The Wizard’s hands and feet were still untied, and his head wasn’t covered with a sack or anything. So, maybe he could still escape by trying out different codes, right? Seojun hoped he could get out first, call 911, and report the kidnapping. Still, it was always wise to hear someone out, even if they weren’t speaking in Korean.

The voice that cut through the dead silence of the courtroom was far from human, amplifying the eerie stillness that gripped the room. Seojun’s room had no windows, its heavy doors locked tight, trapping him in a suffocating, claustrophobic space. The air was thick and cold, buzzing with a sense of dread you could almost touch.

Click, click. Click, click... The grating sound of metal scraping against metal, followed by a soft rustling, assaulted Seojun’s ears. Every inch of his body ached—neck, shoulders, back, waist, arms, legs—there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t in pain. His throat was parched, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. His eyelids were heavy and gritty, and his chest was so tight that even breathing had become a struggle. When he tried to move, his joints groaned like rusty machinery in desperate need of oil.

Johan, thankfully, was strapped in tight. His seatbelt dug into him as the car fishtailed, saving him from a smashing into the dashboard. He gripped the wheel, knuckles bone-white, wrestling the car back under control. Outside, the world was a dizzying blur, his mind a scrambled mess of thoughts.

Tim swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in a storm. It was a dead giveaway that he was nothing like the vengeful ghost, Timothy, from his made up chilling tale. Johan’s words tightened around his throat, choking the air from his lungs like an invisible hand.

The initial shock faded, replaced by a crushing wave of terror. The body, broken and bleeding, spasmed and gurgled in a growing pool of blood. Tim’s eyes darted wildly around. Was anyone else out here? Had anyone seen the horrifying thing he’d done? But the only answer was the rustling of leaves, a detached whisper in the wind that felt utterly disconnected from the turmoil inside him.

Johan ran a gloved hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. The old leather work gloves from Christina’s toolbox were a perfect fit. He eyed the cleared road with a satisfied nod.

The Hamon convenience store’s reputation went up in flames the very night its owners, the Frank brothers, went from friendly faces in the community to infamous serial killers known nationwide. With no family to speak of besides each other, no one in their right mind wanted to inherit their tainted business.