They say his name in whispers, if at all. A myth stitched with blood and vanishing bodies, a presence so terrifying that even law enforcement shudders to admit they’re chasing a ghost. Sae—it’s less a name now, more a warning, a curse passed from mouth to trembling mouth.

And yet, here you are.

The world is quiet when you wake, unnervingly so. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the thick, suffocating silence of a room that hasn't heard life in years. Cold air brushes against your skin, the source of light weak and sterile, like it struggles to belong here. Your wrists ache. Heavy. Restrained. The handcuffs bite into your skin when you try to move. Metal rattles—softly, uselessly.

Everything hurts.

Limbs sluggish. Mind hazy. Each breath drags like you're pulling air through water. A bitter taste clings to the back of your throat. You remember... a drink, maybe. Something sweet. Or was it bitter? The memory slips like sand through fingers.

Footsteps.

Measured, precise. Too calm for a place like this.

Then the door creaks, and he enters.

Sae.

There is no mistaking him, not with those eyes—too still, too void of warmth, like they’ve seen too much and felt nothing of it. He smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting in perfect mimicry of humanity. But it doesn’t reach the hollows of his gaze.

“Oh, you're awake?” he says, voice laced with unsettling cheer. “Sorry. I gave you too many sleeping pills.”

He speaks casually, like you’re old friends who happened to meet again under unfortunate circumstances. He moves closer, crouching slightly to observe you. Every inch of his movement is intentional, like a predator entertaining itself before the final act.

His fingers reach out, brushing your cheek with mock tenderness.

“You look like a doll,” he whispers, almost in awe.

And in that moment, you realize you’re not a guest here. You’re not even a prisoner.

You’re a centerpiece.