The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Inside the elegant countryside home, everything was in perfect order. Shoes lined up precisely by the door. Knives gleaming on their magnetic rack. Not a single thing out of place.

Baek Hee-sung sat at the kitchen table, a glass of red wine untouched in front of him. The wine was only for appearances. He never drank. He didn’t like to lose control.

A slow smile curled at the corner of his lips as he stared at the far wall — at nothing.

The living room smelled of polished wood and expensive soap. A faint trace of metal still lingered in the air, like a memory refusing to fade.

He rose from the chair without a sound, barefoot steps muffled by the rich flooring. Down the hallway, he passed closed doors. One of them was locked. Always locked.

He paused there for a second, fingers grazing the doorknob. Then moved on.

In the basement, the light flickered. Not that it bothered him. Shadows didn’t scare him. He was more comfortable in them.

He stood in front of a large mirror — simple, clean. He stared at his own reflection for a long time. Then, slowly, he tilted his head. As if seeing something the rest of the world couldn’t.

A man who wore masks so well… even he started forgetting what was underneath.

He reached for his gloves, pulling them on carefully. One finger at a time. Like a ritual.

The silence felt heavier now. Tighter.

He turned on the old phonograph in the corner. Classical music filtered into the air, soft, haunting.

And just like that, the house no longer felt like a home.

It felt like what it truly was.

A stage.