POV: Hee-won
I was born in Seoul — a city that smiles in the daylight and hides its secrets once the sun goes down.
My name is Hee-won. A senior in high school.
I live with my family in a small apartment that always smells faintly of instant noodles and laundry detergent.
My mother works until her body trembles,
my father hasn't spoken much since he lost his job,
and my little sister still believes the world is kind.
All I ever wanted was an ordinary life.
But ordinary packed its bags and left the night that message arrived.
It was a cold evening.
I was hunched over my desk, reviewing chemistry notes, when my phone buzzed.
"Hi, do you want to make some money?"
I froze.
A single, harmless-looking message — yet something about it made my heartbeat stumble.
I don't believe in coincidences, but that night I wanted to.
Because I needed money — desperately.
Unpaid bills.
The electricity threatening to go out.
And my mother quietly skipping her medication so we could save a few won.
I hesitated.
I thought about ignoring it.
But in the end…
"Yes," I replied.
"I want to."
A small smile tugged at my lips, though my stomach twisted.
Just a little money, I told myself.
It won't hurt anyone.
Moments later, another message appeared.
"Good. Here's the link. Follow it to get your task."
The link was strange — a jumble of letters and numbers, the kind you'd never trust.
I stared at it, the glow of the screen reflecting in my tired eyes.
Every instinct whispered no.
But I clicked it anyway.
Just once.
The screen froze.
Then flickered.
And went black.
Silence.
Darkness.
As if the world itself had stopped breathing.
The phone came back to life as if it had taken a breath.
The screen flickered, the light pulsed, and then—
a single notification appeared.
My hands were trembling when I opened it.
The image loaded slowly, each pixel sharpening like a blade.
It was me.
In my room. On my bed.
Lying on my back, eyes half-closed, hair scattered across the pillow—
a picture that looked as if it had been taken seconds ago.
Beneath the photo, one bold line of text:
"If you don't do exactly as I say, all of Korea will see these pictures."
A chill flooded my veins.
It wasn't just the threat—it was the precision.
How did they know when I'd been resting?
Who took that photo?
Who was watching us?
I pressed the screen as if I could somehow stop the danger from spreading.
Another message appeared—just a link, with a small button beneath it labeled "Instructions."
And a second line, emotionless and sharp:
"You will do everything we tell you.
First task: Tonight, at midnight.
Go to the emergency entrance of Sango Hospital.
No police. Tell no one.
If you try—photos go public.
Further locations will follow."
Signed with a single word: The Doctor.
Home hadn't changed.
Mom was cooking in the kitchen, the sound of frying oil echoing softly.
My little sister was glued to her cartoons in the living room.
Dad sat before the TV, lost somewhere behind the quiet weight in his chest.
And there I was—sitting among them, holding a bomb no one could see.
How could I tell them?
How could I explain that someone had photos of me—photos that could destroy us before our lives even began?
I thought of going to the police, but the thought unraveled into a nightmare:
tabloid headlines, online comments tearing me apart,
neighbors whispering.
My fear wasn't for myself.
It was for Mom, who works herself numb,
and for my sister, who still believes the world is kind.
If those photos were released, none of us would survive the shame.
I opened the message again, searching for a flaw—some clue I could trace.
The link was masked.
The address meaningless.
The sender, a ghost.
I wasn't equipped to fight professionals.
But I could buy time.
I typed a reply—
a tiny lie meant to protect the people I loved:
"Okay. I'll come."
No why, no who are you, no why me.
Questions don't stop monsters.
I just sent the message and locked my phone,
as if darkness could keep the threat asleep.
The night pressed down like a sealed chamber.
Every second dragged heavy and slow.
At school, we'd learned about wars, choices, and the price of mistakes.
Now, I was about to make the most expensive choice of my life.
Was I going because I was afraid?
Or because I wanted to protect them?
I looked at an old video of my little sister laughing.
That laugh always turned the whole room warm.
I remembered how she once saved coins in a tiny box just to buy me a gift.
I couldn't let her pay the price for my ignorance.
I packed quietly:
a few bills from my savings,
my walking shoes,
a small thermos of mountain tea,
and a folded note I left in my jacket pocket:
"If something happens to me—check my phone. There might be evidence."
Then I slipped out before dawn.
The streets were nearly empty, the streetlights stretching into long red veins.
Each step echoed the same mantra in my head:
Don't think. Don't call the police. Don't tell anyone.
But my thoughts wouldn't stop whispering:
It could be a trap.
If I don't go, they'll post the photos.
The air outside Sango Hospital was sharp and cold, tinged with the smell of disinfectant and rain that had fallen earlier.
The emergency entrance glowed faintly, half-hidden in shadow.
I stood behind a pillar, dialing the number again and again—no answer.
Then the phone in my hand blinked: another message.
"Good. Emergency door.
Someone will come out to meet you.
Say this line to confirm your identity:
'I'm here for the treatment.'"
The words rolled through my mind like a curse.
I'm here for the treatment.
Was I the patient?
Or the experiment?
Was The Doctor even a doctor at all?
I looked once more at the frozen smile in the photo—the lifeless version of me staring back.
Then I sent one final text to myself:
"Hee-won — don't be afraid."
And I took a step toward the door.