𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 2

The lights of Busan had long vanished, their neon glow replaced by shadows as deep as the ache in your chest.

You'd been driving for what felt like hours now, the car slicing through the dark countryside as the road stretched on, narrow and winding, each turn taking you further from the life you thought you'd understood.

The only light came from the faint glow of the dashboard, casting shades of blue and green across your face. The gentle hum of the engine filled the silence, occasionally interrupted by your shaky breaths, remnants of tears still lingering in your eyes, raw and red.

Every mile you put between yourself and the city felt like a sloughing off of old skin, each bend in the road loosening memories that had once seemed as solid as stone. But despite the distance, the ache in your chest remained—a quiet, insistent reminder of all you had lost and of all that, somehow, had never really belonged to you in the first place.

You blinked against the night, trying to clear the image that kept resurfacing: Hoseok and Nali, faces you'd loved, twisted by betrayal.

Hoseok's hand brushing against yours at parties, Nali's laugh over shared coffee, the comfort she'd offered you on endless, late-night calls. You'd believed in the closeness you had with them, a closeness that had felt like family. And yet, here you were, running from that very bond, from the people you'd trusted most.

"Why?" you'd demanded hours before, your voice cracking with disbelief. "Why would you throw everything away?"

Nali hadn't said a word, her gaze downcast, shame and something else flickering across her face—something that almost resembled fear. Beside her, Hoseok had looked away, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

Not once did he look at you, and somehow, that small act of avoidance hurt more than any betrayal, driving a wedge deeper than words could reach.

Alone in the car, a fragile resolve built in your chest. "They're not worth this," you whispered to yourself, a silent mantra swallowed by the darkness.

You wouldn't cry anymore—not for them, not for people who had clearly made their choices. Not tonight, and not ever again.

The lights of the city had faded, and in their place lay an open stretch of countryside, sprawling fields and patches of forest bathed in moonlight.

You rolled the window down, letting the crisp night air rush in, cool and bracing against your face.

There was something comforting about the emptiness around you, about the way the darkness held no expectation, no accusation. It felt like the world was inviting you to let go, just for tonight.

Your aunt's house hovered in your mind, a distant memory wrapped in fragments of family stories and old photographs. It had always been a place you thought of in terms of legend—a house that seemed alive with history, a place that carried a certain mystery, even in the daylight.

When you were younger, you'd heard bits and pieces about it: tales whispered over dinner, rumors of strange happenings, stories of distant relatives who had lived there, their lives entangled with the house as if it were an unseen, silent character. Now, it was the only place you could imagine going, the only place that felt safe, even though you hadn't been there in years.

Finally, the driveway stretched out before you, the road narrowing as it wound through a row of towering trees, their branches arching over you like guardians.

The house loomed ahead, its stone walls gleaming faintly under the moonlight, a silhouette against the star-studded sky. Ivy clung to the walls, curling up toward the windows like a silent embrace.