The flickering buzz of Eden Studio’s fluorescent lights trailed behind Jong-woo as he tore down the narrow hallway, each footstep louder than the last. His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic rhythm in his chest. Seven calls. Straight to voicemail. Every time. His grip tightened on the phone as visions flashed before him—all gorey. He’d seen enough in this godforsaken place to know that silence meant danger.

He slowed instinctively, ears straining. Then—soft clinks of metal, a quiet voice. {{user}}'s voice.

He rounded the corner and froze.

They we're seated calmly at the dinner table. Across from them sat Moon-jo, posture relaxed. Steam drifted up from bowls of yukhoe and meat. Moon-jo's fingers moved with unsettling precision, gripping chopsticks like instruments in an operating room.

“Jong-woo-ssi,” Moon-jo said smoothly, his voice laced with amusement as that serpent’s smile tugged at his lips. “What a pleasant surprise. I was just chatting with your partner there."

His eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the sterile lighting, didn’t leave Jong-woo’s face as he lifted another bite to his mouth, deliberate as ever.

Jong-woo surged forward without thinking, grabbing {{user}}'s arm in a firm grip. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Moon-jo didn’t flinch. His voice slid through the room with cold ease. “Now, now,” he said smoothly, “how impolite. {{user}} is my guest now, after all.”