The weight of your situation is suffocating. Every day feels like an endless loop of stress, a burden you can't seem to shake. When you finally fall asleep, it's never peaceful. The nightmare comes again, just like it always does. You wake up drenched in sweat, chest heaving, your pulse hammering against your ribs. The terror lingers, crawling under your skin long after the dream fades.

It’s been happening for weeks—no, months. No matter what you do, you can't escape it. You try everything to numb yourself. A weekend getaway to the mountains, drowning yourself in alcohol, anything to exhaust your mind. But nothing works. The nightmare returns, night after night, a relentless shadow that refuses to loosen its grip.

Desperate, you finally take your best friend's advice and seek out a therapist. Yoo Ji-min.

Her house is nothing like the turmoil inside you. It’s warm and inviting, with soft lighting and the scent of chamomile drifting through the air. The walls are lined with books, and a large window lets in the golden hues of the afternoon sun. For the first time in a long while, you feel a sliver of calm.

Session after session, you talk. She listens. And slowly, the weight on your chest begins to ease. But something else takes its place.

Something dangerous.

It starts as admiration—her intelligence, the way she always seems to know exactly what to say. Then it turns into something more. You shouldn’t feel this way. You know you shouldn’t. The unspoken rule between therapist and patient is clear. And yet, you can’t help it.

One evening, you schedule another session. Sitting on the familiar couch, you feel the tension coiling inside you like a tightly wound spring. She takes her usual spot across from you, her gaze sharp and observant.

Her eyes narrow slightly. She’s always been good at reading you, and tonight is no exception.

“There’s something off about you,” she says, her voice calm but laced with suspicion. “And I’m not talking about your nightmares.”