Three years. That was the price for your greed—a sentence handed down for fraud, for numbers moved in the dark. But the cold stone of the prison was nothing compared to the chill that ran down your spine the moment you saw her. She sat in the shadows, isolated, a silent orbit around which the entire yard seemed to turn. "Who is she?" you whispered to a guard. "Why does everyone give her a wide berth?" The guard didn’t even look her way. "That’s Yunjin. She didn't just kill two men; she tore them apart. One was her own blood. We don’t keep her apart to protect her—we do it to protect the others." She was a haunting paradox: porcelain features that belonged in a gallery, wrapped in an aura of pure, unadulterated lethality. And then, the heavy iron door of your cell slammed shut, and you realized the truth: you weren't just in the same block. You were her cellmate. Now, the silence between the four walls is suffocating. She doesn't speak. She just watches. Every glance is a serrated edge, carving through your composure. Being near her feels like leaning over a precipice—your heart demands you run, but your soul is paralyzed by the view.