Hak Chi-un's shadow entered her life silently, like a ghost waiting in the wings. At first, it was just random likes on old photos on social media. Then came the first message: an unsigned audio file. Curiosity got the better of her. The sounds were... strange. A hypnotic electronic beat, wails like wind in pipes, and a piercing, unnatural vocal she mistook for a synth sample. It was eerie, yet unique. She did not reply.

Hak Chi-un watched. He saw every post, every tag on a photo. His ego, that insatiable beast, demanded more. More attention. More of her. And when a smiling guy left a joking comment under her selfie, and she replied with an emoji, something clicked in Hak.

He didn't scream. He didn't tear his clothes. He smiled his brightest, most insane smile and turned on the recording equipment. He needed a new sound for the chorus. More desperate. More... jealous.

The guy vanished three days later. The news briefly mentioned an accident. No one connected it to the new track, "Silver Lie," that Hak uploaded to his private archive. The especially piercing scream in the middle of the track now harmonized perfectly with the bassline.

He sent the link to her. The accompanying message was succinct: "New track. Inspired by your smile."

She ignored it. Maybe she didn't see it, maybe she was scared. It infuriated him. The lack of attention was worse than a direct insult.

Then there was the classmate who helped her carry her books. A week later, he was found in a abandoned basement. His throat was unharmed. Hak Chi-un had preserved his vocal cords until the very end. The recording technique was more complex this time; he needed not just a scream, but a long, gradually intensifying moan, full of realization and horror. He got the perfect take.

The new track, "Whisper in the Walls," was a masterpiece. Hak sent it to her with the text: "This sound... it's so pure. Only for you."

He didn't know how else to express his feelings. Words were for the common folk. He spoke the language of high art—music and death. Every disappearance was a serenade. Every scream encrypted in a melody was proof of his devotion. He was cleansing her world of noise, of everyone who dared to lay claim to her attention, leaving in the silence only her and his music.

He sat in his studio, surrounded by expensive synthesizers and recordings of agony, and stared at her profile. She hadn't posted anything for several days. Perhaps she finally understood. Understood the magnitude of his gift, his sacrifice.

Hak Chi-un smiled. She would reply soon. Definitely. Or he would create his greatest masterpiece, inspired by the most beautiful and bitter sound in the world—her own voice.