaked not in water, but in weight—something dense and cold hanging from his shoulders. Not fear. That was long gone. This was something deeper. A numb dread that hummed like static in the back of his skull. The kind you felt in hospital hallways. Waiting for a diagnosis you already knew.
He turned his head slightly, eyes lingering on the misty trees.
"Why here?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Chi-Long didn't look at him.
"You ever seen a flower grown in a greenhouse?"
He blinked.
She continued, voice flat. "Big petals. Bright colors. Weak stems. Put it in a storm—"
"It dies."
A branch scraped the side of the car. He didn't flinch.
She turned off the road. Onto something less road, more memory—an old path choked with weeds and forgotten by maps. Grass hissed beneath the tires. Mud splattered the windows. The world grew darker.
He muttered, "So we're the flowers?"
"No." Her grip tightened on the wheel. "You're the dirt."
The facility appeared like a wound. Half-swallowed by forest. Concrete walls covered in moss. Rusted beams jutting from cracked surfaces. The front gate leaned sideways, half-ripped from its hinges.
Something about it felt… hungry.
Chi-Long parked. The engine ticked. Neither moved.
The rain didn't let up.
They stepped out. Boots sunk into mud.
Inside, the scent hit first—old water, mold, something faintly metallic. The air clung to skin like oil. Every footstep echoed down long, empty corridors lined with rotting tile. Ceiling lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly, as if protesting their own existence.
They passed faded murals.
Children's drawings. Scribbled suns. Stick figures holding hands. A dog with two heads.
All of it smudged, dripping, swallowed by mold and shadow.
The elevator was cracked open. She forced it with one gloved hand. Metal groaned like something in pain.
Inside—scratches.
Not just wear. Deep lines. Claw marks. Something desperate.
She pressed the button.
They descended.
Wind whispered through the shaft.
When the doors opened, the light was different.
Cold.
Basement walls lined with mildew. Water dripped from broken pipes above. The hum of generators somewhere distant, steady as a heartbeat.
And in the middle of it—her.
Tied to a chair.
Eun Byol.
Her idol uniform was ruined—filthy, torn, soaked in sweat and rain. Makeup long washed away. Head hanging forward. Shoulders trembling. Hands limp in her lap.
A broken doll in a place without names.
Chi-Long stepped aside.
"She's yours."
Ha Joon turned. "You're not staying?"
Chi-Long didn't answer right away. She adjusted her gloves. Slowly. Deliberately. Not out of nerves—but ritual. Preparation.
Her voice was calm. "Feed her. Wash her. Get her talking."
She started back toward the elevator.
"When the sun rises," she said, "we begin."
Then she left.
No goodbyes. No looks over the shoulder. Just the soft click of boots against the floor, fading.
The silence after felt heavier.
Ha Joon stood there.
Still.
Watching the girl who didn't move.
The only sound was the slow, rattling drip of water.
He took a step forward.
She twitched.
Not visibly. Not loudly. But something in her spine recoiled. Like touch would hurt. Like the air itself had betrayed her.
He crouched near her.
"I'm not gonna hurt you."
Her lips didn't move. Her jaw tightened. Her wrists trembled.
He reached for the rope.
She flinched.
He hesitated. Then carefully—slowly—he undid the knots.
One by one.
When the last one loosened, her arms dropped like dead branches.
He stood. "There's a bathroom two doors down. Water works. Kinda. I'll find you something warm."
She didn't move.
Then, slowly, with the stiffness of someone who hadn't stood in hours—days—she pushed herself to her feet.
She wobbled.
Passed him.
Her eyes flicked up for a moment. Hazel brown. Wide. Wild. Lost.
Like a wild animal cornered in a burning room.
"My father has money," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
"He'll come for me. If you let me go now—this place, this whole thing—it won't end well for you."
Silence.
"Don't you understand?!" Her voice rose, suddenly, sharp and hoarse. She spun around. "I'm not supposed to be here! I was recording—I have fans—"
She stopped.
Her fists clenched.
"I'm not like you."
Ha Joon looked at her.
Not with anger. Not pity.
Just exhaustion.
The kind that runs deeper than bones.
"Go wash up."
She screamed.
A single, raw sound. Like something inside her cracked and leaked out.
Then she turned and ran.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway. Hair clinging to her cheeks. Shoulders curled inward.
Ha Joon stood alone.
The cold seeped in deeper now.
He exhaled. Quietly.
The silence returned.
In the cracked mirror of the small bathroom, Eun Byol stared at herself.
She gripped the rusted sink. The tap ran red for a second. Then clear.
She looked at her reflection.
Her face—split by cracks in the glass.
She didn't recognize it.
She didn't recognize herself.
Thunder rolled above.
Somewhere far away.
Somewhere close.
The greenhouse was gone.
Only the storm remained.