In a dim corner of Lee Minsoo's house—where the walls breathed the scent of stale coffee and the dust of electronic devices—Park Minsoo sat alone in his private studio. The faint glow of the computer screen cast shifting shadows across his pale face, while blue sound waves flickered restlessly before his weary eyes.
He was working on a track for the group's new album, but it was no ordinary song; it felt more like an unfinished confession. He pressed play, and his voice flowed through the large speakers, heavy with a broken undertone:
"O time… don't betray me, don't betray me."
"Please… just tell me the truth."
"Everything around me seems happy… so happy."
"Even faded smiles… exhaust me."
"I'm lost… in a pink-tinted world."
"My memories are fading… like a shattered dream."
"Every time I try to grasp them… they slip away further."
"But… why don't those feelings reach my chest?"
"Why do I remain empty… despite all this beauty?"
"This pain… is suffocating me slowly."
"Whenever I push it away… it returns."
"In another form… with a face I don't recognize."
"My cold heart… that has lost all feeling."
"Why does it still beat? Why does it still hurt?"
"Am I the problem?"
"Or is the world… tilted around me?"
"O time… don't betray me this time."
"Be fair to me… please."
"Was I the one who broke everything?"
"Or was I merely… the victim?"
"Before I lose myself completely… inside myself."
"Tell me… who am I?"
The recording stopped.
A suffocating silence settled over the room, broken only by the low hum of electrical devices. Minsoo replayed the track over and over, tension tightening in his veins with every note. There was a gap—something hollow, a dark void in the melody, or perhaps within his soul itself, something words could not fill.
"There's something wrong… something completely missing, but I can't grasp it," he whispered, his voice echoing as though from the depths of a well.
He scratched his scalp harshly, then dragged his hands over his face, trying to dispel the fog clouding his mind. Rising with heavy steps—as if dragging invisible chains—he made his way to the kitchen.
He prepared a cup of black coffee. Its bitter aroma was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Back in the studio, he placed the headphones firmly over his ears, sipping the coffee as he stared at the screen. Then suddenly, something metallic caught his eye behind the computer—half-buried beneath a tangle of wires.
Slowly, he reached out and picked it up.
The blood in his veins froze.
It was the same strange necklace—the one bearing a twisted "W."
In that instant, his mind exploded with a flood of horrifying images, as though a dam of oblivion had suddenly burst. These were not mere memories—they were violent sensations: the screech of an electric saw tearing through flesh and wood alike, its piercing sound merging with the relentless pounding of heavy rain against a metal roof. And in the background, his song—"O Time, Don't Betray Me"—played like a funeral chorus.
The face of Lee Woojin, the famous broadcaster, emerged vividly before his eyes.
He remembered.
The dressing room before the interview.
The moment he had reached out, with childlike curiosity, to touch the necklace hanging from Woojin's neck, admiring its unique design.
The necklace slipped from his trembling hand and struck the floor with a metallic clang that echoed in his ears like thunder.
He wiped his hands frantically against his shirt, as though invisible blood stained his fingers. His entire body trembled violently, his breaths shallow and uneven.
"It's Woojin's necklace… it's the same one," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Doubt seeped into him like a slow poison.
His trust in himself had already been shattered over the years—fractured by missing time and lost memories. A bitter question took root in his mind:
Was he the killer?
Was he that monster he saw in his hallucinations—where everything was drenched in blood?
His mind, which had mastered the art of erasing entire fragments of his past… wouldn't it be capable of erasing a few hours of the present as well?
His memory had become an "expert" at cleaning the crime scene inside his own head—leaving him drowning in endless confusion, wondering whether he was the victim of this story…
—or the executioner hiding behind an innocent face.
Outside the room, heavy rain began to pound violently against the windows.
Reality and hallucination blurred together.
And the sound of the electric saw in his head became something he could no longer escape.