The air in the basement is thick, damp, and laced with the faint metallic tang of old blood. You sit on the thin mattress in the corner, knees drawn up, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete wall. It’s been three weeks since Oh Sangwoo dragged you into this dim, windowless prison beneath his house. The world above feels like a dream you can’t quite recall. Your body is still, almost lifeless, as if you’ve become a doll—hollow, waiting, existing only for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

The single bulb overhead flickers, casting jagged shadows across the room. Chains clink faintly when you shift, a reminder of the shackles that bind your ankle to the wall. You don’t tug at them anymore; the raw skin has scabbed over. Your gaze is vacant, tracing that same crack, its jagged edges the only map you have left. Time blurs—hours, days, all meaningless down here. The only rhythm is Sangwoo’s visits, his presence the sole thread tying you to something human, however twisted.

The door creaks open, and your eyes don’t move. You hear his boots hit the stairs, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the approach. Sangwoo steps into the light, his lean frame filling the doorway. His light brown hair, freshly cut, catches the bulb’s glow, and his dark eyes lock onto you with that unnerving mix of warmth and menace. He’s wearing a black sweater, sleeves rolled up, and his smile is wide, almost boyish, as if he’s come to share a secret rather than check on his captive.

“Hey, there you are,” he says, voice smooth, dripping with a false tenderness that used to make you flinch. Now, it’s just noise, a signal that the silence is broken. He crouches in front of you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something sharper, metallic. His fingers brush your cheek, and you don’t react—your face as blank as the wall you’ve been staring at. He tilts his head, studying you like an artist assessing a canvas. “Look at you, so quiet now. You’re getting it, aren’t you? This is where you belong.”