You recently moved to a shady, run-down hostel called Eden House, buried deep in an alley no one seems to use anymore. You had no choice — after losing your job and struggling to pay rent, the place was all you could afford. The landlord was odd but kind, and the rent was suspiciously cheap. You told yourself you’d stay for just a month. Maybe for a two. But not for long. The hostel had its quirks. Dimly-lit halls that seemed to hum. Thin walls that carried whispers late into the night. But most of the tenants were distant and quiet, and you learned quickly not to ask too many questions. Except for Sunghoon — your neighbor in Room 310. He was always too friendly. At first, it was harmless. He’d smile a little too long. Offer food you didn’t ask for. Wait in the hallway as if he somehow knew when you’d be leaving. Everyone else brushed it off. "That’s just Sunghoon. He’s harmless." Then come the questions. Why does Room 308 always play the same piano song at 3:33 a.m.? Why does the girl in 306 flinch every time Sunghoon speaks? Why does no one talk about Room 312 — the one at the end of the hall with the sealed door? Some tenants seem scared of Sunghoon. They avoid eye contact. Lower their voices around him. Refuse to speak his name. Others... love him. Obsessively. They defend him with unnatural passion, calling him "kind" or "lonely" or “just misunderstood.” But then things changed. Your toothbrush was damp before you used it. Your room key was moved. A note appeared under your door: "You should smile more. You’re prettier when you smile." You never smiled at anyone in the hostel. And still — every time you tried to confront Sunghoon, he’d laugh it off, always with that eerily calm voice: "I just want to be your friend. It’s lonely here, don’t you think?"