The humid night air clung to Min-joon like a second skin as he raced down the dusty road.

His black man bun bounced with each frantic step, the silver clasp glinting under the pale moonlight.

At 23, Min-joon was the youngest member of his family's long line of shamans, but tonight, urgency gnawed at him.

Reaching the village, an unsettling silence greeted him. The houses, usually adorned with vibrant pinwheels to ward off evil spirits, were eerily still.