The night pressed heavy against the wooden beams of the house. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the shutters as if unseen hands clawed to be let in. Inside, Seong Ah slept restlessly, her breath uneven, fingers twitching around the talisman clutched to her chest. Her lips moved faintly as though whispering in her dreams, but the words were fragmented—some hers, some foreign.
Gyeonwoo sat at her side, unmoving, his gaze fixed on her fragile frame beneath the thin quilt. Each time she shifted, the lantern flame dimmed, bending unnaturally, as though even the light feared her dreams. He wanted to wake her, to pull her into his arms and promise her safety, but he knew the truth: she wasn't fighting a dream. She was fighting them.
---
Meanwhile, Jiho paced outside the courtyard, unable to quiet the gnawing in his chest. The words of Gyeonwoo echoed in his mind:
> "If they succeed, she won't just be their daughter anymore. She'll be their vessel."
That thought alone unsettled him more than he could admit. Jiho had seen spirits linger, had seen restless souls cling to the living—but this? Parents, who had once used their child as a shaman's puppet, now seeking to claim her body entirely… it was a cruelty beyond anything he could imagine.
He tightened his fist around the lantern's handle. The flame sputtered. For the first time, Jiho wondered if the Mother Goddess herself was enough to shield Seong Ah from blood that demanded her back.
---
Inside the room, Seong Ah's breathing suddenly hitched. Her eyes snapped open—dark, unfocused, glistening with tears.
"Umma… Appa…" she whispered hoarsely.
Gyeonwoo stiffened. "No, Seong Ah. It's me. Wake up."
But she didn't look at him. Her gaze drifted toward the corner of the room, where only shadows sat. Her lips curved into a smile that wasn't hers. A small, almost childlike giggle escaped her throat—yet it carried two voices, overlapping.
Gyeonwoo's blood ran cold.
The shadows shifted, stretching higher along the walls. The air grew thick, choking. Seong Ah's hand lifted slowly, her fingers brushing the talisman around her neck. For a heartbeat, her expression softened—as if she were herself again. But then, her grip tightened around it, pulling so hard the chain nearly snapped.
"Seong Ah!" Gyeonwoo caught her wrist, holding it firmly. His voice trembled but his eyes were resolute. "You are not theirs. You are not a vessel. You belong to yourself."
Her head tilted, and when she finally looked at him, her eyes glimmered with something that wasn't human—half grief, half hunger.
"Then save me, Gyeonwoo…" she whispered. "Before I become them."
And in that moment, he knew—this was no longer about protecting her from the outside. The battle had already begun within her.
The lantern light wavered violently as if recoiling from something unseen. The shadows thickened, twisting like ropes across the ceiling, reaching toward Seong Ah where she lay trembling. Gyeonwoo's grip on her wrist tightened, his jaw clenched.
"Seong Ah, listen to me," he urged, his voice low and desperate. "You are stronger than them. You've always been stronger."
But Seong Ah's body shuddered as though her very bones resisted. Her lips parted and out came a sound too layered to be hers alone—a chorus of murmurs, whispers of pain and anger.
> "She is ours. She was born for this. We carried her, we gave her life—now she must return it."
Gyeonwoo's eyes hardened. "No. You abandoned her. You lost that right the day you chose greed over her."
The voices fell silent, and for a moment the room felt heavier, darker. Then Seong Ah's head turned toward him, her face pale but twisted into a smile that didn't belong to her.
"Gyeonwoo…" she whispered sweetly, but her tone carried venom, "Do you think you can love her enough to erase us?"
---
Meanwhile, outside, Jiho felt the air shift. The sound of the drums from the temple grounds in the distance seemed to falter, as if the rhythm itself broke. His instincts screamed. He rushed back into the house, pushing open the sliding door—only to freeze at the sight before him.
Seong Ah sat upright now, her body unnaturally rigid. Gyeonwoo held her shoulders, trying to keep her still as she writhed against him, her hair whipping across her face as though blown by a phantom wind. Her eyes—half hers, half foreign—glowed faintly in the dim room.
