At first, it was just sound. Ragged, desperate gasps reaching through the fog in Seojun’s brain. Each rattling breath sounded like a damn battle for survival, as if it might be someone’s last. The floor beneath him buzzed – a low, constant hum that vibrated right into his bones.
Camry and Leimia were going a mile a minute, practically tripping over their words gushing about this “hot, cool, and fresh” woman. Even Camry, who usually came across as reserved, was just as fired up as Leimia.
Oliver froze mid-reach, his bandaged hand hanging in the air, before quickly pulling it back. The moment his eyes landed on Seojun’s gloves, his hesitation vanished. Those small, pale green eyes narrowed with suspicion, the wariness so blatant it almost stung.
The room was a mess. So dark you could barely make out your own hand in front of your face. Trash and junk were scattered everywhere, making it a miracle you didn’t trip over something with every step. It looked like no one had lifted a finger to clean the place in years
Because Seojun’s arm was still outstretched, reaching for the teddy bear, the table’s sudden lurch sent his elbow slamming into its edge. A sharp jolt of pain zapped through him, that distinct, electrifying sensation where pain radiates into a weird, full-body experience.
Wasn’t that social media app Florence was always glued to also called White Star? Come to think of it, it was.
After breaking up with Gilbert, Florence had developed this odd habit of bugging Seojun to pick the best photo from her phone gallery.
For a second, Seojun’s heart skipped a beat, like a record skipping and landing on an eerie note. His stomach clenched, a knot of anxiety tightening with each passing moment. Through the dusty truck window, a face stared back at him… Camry’s face, or an unnervingly close copy.
It was the dead of night. Inky darkness pressed against the windows like black tar, seeping through every crack of the rundown house—if you could even call it that.
Johan straightened up from his hunched position over the low desk, his shoulders catching the faint, pale-blue hallway light that slipped through the cracked door like frost. The room was all sharp angles and harsh lines, shadows slicing through it like surgical blades, stripping it of any warmth or humanity.
Seojun felt a sharp, electrifying thrill race down his spine, igniting every nerve. His heart pounded so loudly it felt like it might burst free. Sweat slicked his palms as he gripped his arm, desperate to quell the tremors wracking his body. The sensation was familiar. A dizzying rush that both exhilarated and terrified him. It was a feeling that could make him scream with excitement or tear the world apart just to savor its intensity. But freedom wasn’t his. Not yet.
Seojun’s feet moved forward on their own, like a ghost had taken control of them, pulling him along without a care for what he wanted. The door creaked open, its rusty hinges groaning into the silence.
The CCTV camera’s lens shone with an obsessively polished gleam, reflecting a pair of dark, pitch-black eyes. If the camera had been installed after the typhoon, that left a new troubling question: