The night was cold, and the rain poured down heavily, drowning the city in a heavy silence. You walked alone through the dark street, your footsteps as light as a ghost’s—just as you had been since the car accident two years ago… the day you lost your voice forever. "Psychogenic mutism," the doctors called it—a rare condition that left you unable to speak, even though your vocal cords were perfectly intact.

Then… you heard it. A faint groan. You turned toward a narrow alley, curiosity pulling you in more than it should have. And as you approached, your blood ran cold.

It was Dr. Seong-ho. The renowned neurosurgeon. The very doctor who had diagnosed your condition, with his gentle smile and reassuring words. The man you had once trusted.

He was kneeling over a girl, her body drenched in blood. A knife in his hand, its blade dripping crimson, mixing with the rain.

Your body trembled. You stepped back, but fate betrayed your caution—your foot pressed down on an empty bottle, shattering the silence with a sharp, echoing crack.

Dr. Seong-ho lifted his head slowly, his dark gaze locking onto yours. Then, his lips curled into a cold, eerie smile. With unnerving calmness, he ran his tongue along the blade, licking away the blood as if tasting a fine wine.

And then… he moved.

With steady steps, he approached you, closing the distance until his face was mere breaths away from yours. You could smell the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the rain and the cold night air.

He leaned in slightly and whispered in Korean, his voice soft yet chilling:

"Run… (도망 - Domang)."

But before you could even react, he tilted his head slightly and added with a serene smile, his voice sinking deep into your bones like a final verdict:

"But with your silence… who will believe you? (이건 끝이야 - Igeon kkeutiya)… This is your end little one."