The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway didn't just flicker; they screamed. To Kang Jun-ho, every hum of the building's generator felt like a serrated blade pressing against his temples. His vision was a blurred mess of sterile white and clinical grey, but his heart—that magnetic, frantic pull—was pointing him toward Room 402.
Seo-ah.
He didn't know why her name felt like a prayer and a curse at the same time. He didn't remember the sound of her laugh or the way she looked when she was angry, but he remembered the feeling of her hand slipping through his as the Mercedes-Maybach spun out on the Mapo Bridge. He remembered the rain. He remembered the screams.
"Sir! You shouldn't be out of bed!" a nurse shouted, her voice sounding like it was underwater.
Jun-ho didn't stop. He couldn't. His left leg was a pillar of white-hot agony, and his hospital gown was damp with cold sweat, but he shoved past the rolling carts and the startled visitors. He reached the door of 402, his fingers trembling as they curled around the handle.
Please. Just let her be there.
He swung the door open.
The silence that met him was louder than the sirens on the bridge.
The bed was stripped. The monitors were dark, their screens reflecting nothing but Jun-ho's own hollow, bandaged face. The small vase of wilting lilies he had seen through the window earlier was gone, replaced by the sharp, suffocating scent of industrial bleach.
"Where is she?" Jun-ho's voice was a ghost of itself. He turned to the head nurse who had finally caught up to him. "The girl in 402. Lee Seo-ah. Where is she?"
"Mr. Kang, please, we need to get you back to the VIP wing—"
"Where is she?!" he roared, the force of it sent a fresh wave of nausea through his gut.
"She was... she was transferred, sir," the nurse stammered, looking at her clipboard with wide eyes. "Her family... well, a representative came. About twenty minutes ago."
"Transferred where? She has amnesia! She can't even remember her own name!"
"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information, Jun-ho."
The voice came from the end of the hallway. It was calm. It was expensive. It was the sound of someone who had never lost a day of sleep over another person's pain.
Jun-ho turned, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the doorframe for support. Standing there, silhouetted against the afternoon sun pouring through the corridor windows, was the man from the "other" world. He wore a suit that probably cost more than the hospital wing itself, his hair perfectly slicked back despite the chaos of the morning.
"You," Jun-ho hissed. He didn't remember the man's name, but he remembered the hatred. It was a deep, ancestral loathing that lived in his marrow.
"Me," the man replied, stepping forward. His shoes clicked against the linoleum like a ticking clock. "You really are a cockroach, aren't you? A Maybach crushed into a literal cube, and you're walking the halls looking for a makeup artist."
"Where did you take her?" Jun-ho took a limping step forward. "She's hurt. She's scared."
The antagonist stopped just inches from Jun-ho. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Jun-ho could hear. "She's gone, Jun-ho. Somewhere you can't reach. Somewhere your 'emotional intelligence'—or lack thereof—can't hurt her anymore. I told the doctors she's a flight risk. I told her family you were the one who tried to kill her on that bridge."
Jun-ho's fist swung before he could think. It was a desperate, weak blow, fueled by nothing but raw heartbreak. The man caught it easily, twisting Jun-ho's wrist until the stitches in his arm threatened to pop.
"Look at you," the man sneered, shoving Jun-ho back toward the empty room. "You're a ghost. You're a memory. If you try to find her, if you even whisper her name in this city again, I won't just move her to another hospital. I'll make sure she forgets you ever existed—permanently."
Security guards rounded the corner, their heavy boots thudding.
"Get him back to his room," the antagonist commanded, adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just destroyed a man's world. "He's clearly hallucinating from the trauma."
As the guards grabbed Jun-ho's arms, the world began to tilt. He didn't fight them. He couldn't. His eyes were locked on the empty bed of Room 402.
He had escaped the crash. He had survived the bridge. But as the heavy doors of the VIP wing locked behind him, Kang Jun-ho realized the real nightmare was just beginning. He was alive, but the only reason he wanted to live had vanished into the grey Seoul fog.
I will find you, Seo-ah, he vowed silently, the darkness finally claiming his vision. Even if I have to burn this city down to do it.... Jun-ho collapsed against the doorframe of the empty Room 402. The guards were closing in, their heavy boots echoing like a death march. He didn't care. His eyes were fixed on the bedside table where Seo-ah had been just an hour ago.
Among the scent of bleach and the coldness of the room, something caught the light.
A small, silver butterfly hair clip. It was tucked into the crevice of the mattress, likely forgotten in the rush as Myung-hoon's men dragged her out.
With a surge of desperation, Jun-ho lunged forward, his fingers scraping against the metal as he snatched it. He pressed the cold silver into his palm, the sharp edges digging into his skin.
I have you. I still have a piece of you.
"Get him!" the lead guard barked.
Jun-ho felt hands grab his shoulders, pulling him away from the only evidence that Seo-ah had ever existed. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild, locking onto Choi Myung-hoon one last time.
Myung-hoon didn't even look back. He was busy wiping a microscopic speck of dust off his watch, his voice echoing coldly through the hall. "Clear the records. As of today, Lee Seo-ah was never a patient at this hospital. And if this... cockroach... tries to speak her name again, show him what happens to people who forget their place."
As the guards dragged Jun-ho toward the heavy double doors of the VIP psych-ward, the world began to blur into a haze of white and grey. The physical pain was nothing compared to the void in his chest.
He didn't know where she was. He didn't know if she would ever remember him.
But as the heavy iron doors slammed shut—CLANG—locking him away from the world, Jun-ho felt a strange, cold clarity wash over him. The amnesia was fading, replaced by a singular, burning purpose.
He looked at the silver butterfly in his hand.
Wait for me, Seo-ah, he whispered into the darkness of the isolation room. I don't care if it takes a year, or a lifetime. I'm coming to take back what he stole.
Outside, the rain on the Mapo Bridge continued to wash away the wreckage of the Maybach, but in the heart of the city, a new storm was brewing.