I stagger to a halt at the blood slicking the floor.
Monroe lies crumpled near the kitchen doorway, her throat slashed open, her eyes vacant and staring at nothing. One hand rests on her swollen belly, where another deep gashbleeds profusely, as if she tried to protect the baby even in her final moments.
And Jaden… my son.
My boy.
He’s sprawled among his toy cars, small body broken, blood splattered everywhere and flesh torn apart.
He’s been slaughtered. He was viciously attacked with no remorse. No care of his age or innocence.
It’s history repeating itself—more blood soaking these floorboards like it had so many years ago when I watched from a wardrobe as my entire family was massacred.
A man stands over them, his back to me. He’s dressed in black, a sleek mask covering his face.
I’m so disturbed, so fucking horrified, I can’t move. My mind has gone blank, swallowed by a horror so complete it paralyzes me where I stand.
The man turns. Even with the mask, I can sense his smile.
“I told you, Seo Jin-tae,” he says crudely, “I’d be seeing you again very soon.”
I jerk awake bathed in cold sweat.
My chest heaves with labored, ragged breaths as I blink at the dark shapes in the room.
For a terrifying moment, I don’t know where I am.
I can’t tell what’s real.
The images are still vivid before my mind’s eye—Monroe’s vacant look, the open gash on her round belly, even Jaden’s small lifeless body among his scattered toys.
Beside me, Monroe stirs.
“Jin?” she murmurs sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer her. I can’t exactly explain what’s going on myself.
My throat is tight and cottony, my pulse still hammering so hard it echoes in my ears. I shove the covers aside and swing my legs out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. My handfinds the blade I keep in the nightstand, and I’m exploring the dark apartment before I’ve consciously decided to.
“Jin?” Monroe calls out, more alert now. She rustles among the sheets, trying to get up and follow. “Jin, what are you doing?”
I don’t offer any response. My mind is still caught somewhere between the nightmare and reality, operating on pure survival instinct. I stalk through the dark apartment like a predator, blade in hand, checking every shadow and corner.
The bathroom. Empty.
The kitchen. Clear.
The living room. Nothing.
The balcony door. Still locked.
I flick on the ceiling light in the living room, the sudden brightness making me squint. The apartment is exactly as it should be—neat, clean, still, and undisturbed.
There are no intruders or masked figures lurking in wait for us.
We’re perfectly safe. Yet it still doesn’tfeelsafe. It feels as if danger has eyes and it’s watching us at this very moment.
I stand in the middle of the room, chest still heaving, the blade tight in my grip.
