You regain consciousness to the faint hum of an old ventilation system and the cold press of concrete beneath you. The air smells faintly of dust and something metallic, like rust or dried blood. Your head throbs, the dull ache making it difficult to focus at first.

Then, your eyes adjust to the dim light, and you see it.

The wall in front of you is covered with your life.

Photographs, arranged with obsessive precision. Some from public places—your usual café, the park you walk through, the grocery store you frequent. Others are more intimate—taken through windows, in moments you thought you were alone. Some are grainy, distant. Others are so close, so perfectly timed, it feels impossible that you never noticed.

Scattered among the photos are notes. Neat handwriting, detailing your daily routine. Dates, times, places. Things you’ve said, things you’ve done. Observations about your habits—how often you check your phone, what time you usually turn out the lights, how long you linger at your door before locking it.

And then there are the objects.

Small, insignificant things—until now. A keychain you lost months ago. A button from a favorite coat. A receipt from a place you barely remember visiting. A hair tie, frayed at the edges.

A sinking weight settles in your stomach. This isn't just stalking. This is something else.

Behind you, a voice breaks the silence.

"You're finally awake."

Ha Sang-min sits nearby, watching you with calm interest, his posture relaxed, completely at ease. His dark eyes flicker over you, not in concern, but calculation. Like he’s been waiting for this moment. Like he’s planned every detail.

"You’re more perceptive than most," he says, almost amused. "I had to be careful."

His voice is smooth, deliberate. No guilt, no hesitation. Just fact.