Ji-yeol looked at the bleeding wooden block, then back at the girl who was half-statue and half-chaos. The scent of ozone was stinging his eyes now, a violent reminder of the world he had left behind.
"I can't do this alone," Ji-yeol said, his voice dropping to a low, desperate rasp. "If those things—those silhouettes—are waiting for me, I need someone who knows how to break the rules of the frame. Help me face them, Ka-yeon."
Ka-yeon's human eye crinkled as her grin widened, but her porcelain side remained a frozen, elegant mask. She didn't move toward him. Instead, she began to spin in a slow, graceful circle, her white babydoll dress flaring out like the petals of a dying lily.
"Oh, I could help you," she chirped, her long white hair whipping through the air. "I could turn those red threads into jump-ropes and make the Grand Curator trip over his own ego. But that's a very big favor, Scribe. And big favors require... another game."
She stopped spinning and leaned in close, her long bangs casting a shadow over her obsidian eye. "But I should warn you—my second games are much longer than the first. By the time we finish, the ink upstairs won't just be dry. It'll be cracked. Gyeongju will be a memory of a memory, and you'll be a painting of a man who was too slow to save his own skin."
She tapped her porcelain chin with a sharp, clicking finger. "So, what will it be? Stay here and play 'House' with me until we're both made of clay, or take your little Anchor and jump back into the fire alone?"
Ji-yeol looked at the Future Portrait tucked in his vest. The image was darker now, the edges of the canvas beginning to curl and char as if being held too close to a flame. He realized then that Ka-yeon wasn't just being cruel; she was testing his Resolve. She wanted to see if the Scribe was willing to bleed for the story he was trying to protect.
He reached out and snatched the bleeding wooden block from her hand. The ink stained his glove instantly, feeling cold and heavy.
"I don't have time for your games," Ji-yeol said, his eyes hardening. "If I die up there, at least I'll die in 3D. Keep your dollhouse, Ka-yeon. I'm going back."
He turned away from her, but before he could take a step, he felt a cold, porcelain hand catch his shoulder. He flinched, expecting an attack, but there was no violence in her grip.
"Good answer," she whispered, her voice suddenly devoid of its manic edge.
For a brief second, the human half of her face looked almost sad. "A Scribe who stays in the workshop too long eventually becomes the furniture. You're better off as a smudge on a real street than a masterpiece in a basement. But this wont be the last time you see me, just remember that."
She shoved him–hard.
Ji-yeol didn't fall back onto the carpet. The moment his balance shifted, the dollhouse dissolved. The floral wallpaper tore like wet tissue, and the scent of rose water was vaporized by a freezing blast of Gyeongju rain.
He was flying upward, the Anchor in his hand glowing with a fierce, electric blue light. As he broke through the "surface" of the burial mound, he saw them: a circle of red silhouettes, their needles raised, and in the center, a tall, faceless shadow in a long robe, waiting to catch him.