The skyline of Seoul was a jagged silhouette against a sky that defied the laws of nature. Tonight, the moon did not glow with its usual ivory pallor; instead, it sat heavy and swollen on the horizon, radiating a haunting, sapphire luminescence. To the living, it was an astronomical fluke—a "Blue Moon" to be photographed and forgotten. To the dead, it was a beckoning light, a signal that the sanctuary had returned.
At the end of a nondescript alleyway in Myeong-dong, where an abandoned, ivy-choked building had stood for years, a sleek, obsidian-black vintage car glided to a silent halt.
The door opened, and a man stepped out.
He was draped in a bespoke three-piece suit the color of a midnight storm. His presence was not merely commanding; it was gravitational. In his right hand, he held a silver-headed cane that glinted under the celestial glow. He looked young—perhaps in his late twenties—but his eyes held the terrifying stillness of a deep, frozen lake. They were eyes that had watched empires crumble and stars burn out.
He stood before the rusted iron gates of the derelict structure. Pulling a heavy, gold pocket watch from his vest, he flicked it open. The hands did not move forward; they began to spin counter-clockwise with a frantic, rhythmic ticking that echoed against the surrounding brick walls.
"Time," he whispered, his voice a smooth baritone that felt like velvet over gravel, "is a relative concept in the house of the lingering."
As the watch clicked shut, a shockwave of energy rippled through the air. The illusion of decay shattered. The peeling wallpaper of the old building transformed into polished mahogany; the shattered windows mended themselves into stained-glass masterpieces. The structure expanded, rising higher and higher into the clouds until it surpassed the neighboring skyscrapers. High above the grand entrance, a neon sign flickered to life in a brilliant, haunting cerulean: HOTEL BLUE MOON.
The massive oak doors swung open on phantom hinges.
Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of shadows and moonlight. A small group of spectral figures—the staff who had remained in the void between owners—stood in a rigid line. At their head was Manager Choi, a soul who had served the bridge between worlds for five hundred years. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the cold marble.
"Welcome, Master," Choi said, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "The hearth is lit, and the ledger is prepared. We have waited a long time for the change of the guard."
The new owner walked past them, the rhythmic thud-click of his cane on the marble floors acting as the hotel's new heartbeat. He stopped at the center of the lobby, beneath a chandelier made of teardrop crystals that seemed to weep light.
He turned his head slightly, acknowledging the staff without fully looking at them. "Jang Man-wol's era was one of fire and resentment," he said, his gaze drifting to the empty space where a legendary moon tree once stood. "But the Blue Moon serves a different tide. We are not here to harbor grudges. We are here to ensure that the silence of the grave is earned."
He tapped his cane twice. The sound resonated through the walls, through the hidden gardens, and up to the rooftop bar that touched the stars. The hotel groaned in satisfaction; it had a master again.
"Manager Choi," the owner said, staring up at the sapphire moon through the glass dome of the ceiling.
"Yes, Master?"
"Bring me the guest list. And tell the kitchen to prepare something bitter. I have a feeling the first soul through that door will have a very unpleasant story to tell."
A cold wind swept through the lobby, smelling of ancient dust and fresh lilies. The era of the Blue Moon had begun.