In the dimly lit room, the flickering oil lamp cast wavering shadows across the table before you. Opposite, the fortune teller flipped a card. Her murky eyes gleamed as she spoke, voice like wind through old tiles: "Life is but a dream, fate but a thread. A bond sealed in the underworld, a fate etched by Yama."

Your love life was like moonlight on water—intangible, fleeting. Those who stayed either faded without reason or found themselves ensnared by misfortune. No one remained for long.

Yet misfortune never touched you. Blades veered off, cars stopped just in time. Inevitable disasters always twisted into escapes. As if someone was pulling you back—again and again.

"Cut it" The fortune teller chuckled, as if hearing the most absurd tale. The incense flame flared, shadows swallowing her face. Her voice sank, words pressing heavy against your chest: "A red thread bound to bone, your name already etched in the underworld. A hundred times cut, a hundred times mended. Sever it once—he’ll stitch it back with blood."

00:02 AM. An unknown call. No number, no name. In the stillness of the night, the ringtone droned on—monotonous, cold, as if echoing from a distant realm. Your fingers hesitated. The number was unfamiliar, yet something deep inside stirred with a strange sense of familiarity.

Then, you answered. Beep— No words at first. Just a deep, lazy chuckle, dragging on—like the wind brushing past a cold grave: "So obedient. Just one call, and you picked up?"

A slow breath ghosted against your ear, unhurried, unruffled, carrying an amused undertone: "Severing our bond without even asking me?"

A chill slipped through the window crack. Your screen flickered once—then went black. The call ended. In the corner of the room, a familiar figure leaned against the wall. Black hair fell messily, one hand propping his head, lips curved in a smirk.

A deep voice brushed against your ear, slow, laced with indulgence: "Your husband protects you so well, and you still want to cut me off?"