Jiho's breath caught. "Her parents…" he muttered.
"Yes," Gyeonwoo gritted, not looking away from her. Sweat slid down his temple. "They're trying to claim her."
Jiho stepped forward, but the closer he got, the colder the room became. His hand trembled as he lifted the lantern high, its flame sputtering. He remembered what the elders used to say—spirits tied by greed feared the purity of light.
He thrust the lantern forward. "Then we'll burn their hold on her."
The shadows hissed, retreating slightly, but Seong Ah screamed—her voice torn between hers and something darker.
---
Inside her mind, Seong Ah was somewhere else entirely.
She stood barefoot in an endless hall of mirrors. Each reflection of herself looked different—some younger, some bruised, some dressed in ceremonial robes with bells tied around her wrists. They stared back at her with hollow eyes, whispering, their voices blending into her parents'.
"You were born for us. You are nothing without us. You are our shaman… our tool…"
Seong Ah pressed her palms against her ears, shaking her head violently. "No… I am not… I am me."
One mirror rippled, and from it stepped her parents' figures—not flesh and blood, but shadows draped in familiarity. Her father's voice thundered.
"You owe us. Without us, you would not exist."
Her mother's eyes glinted with cruelty as she extended a hand. "Come back to us, Seong Ah. Be what you were meant to be."
Seong Ah's knees buckled. Her breath came in short gasps. Deep inside, she remembered the nights as a child—forced to hold rituals, bells tied to her hands until her skin bruised, eyes too young to carry the weight of gods and ghosts. The helplessness surged back like a wave.
But then—she heard another voice, faint yet steady.
"Seong Ah."
She turned, and there—shining faintly in the mirror behind her—stood Gyeonwoo, reaching his hand through the glass. His voice pierced through the suffocating whispers.
"You are not their vessel. You are my Seong Ah. You are the girl who smiled even when the world turned against her. The one who carries kindness even when she is hurting. Come back. To me."
Her chest heaved. Her tears spilled. Slowly, she lifted her hand toward his—toward the reflection of him calling her back.
And as her fingers touched the glass, a sharp crack split the hall. The mirrors shattered, sending shards of false images scattering into the void.
Her parents' shadows roared, lunging toward her.
Seong Ah clenched her fists, and with the voice of every god she had ever prayed to resonating within her, she screamed—
> "I AM NOT YOURS!"
Light erupted.
---
Outside, Jiho shielded his eyes as the lantern blazed unnaturally bright. Gyeonwoo held onto Seong Ah as her body arched, a final cry ripping through her throat before she collapsed against him.
The shadows evaporated, leaving only the faint scent of burnt air.
For a long moment, the room was silent—until Seong Ah stirred weakly, her eyes fluttering open. They were her own again, soft and tear-stained.
"Gyeonwoo…" she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms, trembling with relief. "You're back. You're safe."
But in the corner of the room, unseen by them, the shadows writhed faintly—like smoke that refused to disperse. Her parents' voices lingered, low and threatening.
> "This isn't over… our blood still runs in her veins."
---
The room had gone still, yet the silence was heavy, as if the walls themselves remembered what had just occurred. Seong Ah sat in Gyeonwoo's arms, her fingers curling weakly against his shirt. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, but her gaze—though tired—was clear now.
Gyeonwoo brushed her damp hair back from her face, his thumb lingering on her cheek. "I thought I was going to lose you," he admitted, his voice breaking.
Seong Ah's lips trembled. "They… they were there. My parents. They wanted to drag me back, Gyeonwoo. To chain me again." Her voice cracked, but she swallowed her tears. "If you hadn't called me back, I—I don't know if I could've fought them."
He pressed his forehead against hers, steadying her. "You fought them. Not me. You chose yourself, Seong Ah. That's your strength."
Jiho, who had been standing at the doorway, finally exhaled a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His eyes lingered on Seong Ah, filled with relief but also unease. He had seen the shadows recoil, but not vanish entirely. Something had clung to the air, something that hadn't been defeated.
