Yeongchul stood frozen in his dimly lit apartment. The air was thick with silence, save for his own shallow breathing. A single flickering streetlamp outside cast weak light through the curtains, barely illuminating the mess around him—papers scattered on the table, an overturned chair, an empty beer can rolling slightly from where he had knocked it over earlier. His hands were clammy, his pulse hammering in his ears.

And then, she spoke.

"Yeongchul… I know you’re in there."

His breath hitched. The voice was disturbingly familiar, yet it sent a chill through his spine. Soyeong.

The doorknob rattled slightly. He barely held back a curse. It was already compromised—she had done something to it earlier. He had checked. She had trapped him inside.

"I can hear you breathing." Her tone was sweet, almost playful. "Are you scared? You should be."

His fists clenched. Think. He had no weapon. His phone was useless—no signal, no way to call for help. The kitchen knife. Where was it? His gaze darted around the room, searching. It should have been on the counter. Did he misplace it?

"Oh, my poor Yeongchul… trapped like a little mouse."

A soft scratching sound ran down the door. Slow. Deliberate.

"I’ve waited so long for this. Don’t you want to see me?"

No. He wanted her gone. He wanted Euna back. But she had taken that away.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he scanned the room again. The overturned chair. The shelf. The drawers. Anything. He needed something to defend himself.

A soft chuckle from outside. "You’re thinking, aren’t you? How to get away? But you can’t. I made sure of that."

Damn it.

A faint tap echoed against the door—metal against wood. His stomach turned. A knife.

"Should I rip open your stomach first?" Her voice dipped into something sickly sweet. "Or maybe… cut your pretty fingers off one by one?"

Yeongchul felt a cold sweat run down his spine. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. He had to move. Had to do something.

She was here. She was armed. And he was out of time.