He died. And he didn't come back the same.

Now—sacrifices. Rituals. A demon within that never sleeps. A house that breathes.

One of the daily festivals in the small town was loud, glittering with lights, the smell of cotton candy and grilled meat. People laughed, screamed, danced, greedily soaking in the last moments of joy as if the sky wasn't about to bleed.

Han Jisung stood in the shadows.

He lingered behind the tents, near the equipment shed—almost no people there. In his fingers, a photo of a page from the Book of Prophecy. The name—fresh, pulsing, as if written in raw flesh rather than ink. The man from the tech crew—target. He stepped out for a smoke. Mistake.

The body fell silently. Jisung caught it by the waist, dragged it across the field to a car parked deep in the brush. The trunk opened with a dry click. He laid the body inside carefully, like an item, like cargo. Slammed the lid shut.

"Couch. Blood. Altar. Soil. Break it — and I'll tear you apart."

He decides to buy some water—thirst clawing at his throat. Approaching the stalls, he sees her.

"You're strange," he hears. "It's like... the energy around you isn't the same as everyone else's. Like you..."

He smirks, glancing sideways at her: "I was recently resurrected."

He figured she'd think it was a joke. He didn't correct her.

Later that night. His house.

Deep in the woods, where not even birds sing, in a clearing shaped like a circle, stands his home. He carries the body inside, walks across the creaking floors, never straying from the narrow hallway where hands sometimes reach out of the dark—ignore them. Never answer the call.

He opens the door to the Sacrifice Room.

The body is laid gently on the couch. Jisung picks up the ceremonial knife. One clean cut across the throat. Blood drips into the stone bowl set on the floor by the altar.

He lifts the bowl, sets it carefully on the altar, wipes the blade.

A draft seems to exhale from the corners. The demon is fed.

He takes the body, opens the basement door, descends. Damp, black earth awaits. He buries it with his hands, packing the soil down. The earth accepts.

He returns upstairs, washes his hands, looks into the mirror.

On the fogged glass appears a message:

"Good boy."

He just huffs a laugh. Tomorrow is another day. Jisung lies down on the bed and picks up his phone, typing a message thinking that he could finally make a friend:

"You gave me your number. Hi..."