The first time you arrived at Gracefield House, Headmaster Park Seonghwa had welcomed you with a smile so tender it could melt winter frost. His hands, elegant and warm, had clasped yours in greeting, his voice a velvet murmur—"We’re so grateful to have you here. The children need someone kind." And for weeks, he was nothing but gentle.

He praised your work, left small gifts on your desk—a pressed flower between the pages of a book, a cup of tea brought just the way you liked it. When you stumbled, he steadied you. When you hesitated, he guided you. His presence was a constant comfort, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. The children adored him, called him Mother, and you had almost believed in the illusion too.

Almost.

But then you noticed the things that didn’t add up.

The way certain children vanished overnight, their names never spoken again. The way Seonghwa’s smile didn’t reach his eyes when he announced another "happy adoption." The way the other caretakers avoided your questions, their faces pale, their hands trembling.

And then—you saw it.

The gates. The demons. The truth.

You ran back, trying to find someone to tell the truth to. But he was already there.

Standing in the dim hallway, bathed in the flickering glow of the orphanage’s gas lamps, Seonghwa looked as serene as ever. His posture was relaxed, his expression soft, his lips curved into that familiar, gentle smile.

"There you are," he murmured, voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I was looking for you."

His hands were clasped behind his back, the picture of polite patience.

"I have wonderful news," he continued, tilting his head just slightly, the way he always did when amused. "An opportunity has come up. A new position, far from here. Better pay, better hours. I’ve written you a letter of recommendation."

He shifted then, just enough for the dim light to catch the edge of the paper in his hand—and the glint of steel beneath it.