"Gosh, I still got another ridiculous witch toy," grumbled Park Joon-Ho, a young but already well-renowned businessman having raven-black hair and yes so hollow they seemed to swallow the gaze pf light.
He stood alone inside the quiet shop, wasting yet another coin in the gachapon machine while the relentless tide of the city's morning rush continued outside. If his count was correct, this was his twenty-fourth attempt—twenty-Four coins used to the whims of chance—all for the sake of getting that one cat plushy he wanted to add to his sterile office. But yet again, disappointment struck him like a bullet with the same witch figure plaguing his collection.
With a resigned sigh, he fed his last coin into the machine and twisted the cold, plastic handle. The mechanism groaned before releasing another capsule. Closing his eyes, he clutched the container tightly, fingers crossed in a silent plea to whatever higher power might be listening. The capsule clicked open—and when he finally looked, his breath nearly caught in his throat.
He had finally gotten it.
The cat plushy.
But instead of the pristine white one he had hoped for, the toy was entirely black.
He blinked at it, brows knitting slightly in confusion. He knew the old superstitions—black cats as omens of misfortune, whispered tales of curses—but he had never put stock in such nonsense. Fairy tales, nothing more. He wouldn't have believed in ghosts either… if not for that first encounter.
**"Yes, I got it!"** A bright, girlish voice suddenly cut through the air—high-pitched and brimming with excitement.
Joon-Ho turned his head and saw a girl, likely no older than thirteen or fourteen, bouncing on her heels with unrestrained joy. She, too, had been playing the gachapon.
"I finally got the witch figure!" she beamed, eyes sparkling with triumph.
Joon-Ho rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, **"Kids these days."** Without another glance, he tucked the black plushy into the left pocket of his trench coat and strode out of the store.
---
The streets of Seoul pulsed with life. The morning sun blazed overhead, casting a harsh glare that forced Joon-Ho to squint. Yet despite the radiant light, something felt… off. The air carried an unnatural chill, biting at his skin like invisible teeth.
"Strange weather," he murmured, glancing upward.
Was this his bad luck at work? Had the cursed plushy already begun weaving misfortune around him?
No—others seemed to notice it too. The sudden drop in temperature wasn't just his imagination. Still, an unshakable sense of dread clung to him, thick as fog.
He checked his wristwatch—7:30 AM.
'Still time before the meeting,' he thought.
Exhaling sharply, he ignored a street beggar who reached out toward him with trembling hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined the man muttering a curse under his breath. Whether real or imagined, it didn't matter. Joon-Ho brushed past without a word.
Sliding into his car, his dull eyes reflecting exhaustion, he started the engine, adjusted the rearview mirror, and turned on the radio.
He always preferred the news—its structured, emotionless delivery. But today's broadcast sent an uneasy ripple down his spine.
It was the twenty-fourth anniversary of the first documented ghost encounter at Cheongwha Art Academy. Just yesterday, authorities had approved the demolition of the abandoned building—now a decaying monument to mystery and death. It also marked the death anniversary of Lee Ha-Eun, a young and ambitious student whose lifeless body had been discovered in a bathroom stall by one of her brothers.
The autopsy revealed she had died of dehydration, her body surrounded by the evidence of her suffering.
Her brothers, Lee Joon-Seo and Lee Hyun-Woo, had insisted it was the work of a ghost—a claim that gained eerie credibility as more supernatural sightings followed. One woman had even reported seeing a black cat with three glowing eyes.
Strangely, when questioned later, the same woman denied ever making such a statement.
With reports of possessions, ghostly attacks, and disappearances mounting, the government had enlisted shamans, priests, and ghost hunters to contain the phenomenon.
To aid their efforts, citizens were now required to remain indoors between 9 PM and 6 AM.
And then—the broadcast cut out abruptly.
A shrill, unbroken tone screeched from the speakers before dissolving into white noise.
"Ugh, what's wrong with this thing?" Joon-Ho groaned, slapping the dashboard. "I thought I had it fixed!"
Leaning forward, he twisted the dials, desperately searching for a working station. Just as the static cleared, he glanced up—
THUMP!
Something landed on his hood.
A cat. Fur black as charcoal, eyes glowing an unnatural, piercing violet—staring straight through the windshield.
Startled, Joon-Ho slammed the brakes, nearly smashing his forehead against the steering wheel. Behind him, horns blared as traffic screeched to a halt, angry shouts erupting from frustrated drivers.
Pedestrians paused, some glancing briefly before resuming their hurried routines.
Gritting his teeth, Joon-Ho shoved the car door open and stepped out.
"I swear to God, I'm going to strangle this damn cat," he hissed under his breath.
He stood before the creature, which sat grooming itself with infuriating nonchalance.
