Chanting echoed through the dense, blackened forest.
A crescent moon hung above like a crooked smile, casting pale light between the gnarled branches. A woman cloaked in a robe the color of dried blood and embers moved with purpose through the clearing. Her eyes burned with desperate conviction, and in her trembling hand was a rusted ceremonial knife—its blade ancient, pitted, and heavy with unspoken sin.
She knelt before a sleeping infant nestled atop a stone altar, its innocent breaths soft against the cold night air.
"With this child, I offer my offspring to the unholy ones," she whispered, her voice thick with grief and madness. "Grant me what I desire…"
She raised the knife.
Just as the blade began to descend, the world fractured into smoke—
—and the harsh, shrill beep of an alarm clock dragged Shan Wolf from the nightmare.
He jolted upright in bed, breath heavy, forehead damp. For a moment, the ceiling fan spun above like the blades of a guillotine.
"Hnnn… sigh…" he murmured, running a hand through his thick black hair before groggily swinging his legs off the mattress. His apartment was small, just barely lit by the soft glow bleeding through beige curtains. Sterile. Lifeless. Like a waiting room in hell.
He shuffled to the bathroom. The toothpaste was bitter. The water from the shower lukewarm and barely comforting. After dressing in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, he grabbed a buttered toast—half-burnt—and scarfed it down with mechanical efficiency.
As he reached for the door, he stopped.
"Shit, almost forgot my ID badge," he muttered, snatching the lanyard off the coat hanger.
The plastic card bore his name: Shan Wolf.
Nationality: Malaysia.
Race: Hindu.
Age: 25.
Transferred from: Malaysia to Korea.
Department: Investor Relations (IR), Won Group.
He looped the badge around his neck, checked the lock on his door, and exited the apartment.
Outside, Seoul's morning haze blurred the skyline into a watercolor painting. A corporate jungle of steel and glass. The city was alive, but indifferent.
The name Won Group gleamed proudly atop a skyscraper like a monument to capitalism. An investment and trading conglomerate that chewed through dreams and spat out numbers.
Shan had been here two years. No one really knew why he transferred. No one asked. No one cared.
He had adapted quickly. Learned Korean, dressed the part, walked the walk. But still… he didn't belong. Not really. There was a stiffness to how people greeted him. A hidden sneer behind polite smiles. He was the foreigner. The odd one out.
He took his seat in the Investment Department, settling into his chair with a weary exhale.
"MR. WOLF!"
The screech came sharp and sudden.
Rae Yoorin.
She was standing by the copier, glaring daggers his way. Mid-twenties, stylish, full of sass—and a constant source of Shan's professional misery. She worked in the same department and often took her frustrations out on him, loudly. Today was no different.
Some of the workers laughed quietly behind their hands. Others simply glanced away.
During the break, Shan slipped away to the vending machine in the hallway and bought an iced coffee. The cool aluminum felt good against his palm.
As he turned the corner—
Bump.
"Oh—Ms. Mikage!" he blurted out.
Team Leader Ingrid Mikage. Stern, polished, and dangerous. Half-Japanese, half-Korean. Skin like pale porcelain and eyes like knives. Her tailored suit hugged an hourglass figure, commanding respect—and fear.
"Watch where you're going, Mr. Wolf," she said coldly, brushing past him.
She was known as the Ice Queen Boss. A woman few dared cross.
Shan quietly returned to his desk. As he bent down to tie a loose shoelace, something metallic clinked to the ground. His coin.
He bent to pick it up—unaware he had crossed an invisible boundary. The polished floor tiles changed subtly, the faint sign on the wall out of focus.
Then—
"Mr. Wolf? What are you doing in the women's toilet?"
The voice was sharp. Accusing.
Shan looked up and blinked, confused. Rae Yoorin stood near the entrance, brows furrowed.
"I—my coin. I dropped it. I didn't mean to—"
Rae gave him a look that was hard to read. Then she entered the stall without another word.
Inside, she sat, sighing, texting her boyfriend. She sent a teasing photo—just enough to hint at a rendezvous later that night.
But as she reviewed the image, her eyes widened.
A small, dark object was visible just under the sink.
A hidden camera.
Fear clutched her spine like ice.
Her thoughts raced—then settled on Shan. He was here… with some excuse about a coin…
---
That afternoon, the atmosphere in the office shifted. Conversations dimmed as Shan walked past. Stares followed him—some amused, others disgusted.
Then came the summons.
Team Leader Ingrid Mikage.
Her office was cold, sterile, and quiet—like a courtroom.
Rae Yoorin was already inside, arms crossed.
"Sit," Ingrid said curtly.
Once Shan was seated, Ingrid leaned forward. "Ms. Yoorin has reported something serious. She found a device—a hidden camera. And she claims… she saw you near the scene."
Shan's heart slammed in his chest.
"I didn't do it," he said. "I was just picking up my coin. Do you think I would seriously—?!"
"Then explain why you were near the ladies' room," Ingrid interrupted, steely as ever.
"I just told you—"
"We've alerted Security. CCTV footage is being reviewed," she said. "Until then, you are the prime suspect."
A pause.
"God... fucking damn it!" Shan slammed his fist on the armrest, frustration boiling over.
---
Hours dragged by.
Then, a knock. A security officer entered and whispered to Ingrid. She nodded.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Turning to Shan: "You're free to go. The footage confirms your story. You dropped a coin."
Shan stood slowly. "I told you. Is there anything else you'd like to say to me?"
Ingrid met his gaze. Cool. Unapologetic.
"No."
"Fine," Shan muttered, biting his tongue as he moved to the door.
Behind him, her voice rang out one last time. "Actually… one more thing."
He turned.
"Don't do things that give others the wrong impression, Mr. Wolf." A smirk tugged at her lips.
Shan's jaw clenched.
He walked away, silent.
---
In his mind, the shame simmered. He'd been falsely accused. Publicly shamed. And no one had the decency to say sorry.
Though cleared, the looks didn't stop. If anything, they grew worse.
Contempt now replaced indifference. People whispered when he passed. Turned away. Doors weren't held open anymore. Lunch was lonelier.
He had always been on the fringe, but now… now he was tainted.
Days passed.
Then a week.
And things only got worse.
The wound wasn't just skin-deep anymore—it had started to rot beneath the surface.
---
Chapter 1 — End.