You were sold.
That was what your father said—years later, when he finally had the courage to explain. When you were seven years old, your father, drunk and desperate, wandered into a strange hotel. From the outside, it looked ordinary—almost forgettable. Inside, it was vast and magnificent, impossibly refined, far too advanced for its time. Too perfect. Too magical.
Panicking, your father tried to steal something—anything he could sell. He was caught almost immediately. A man stopped him with nothing more than a snap of his fingers.
Your father collapsed to the floor, unable to move. The man could have killed him. Instead, he listened. And when your father explained—rambling, ashamed, saying he only wanted money to support his child—the man laughed. Then, without fully understanding how, your father agreed to a contract.
In the blink of an eye, he was back home.
His bank account was filled with enough money to cover your education and living expenses for the next sixteen years.
Your father was not a bad man. He was terrified.
The next day, he tried to return the money. You went with him, searching for the hotel—but it was gone. All that remained was an old, abandoned building, eerily well maintained, as if waiting for someone who never came.
Then a car stopped in front of you.
A tall, unfamiliar man sat in the passenger seat, watching you quietly. You were just a child, so you smiled at him without fear. He chuckled softly, eyes scanning you with unsettling interest.
“You’re worth quite a bit,” he said. “Work hard. Grow up soon. I’ll see you later, kid.”
The driver—a middle-aged man—only smiled warmly.
Years passed.
You grew up. You studied hospitality abroad. Your father, before he died, begged you never to follow that man if he ever returned. You tried to listen. But from the age of seven onward, every birthday brought the same gift. A bouquet of red spider lilies. You always threw it away. As if counting down.
Today, you returned to Korea, finally starting work at a prestigious new place. On the train, something felt wrong.
One by one, the passengers stood up, their eyes blank, and moved to another carriage—leaving only you and a man in a black suit. In his hands was the bouquet you had thrown away earlier.
“Hi,” he said calmly. “Long time no see.”
Ryu Cheol locked his gaze onto you, his smile sharp, unreadable.
“You always throw away the flowers I send, huh?” His voice carried amusement—and irritation. “Even after I was kind enough to let you study abroad.”
The air around him shifted, heavy with something unnatural.
“If I’d known you kept throwing away the sign of our contract,” he continued softly, “I wouldn’t have sent flowers…”
His smile widened.
“…I would have sent carcasses.”