"Hey! Scram!" he snapped, waving a hand sharply.
The cat didn't move. It merely stared, those glowing violet eyes boring into him with unsettling intensity.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine—something about this moment felt unnervingly familiar. Hadn't he heard stories about a cat with violet eyes?
Before he could dwell on it, the cat leaped down from the hood and trotted toward a nearby alley.
"Hey, man, you're blocking the road." A firm voice snapped him back to reality, accompanied by a tap on his shoulder.
Joon-Ho turned to see a middle-aged man glaring at him, irritation plain on his face.
Without another word, the man returned to his car, leaving Joon-Ho standing there, shaken and confused.
Shaking his head, he climbed back into his vehicle and checked the time again.
Meanwhile, the black cat slipped into the alley, vanishing through a hidden door that led to a concealed household.
---
Inside, Hwang Minhee—a self-proclaimed exorcist—sat at a wooden table across from an elderly woman, engrossed in a card game.
Minhee was hauntingly beautiful, her skin pale as moonlight, her lips painted a deep, dark shade that matched her ink-black bob. Her crimson eyes glowed with an eerie kindness, and her slender frame was draped in form-fitting dark attire that seemed to meld with the shadows.
"Lee Minhee, my dear," the old woman chimed, squinting at her cards. "What is this one again?"
Minhee sighed softly. "It's the ace of spades, grandmother," she replied, her voice a low, velvety murmur.
"Oh. I thought it was a joker," the old woman said with innocent confusion.
They continued playing, and when the game ended, the old woman revealed her hand with childlike excitement.
"Did I win?" she asked, her face alight with hope.
Minhee glanced at her own cards. She had won. Undeniably. But the old woman's joy—her wrinkled, beaming face—tugged at something deep inside her.
She couldn't bring herself to crush that small happiness.
With a faint smile, she waved her hand, whispering an incantation that subtly altered the symbols on her cards.
"You won, grandmother," she murmured, placing her now-losing hand on the table.
"Yay! I win!" the old woman cheered, throwing her arms up in delight.
Minhee clapped softly, her praise gentle. "Congratulations."
The old woman stood and shuffled toward the staircase.
"Going to sleep?!" Minhee called after her.
No response.
"Forgot her hearing aid again," she muttered with a sigh.
The weight of caring for an aging, ailing woman pressed down on her like an invisible burden—yet she bore it without complaint.
She always did.
Because Hwang Minhee wasn't just any exorcist.
She was one of the Divine Wardens, a secret order dedicated not just to banishing spirits, but to erasing them entirely—trapping them within enchanted cards that could be wielded like weapons against weaker specters.
And somewhere in the room, the black cat approached silently, its paws making no sound against the floor.
Minhee's senses prickled—something was moving behind her. Her gaze flicked briefly toward the shadows before returning to the cards.
"You know," she said aloud, her voice dry, "sneaking up on me isn't the best way to make an impression."
In that instant, she felt it—a surge of movement, something lunging at blinding speed. Her hand shot out, catching the unseen assailant mid-air.
It was the black cat, writhing in her grip as it spoke in a deep, guttural voice:
"Unhand me, she-witch!" it snarled, its tone laced with fury.
Minhee, who hadn't even looked behind her, turned slowly to face the creature.
"Oh. It's you," she said flatly, realizing her mistake.
"Mark my words—when I break free, your blood will stain the stones!" the cat hissed, claws slashing wildly as it struggled.
Minhee rolled her eyes. "Relax, Hodu," she muttered, dropping the cat unceremoniously. It landed on its hind legs, standing unnaturally upright like a human.
The cat—Hodu—growled. "I am not Hodu, fool! Call me that again, and I'll tear out your tongue!" it spat, pointing a clawed paw at her.
Minhee smirked. "Y'know, sometimes I think you just need a treat… laced with sleeping pills."
"As if such pitiful tricks could bind the great Kragnar!" Hodu declared, puffing out its chest with pride.
Minhee tilted her head, feigning confusion. "Kragnar? That's your new name?" she asked before bursting into laughter.
"Silence, wretch! Kragnar is a name carved in legend! Such disrespect will not be tolerated!" Hodu shrieked. "Besides, I have found another one."
Minhee's laughter died instantly. Her expression darkened. "Found what?"
"A businessman who walks the path of wealth. He bears the sigil of the Marked," Hodu answered swiftly.
A Marked? Minhee's eyes widened. It had been years since she last encountered one.
She remembered exactly what a Marked was—and it was nothing good.
As the name implied, a Marked was an individual branded by dangerous spirits—dozens infact, almost getting to atleast a hundred. Perhaps a thousand of them. But the last time she had faced one was twenty years ago.
Why now?