Jonas Lockwood was in transit, the express train carving its path from Seoul to Busan. He occupied a window seat, his gaze fixed on the fleeting expanse of nature—the emerald hills and sprawling fields—a momentary balm against the chaos of his inner world.
The momentary reprieve was brutally shattered.
In the periphery of the passing landscape, he caught sight of a group of figures. They were strangely arrayed, their heads entirely enveloped in white cloth, upon which jagged, unsettling incantations were scrawled in blood-red pigment. Deer antlers, brutal and stark, were tethered to their heads with thin, taught ropes. The man positioned at the center of the formation held the decapitated, disturbing emblem of a goat head.
They were standing at a distance, yet their presence was overwhelming, almost gravitational. Jonas did not just observe them; he felt their collective awareness. It seemed they were not merely looking at the train, but were gazing directly into the very core of his soul.
The train accelerated, and the terrifying tableau was swept behind the opaque window glass. Jonas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He attempted to relax, closing his eyes to seek a much-needed nap.
His subconscious immediately delivered him to a chilling landscape: a vast, empty white space devoid of color or feature. He saw his younger self, Little Jonas, wandering, desperately calling out. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom..." The repetition was frantic, echoing the cycles of his adult life. His mother was present, but she stood immobile, her back rigidly turned away, refusing to acknowledge or comfort him.
The dream fractured, replaced by the mundane, cruel reality of a notification screen: a low bank balance alert.
The truth of his self-destruction coalesced. He had squandered his professional income on fleeting, hedonistic pursuits: illicit substances, copious alcohol, and extravagant spending designed only to procure attention and the shallow appreciation of others. He purchased luxurious products and frequented prohibitively expensive establishments, driven entirely by the desperate need to validate his existence through external approval.
This sudden, crushing realization—that his resources were exhausted—was the true impetus for his flight. The notification of his depleted account was the exact moment he consciously decided to flee to his mother's residence, intending to exploit her financial stability until he could secure new employment.
Jonas snapped awake from the brief, disturbing nap. He was disoriented, his heartbeat quickening.
Near the train's doorway, where the vestibule met the seating compartment, stood an unmistakable figure. It was one of the strangely dressed men from the earlier vision: a white cloth covering his face, blood-red inscriptions visible through the grime, and the macabre deer horn headpiece tied with rope.
Jonas stared at the figure.
The figure stared back.