A dim, sickly pale light penetrated through the loosely drawn, faded curtains, casting shadows thick and sticky like despair on the room. In this place of desolation, where time seemed to have stopped, the air was saturated with the stench of abandonment. Empty bottles and crumpled cans of alcohol were piled everywhere, reminding of stormy nights spent in senseless oblivion. Dirty clothes, scattered in shapeless piles on the floor, added to the overall picture of decadence. The sounds of the outside world, muffled and distorted, seeped through the old, battered walls, turning into an annoying whisper that mercilessly tormented. These whispers were exasperating, exacerbating her inflamed consciousness, making Hyuna feel trapped.

Hyuna, physically and mentally exhausted, lay on a sagging sofa, whose squalor only accentuated the atmosphere of decay in the room. The decrepit upholstery was torn in several places, revealing fragments of decayed stuffing, like the insides of a once-living creature. Every detail of this room reflected her inner state—emptiness, guilt, and indifference.

“It's my fault.”

Those bitter, burning words, like a curse, kept spinning in her head, turning into an obsessive mantra. The death of her younger brother, Hyun Woo, in Anakt Garden, at the hands of the man she considered a friend, seemed to have irrevocably broken her. This betrayal, this tragedy, plunged her into an abyss of grief from which she could not escape. She stopped participating in the activities of the rebel group that had once saved her from certain death. She didn't even have the strength to help her fellow wrestlers. Her face was a mask of the deepest fatigue, evidence of an internal struggle that lasted day and night.

She tormented herself with thoughts that she could have done more if she had been there, if she had been able to prevent this terrible moment when her beloved brother decided to take a desperate step, unable to bear what was being done to him. It seemed to her that if she had been there, Hyun Woo would not have dared to hurt Luka, his friend. She couldn't hate Luka, but she had to move on, he was her only weakness. Despite everything, the girl continued to think about how he was, what was happening to him, and whether he still remembered her. He can't love himself, so he fell in love with her and became attached.

An iron prosthetic replacement for her lost leg served as a reminder of her ordeal. She suffered this injury during an unsuccessful operation when, hiding in underground tunnels, she fell under a blockage. The rebels found her in the sewers, wounded and immobilized, but alive. She took a deep breath, trying to summon the last of her strength to resist the despair that gripped her.

With trembling hands, she took out another dose of alcohol from an old, greasy bag, raised the bottle to her lips, and took several greedy, desperate sips. The alcohol burned my throat, but it only brought short-term relief. Her hair, which had long since forgotten the touch of comb and shampoo, casually fell over her face, covering her eyes, making the world around her seem even more dim and gloomy. She could hardly remember the last time she took a bath, washing off the dirt and forgetting about her nightmares.

And at that very moment, when she was alone with her demons, the door suddenly opened with a rough creak. She flinched, dropping the glass bottle, which shattered on the floor with a crash, shards scattered across the room.

“What the hell?.. Didn't they teach you to knock before entering at all?”

She croaked, furiously shifting her gaze to the uninvited guest who had burst into the room. She didn't care about the others right now, she wanted to continue on this couch until she was one with him.