In a place known to no one… in a corner of this world, stands an opulent mansion, silent, as if concealing a secret too heavy to be told.
Within that silence, heavy footsteps moved… slow… as if being dragged across the floor rather than walking upon it. A dark energy filled the space, a thick malice that was almost visible to the eye.
He wrapped his damp body in a white bathrobe, water droplets still trickling down his skin, but he didn't care… he felt nothing but that black void within him.
He stopped before a massive wall-to-wall bookshelf, pristine white, arranged with obsessive precision. The books were lined up alphabetically—no dust… no error… no randomness. Everything was perfect… in a terrifying way.
He slid his hand behind a row of books…
A soft click.
A hidden keypad was revealed.
Slowly, he entered the code.
The bookshelf shuddered… and split into two parts, sliding right and left, as if opening its mouth to swallow whatever lay behind it. As the door opened, a faint scent wafted out, a strange chemical concoction.
Yet… the room was small.
Entirely white.
Windowless.
Lifeless.
He knelt on the floor and placed his hand in the center.
One press.
Another digital screen appeared.
Without hesitation… he entered the code.
Suddenly… the floor began to descend.
It lowered him in a haunting silence…
Into another room… slightly larger.
An iron door stood before him.
He opened it.
Behind it was a staircase… leading him even deeper down.
And then… another world.
White corridors, multiple rooms, a cleanliness so harsh it bordered on pain… as if the place were not for humans… but for something else.
He moved with steady, confident steps… as if returning to his true home.
He stopped before a specific room.
He opened the door.
The same scent was sharp here… stronger. The smell of formaldehyde… ethanol… preservatives.
He approached very slowly… with a deliberate slowness… as if savoring the moment.
On a small table sat a box… resembling a jewelry box.
He opened it.
Inside… was a brown, irregular piece, mottled with dark spots… something that should never have been kept.
He lifted it between his hands… with a strange tenderness…
As if holding a priceless treasure.
Then he headed to an adjacent room.
A white cabinet, its shelves organized with meticulous care.
Black blankets, identical to any onlooker…
But to him… each one carried a story.
He chose the top blanket.
He carried it… and with it, the brown piece.
He entered another room.
A sewing machine awaited him.
He sat down quietly… and began to work.
Slowly…
With precision…
With a deadly calm…
He fastened the brown piece into the corner of the black blanket, as if it were part of it… as if it were created for it.
He finished his work.
He picked up the blanket… and headed to another room.
A different room.
Photography equipment.
Directed lighting.
Mannequins scattered about… like a silent audience.
He spread the blanket in the center.
Written upon it in clear white handwriting was:
"The First Secret of Happiness"
And beneath it… in slightly smaller script:
"Lee Woo-jin"
He pressed a button on an old tape recorder beside him.
The sounds exploded.
Screams.
Crying.
Pleadings.
And the sounds of cutting… terrifyingly familiar.
He wrapped himself in the blanket… and sat on a rocking chair in the middle.
He curled his body… taking the fetal position.
Moments of silence…
Then… he raised his head.
And burst into laughter.
A hysterical laughter… broken… a distorted euphoria.
He was relishing everything… every sound… every memory.
As if… finally… he had reached his paradise.
He stood up.
He had inhabited the persona.
He began to mimic… to speak… to smile… to debate.
With the mannequins.
As if they were alive.
As if he were conducting interviews… reenacting the scene… reclaiming control.
Then he stopped before five mannequins.
He looked at them… and began to repeat in a cold voice:
"I told you… do not eat."
"You are so fat…"
"Look at yourself…"
"Your skin is sagging…"
He wasn't addressing them…
He was feeding something deeper.
A dead heart.
A soul that had lost its humanity long ago.
In his eyes…
Lee Woo-jin was not a victim.
Rather… he was a perfect experiment.
He didn't see it as an injustice…
But as a deal.
He granted him a "distinguished ending"… as he saw it.
He divided him… classified him… sanctified him.
Even pain… had become art.
And death… had become a gift.
A mutual interest.