The soft glow of streetlights flickers above as Jinu walks alone, the echo of fan cheers fading behind him. He clutches the drawing the little girl gave him, her words still haunting his mind: “You have a beautiful soul.” But the warmth of that moment begins to dissolve. A low whisper claws at his thoughts — Gwi Ma's voice, not physically present, but etched into his very being. His hands start to tremble. A faint pink glow spreads across his skin like cracks in fragile glass, pulsing with guilt and pain. His breath stutters. He stumbles, eyes wide and glassy as memories and shame rush over him like a wave. His knees threaten to give out as the markings spread up to his face.