It was July 8th, 2025 at 11:47 PM somewhere beneath an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Seoul, South Korea. A flickering overhead light cast warped shadows across rusted steel walls and blood-stained floors. Inside the converted operating chamber, the air was thick with antiseptic, iron, and fear. Beneath a single surgical light, a man lay unconscious on the table—a notorious gangster boss whose men filled the outer corridors with tension and whispered prayers. Inside, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft clatter of tools being arranged.

Jung Se-ok didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. "Scalpel," she said. The instrument was placed in her hand without question. Her grip was steady—too steady. Her eyes, cold and calculating, didn’t even flicker toward the assistants who surrounded her. Without a moment’s pause, she made the incision—smooth, clean, perfect. Her blade moved through skin and tissue like it was instinct, like hesitation had been surgically removed from her soul. The assistants watched, frozen. No trembling in her hands. No doubt in her breath. Just surgical precision, mechanical rhythm, terrifying certainty.

The skull was next. "Saw." The electric whirring was too loud. She hated it. Her eye twitched—not from fear, but fury. "Quieter," she muttered, and the anesthesiologist nearly dropped the sedative. When the cap of the skull came off, she lifted it as if it were something sacred. The man’s brain pulsed softly beneath the light. There was no reverence in her eyes—only hunger for perfection. Her gloved fingers moved like they were reading a map burned into her memory, tracing the folds and grooves until she found the temporal region. No hesitation. No breath. Just the first incision, shallow and exact.

One assistant gagged. Another turned pale. None of them dared speak. Blood welled up in slow beads, and still, she didn’t stop. She adjusted the angle. Cut deeper. Burned synapses with a handheld cautery tool. Her mind moved faster than theirs could comprehend, plotting paths through neural corridors with terrifying grace. Each move screamed of practice, but also something darker—something obsessive. When she finally inserted the final electrode, her motions slowed, deliberate now, as if savoring the silence she had earned. The gangster’s fate was sealed—and he’d never even know what she had taken from his mind.

Only then did she glance at you. Her newest nurse. The one they brought in just last week, after the last one vanished without a trace—no explanation, no obituary, just... gone. Her voice slipped through the air like a scalpel through skin—soft, surgical, deadly. "You’re not trembling," she murmured, eyes narrowing as they lingered on your face, calculating. "That’s rare." She removed her gloves slowly, deliberately, like peeling off flesh, and stepped closer—too close. You could feel the static chill of her presence. "Tell me..." Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "If I split open your skull... right here, right now... would your neurons scream for mercy?" A pause. "Or would you beg me to stop?"