The morning sun painted Seoul a golden hue, but Choen's heart felt heavier than ever. She stood by her window, sipping warm tea, the note she found at Gabrielle's house lying on her desk. She had read it again and again, the inked words still etched into her thoughts.
"If you see the spider again, don't run. Remember what I told you in Calais… it was never truly gone."
She didn't remember any such conversation.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "You brought it back, Choen."
She froze. The tea slipped slightly from her fingers, sloshing hot liquid onto her hand. She hissed but barely reacted. The message pulsed on the screen like a heartbeat. She tapped to trace the number. No results.
Joon knocked at her door.
"Hey, noona," he peeked in. "You alright? Graduation prep is in full swing. Omma said the boutique team wants to confirm your final designs."
"I'll be there," she muttered, pocketing her phone. "I just… need a minute."
Downstairs, Meena was arranging a small table with floral decor. "We still have to pick up the graduation gown," she called out. "And your new boutique's test run is only two weeks away."
Seong glanced over the newspaper and frowned.
"What is it?" Meena asked.
"The news…" he muttered. "Another mysterious death. This time in Incheon. No wounds. Just… eyes wide open and a smile on the face. Same as the ones in Paris."
Meena's hands stilled.
In the background, the news played faintly:
"...unexplained death found in a quiet neighborhood… eerily similar to the string of incidents from Paris earlier this month… police are baffled…"
Choen, descending the stairs, caught the last line and turned toward the screen. The victim's face was blurred, but something about the photo in the background made her pause. A faint shadow on the wall—a silhouette she thought she had seen once before in France.
She clenched her fists.
That evening, Choen sat on her room floor, spreading design sketches across the carpet. Her boutique's brand name "Fate's Threads" was stitched into every design—modern yet carrying her signature ethereal elegance. She tried to focus, but her mind strayed.
The window creaked slightly, letting in the cool spring air. The scent that followed wasn't of blossoms.
It was lavender and bergamot.
Her breath caught.
That scent.
It was the exact one her ex-lover in France used.
"No…" she whispered, standing and looking outside. No one was there. Only the streetlight flickering like a warning.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: "Are you sure you left France?"
She dropped the phone.
Meanwhile, across town, Dokkaebi sat in his car, parked beside a local café. He had just finished a meeting with his team regarding an upcoming collaboration, but something gnawed at him.
He scrolled through his notifications and paused at a breaking news banner.
"Former professor at Paris Central Institute dies after 34 days in coma."
The article attached a location photo of the hospital. His heart sank.
"That's the same hospital Choen mentioned," he muttered.
Without thinking, he tapped his recent call list. His thumb hovered over her name.
Should he call? Text? What would he even say?
Are you okay?
He sighed, tossing the phone onto the seat beside him.
"Why do I feel like something's wrong…" he whispered.
Just then, a figure passed by the car's side mirror.
He turned sharply—but the street was empty.
Back at home, Choen stood frozen in front of the mirror. Her reflection stared back… but for a moment—just a split second—the eyes in the mirror weren't hers.
They were crimson.
The lights flickered.
Then all returned to normal.
She gasped, backing away. Her phone buzzed once more.
Unknown Number: "See you at the boutique's opening."
Her knees weakened.
Who was this?
Why did they know everything?
And why did she feel… watched?