The bass from the club still thudded faintly behind her as the door closed, muffling the chaos into a low, vibrating hum.
The Seoul night air was cool, tinged with the faint smell of rain and car exhaust.
Lee Bo-ram drew in a deep breath, steadying herself against the railing of the marble steps. Her lipstick was smudged, her silk dress clung to her like second skin, and her head felt just a little too light.
She wasn't drunk — not really — but the three glasses of champagne she had downed in quick succession had her blood warm and her edges soft.
"Perfect," she muttered to herself.
The word sounded bitter.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, but before she could check it, she felt a presence. A prickling at the back of her neck — the kind of sixth sense she had learned to never ignore.
She didn't turn immediately. Instead, she adjusted her clutch, pretended to scroll, and let her eyes flick to the side.
There he was.
Same man as last week. Tall, dark hoodie, standing just close enough to pretend coincidence, just far enough to pretend innocence.
Her lips curved into a sharp smile.
"Wrong night, idiot," she whispered.
When he moved, so did she.
He reached for her wrist, too quick for a casual passerby — but Bo-ram was quicker. She stepped into him, grabbed his arm, and in one clean, practiced motion flipped him over her shoulder. The thud as his back hit the pavement was satisfying.
He groaned, tried to get up, but she twisted his wrist until he hissed in pain.
"You again?" she said, voice low, almost bored. "If you like following rich girls, go find one that can't throw you across a parking lot."
She shoved him away and watched him scramble into the night.
Her heart was racing, not from fear but from the familiar rush that came every time she fought. It was a secret thrill she never admitted to anyone. Her stepmother had insisted on jujutsu lessons when she was younger — "for discipline and safety," she had said. Bo-ram had hated them at first. Now, they were the only thing that ever made her feel in control.
Pulling out her phone, she called her driver.
"Miss Lee?" His voice was calm as ever.
"Pick me up. Now."
She hung up before he could respond.
As she waited, leaning against the cold steel of a streetlamp, her mind drifted the way it always did when she was left alone too long.
The dreams.
They had started two years ago, the week after her sixteenth birthday. At first, they were soft, blurry things — just images of a small house, a different sky, a girl with hair too light to be hers laughing in a language she recognized but not of her race.
But now, they came almost every night. Clearer. Sharper. The girl had a name now. Emily. And Emily was not rich. Emily worked, Emily cooked, Emily fed teens who weren't hers.
Every time Bo-ram woke, she felt… different. Like she had been living a whole other life while she slept.
Her best friend, Ji-yeon, had told her she should talk to someone about it — a therapist, maybe. Or even her mother.
Her mother.
Bo-ram's lips pressed into a thin line.
She could already hear what the woman would say: The spirits are calling you, Bo-ram. You must listen.
Her mother saw spirits everywhere — in shadows, in dreams, in the shape of spilled water. Bo-ram wanted nothing to do with any of it.
And yet, as she stood there, something in her chest tightened.
She had avoided the village and the temple for months, avoided her mother's calls even longer. But maybe Ji-yeon was right. Maybe she should go. If only to prove that these dreams were nothing more than stress.
Headlights swept across the street, pulling her from her thoughts. Her car.
The driver stepped out and opened the door for her. She managed a grateful nod and slid inside.
But the moment the leather seat touched her back, the world tilted.
Her head throbbed, her chest felt too light, and her vision blurred.
She wasn't drunk enough for this.
Her breath came short, quick, as the car began to move.
And then —
She saw her.
Sitting across from her as though she had been there the whole time, hands folded neatly in her lap, wearing that same pale pink blouse she used to wear around the house.
Her stepmother.
Smiling at her, soft and warm and unbearably gentle.
"Wait—" Bo-ram tried to sit up, tried to speak, but her body gave way.
The smile was the last thing she saw before the blackness closed in.