Kai's eyelids flutter open to an almost blinding white light. The first thing he registers is the stillness. Too quiet. Too clean. The hum of vents. The steady beep of monitors. The faint mechanical pulse of a secure compound.
He tries to move—can't.
His arms and legs are tied up once more, but this time not roughly. The restraints are medical grade, ergonomic, measured. He's on a hospital bed flanked by softly pulsing panels and reinforced glass walls.
A voice crackles overhead, sterile and calm.
"You're safe now, Kai. Rest."
He twitches his head towards the sound. That voice was not his father's. It was artificial, pre-recorded. Scripted calm. A manufactured lie.
The door creaks open.
And along comes Mr. Baek. Slow. A tablet in one hand, the same gloved care in each step. He places it on a table next to Kai's bed.
Mr. Baek (relaxed, as if this is standard procedure):
"You were very dehydrated. Small infection, broken ribs. You're fortunate I discovered you when I did."
