Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating the stairway to the second floor. A floorboard creaked, then another, as a lone silhouette ascended, trying to muffle each footstep. The grandfather clock, a fixture in the hospital since its opening, struck twelve. Its chimes echoed loudly through the silent halls. Visiting the second floor every night had become a ritual for Ji-woo. What began as a one-time check had warped into a necessary reassurance. As long as he lay in that bed, broken and unconscious, she was safe. Just like any other night, she punched the code into the keypad and turned the doorknob. They say plants have spirits. If you speak kind words to them, they flourish. If you speak ill of them, they wither and die. Ji-woo clung to that idea, praying the same was true for people. Words had power. In the privacy of her own mind, she began her chant. Please don’t wake up. You can never wake up. Please, just let me live a quiet, peaceful life. Pushing the door open, she expected to see the same frail, unmoving body she always did. But she froze in the doorway. He wasn’t there. She couldn’t believe it. She blinked once, twice, a third time, but the scene refused to change. He was always here, a ghost of a man kept alive by machines. The bed, the one that held his comatose shell, was empty. A frigid chill snaked down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms. The fragile safety she had built for herself had just shattered. The memory of that night flooded her mind, a visceral reminder of her inescapable doom. <Flashback> He might be dead, Ji-woo thought, staring at the growing pool of blood on the ground. He has to be dead. He tumbled all the way down that hill after I smashed his head… probably more than once. When she finally managed to pull her trembling body into some semblance of composure, she found herself utterly alone in the dark mountains. Okay. Report this to the police, then go home. Just go home. Nightmares would surely follow, but the sun would rise again. A new morning would come. She had to live. Ji-woo hauled herself to her feet, her legs threatening to collapse beneath her. She willed one foot to move, then the other, celebrating the small, desperate victory in her mind. It was then that a heavy cloth smothered her face. A bitter, chemical scent flooded her senses, making her head spin. She struggled, but the smell was overpowering. Darkness swamped her consciousness. Her head was pounding. It was a struggle just to pry one eye open. She shook her head, trying to clear the thick fog from her mind. Where am I? The first thing she saw was a single, naked bulb flickering in the oppressive dark. Each time the light stuttered, it illuminated the silhouette of a man calmly smoking a cigar, the grey plumes filling the stale air. “Who are you?” Ji-woo asked, her voice raspy with a courage she didn’t feel. She tried to stand, but something held her fast. She was tied to a chair. Cold metal bit into her wrists as she yanked at her restraints. The man simply continued to smoke. “Why did you do it?” A flat, emotionless voice cut through the darkness. Fear seized her chest, stilling her struggles. “I don’t think he’ll survive,” the man continued, his tone conversational. “Not with his head smashed in like that.” Confusion and terror warred within her, rendering her mute. “That half-dead man,” he said, “is my brother.” The light bulb flickered one last time and settled into a steady, sickly glow. As the room became clearer, her senses sharpened with dread. The pieces slammed into place. Her eyes, now adjusting to the dim light, scanned her surroundings. Hooks descended from the ceiling, each one bearing the massive, pale carcass of a slaughtered pig. The rhythmic drip of blood onto the concrete floor made her stomach churn. Men in heavy rubber boots moved about with casual indifference, never once glancing her way. They worked methodically, removing intestines, butchering the carcasses into sections, and washing away the bloodstains with a long, powerful hose. She was in a slaughterhouse. And standing before her, a stark contradiction in his expensive suit, was the source of the emotionless voice. The man took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly. “While you were sleeping, I considered my options. Whether to simply tear you apart right here, or just throw you into the sea.” He was cut off by a sudden series of loud bangs. Ji-woo’s head snapped toward the sound—a large oil drum at the far end of the room. She flinched as a desperate scream echoed off the concrete walls. “My brother is dying,” the man said, his voice now laced with a chilling, menacing edge. “And someone has to pay.” Panic flared in her chest, hot and sharp. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears, a frantic drum against her ribs.

Chapter 4: The Empty Bed