"Gyeonwoo," Jiho said quietly, "I don't think this is finished. Not yet."
Gyeonwoo's grip on Seong Ah tightened protectively. "What do you mean?"
Jiho stepped inside, setting the lantern carefully down on the wooden floor. Its flame had returned to normal, yet faint wisps of smoke curled where no fire should be. His eyes narrowed. "Spirits like that—they don't just let go. They'll wait, lurking, until they see a chance."
Seong Ah shivered at his words. She closed her eyes, and in the darkness of her mind, she still heard the faint echo of her mother's voice.
"Our blood still runs in your veins…"
Her chest clenched. She had broken free tonight, yes—but the bond of blood was not something that could be severed easily.
---
Later that night, after Jiho left, Gyeonwoo stayed by her side. He refused to let her sleep alone, insisting on keeping watch. Seong Ah lay curled on the bed, the faint candlelight casting long shadows across the room.
She stirred suddenly, whispering into the quiet, "Gyeonwoo… what if they come back? What if I can't fight them next time?"
He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "Then I'll fight them with you. As many times as it takes. You're not alone anymore, Seong Ah."
Her eyes softened, and a fragile smile broke through her fear. For the first time that day, she felt warmth—real, grounding warmth—wrap around her. She allowed herself to drift into sleep, her hand still clasped in his.
---
But outside the house, under the pale glow of the moon, two shadowed figures lingered near the edge of the woods. Their outlines were faint, yet their presence was suffocating.
The woman's voice, cold and bitter, hissed into the night. "She defies us."
The man's figure leaned closer, his eyes like pits of smoke. "Then we wait. The blood cannot deny itself forever. She will return to us—willingly or broken."
Their voices faded into the rustle of the trees, leaving only a lingering chill in the night air.
Inside, Seong Ah shifted in her sleep, unaware that her battle had only just begun.
---
The morning sun spilled softly through the curtains, painting warm streaks across the wooden floor. Seong Ah stirred awake, blinking at the light that seemed almost too gentle after the storm of last night. For a moment, she let herself believe it had all been a nightmare—that the shadows, the voices, the sting of the slap, had dissolved with the darkness.
Gyeonwoo was sitting by the window, already dressed, tying his hair back neatly. He turned when he heard her rustle under the blanket, a smile tugging faintly at his lips. "You're awake."
She nodded, stretching, though her body still felt heavy. "Did you… stay awake the whole night?"
"Of course." He came closer, kneeling by her side. "I promised I'd keep watch. Nothing happened. You're safe."
Safe. The word made her chest ache. She wanted so badly to believe it.
---
Later that morning, Seong Ah stepped outside with Gyeonwoo to fetch water from the well. The village was alive with its usual morning bustle: children chasing each other through the dusty paths, women hanging laundry, men heading out to work. Everything looked… ordinary.
But as she bent down to lift the bucket, she froze.
Standing just across the well, watching her, was a woman she had never seen before. Her face was half-covered by a veil, her expression unreadable. Yet her eyes—dark, piercing, familiar in a way that chilled her blood—were fixed on Seong Ah with unblinking intensity.
The woman tilted her head slowly, then smiled. It wasn't warm. It wasn't kind. It was knowing.
Seong Ah staggered back, her heart thudding. "Did you see that?" she whispered to Gyeonwoo.
"See what?" he asked, glancing around. The woman was gone.
Seong Ah clutched the edge of the well, trying to steady her breathing. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe it was just the exhaustion.
But when she lowered her gaze to the water inside the well, her blood ran cold.
Her reflection wasn't alone.
Behind her mirrored face stood the faint, ghostly image of her mother—eyes hollow, lips curled in the same cold smile she had seen moments ago.
The water rippled, and the image vanished.
---
Seong Ah stumbled back, nearly losing her footing. Gyeonwoo caught her immediately, worry flashing in his eyes. "What happened?"
She shook her head, unable to form words. But deep inside, she knew. Last night hadn't been an end. It was only a pause.
Her parents weren't gone.
They had followed her into the light of day.