12 am

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Vieil Amour- Milmine ♬♪

In the hushed corridors of PSH Bank, The famous business man park sunghoon's entry exudes an almost tangible chill. Employees swiftly shift their gazes, a mixture of respect and unease underlying their movements. Each of his steps resonates with intent, an echo of authority reverberating through the workspace. His secretary approaches, her approach measured.

"Sir, your mother just called. She's insisting you head home."

His gaze remains resolute, his response carefully measured. "Let her know that I'm busy."

The day unfolds as expected, a sequence of meetings where Sunghoon's detached professionalism leaves an indelible mark.

Yet, as the sun sets, the corporate façade he wears starts to loosen, revealing a more complex existence beneath.

Beneath the cloak of night, Sunghoon shifts from boardrooms to alleyways. Shielded from prying eyes, he issues directives to his network of connections, his influence extending into both legitimate and murkier domains. His movements reflect a practiced familiarity with the hidden realm he navigates.

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As darkness deepens, his path leads to a neighborhood that stands in stark contrast to his daytime domain. A modest home waits, its wear and tear etched into every corner. Inside, his mother opens the door, an interplay of exasperation and fondness dancing in her eyes.

"At last, you've graced us with your presence," she teases, the lines on her face belying her motherly concern. "Any plans to leave this place behind?"

A wry smile tugs at Sunghoon's lips, the tension of the day still visible on his features. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

A sigh passes between them, heavy with unspoken words. Sunghoon takes a seat, his eyes roving around the room, each item a repository of memories.

"Mother, do you you like the new TV?" he asks, an attempt to shift the conversation from the weight of the past.

Her response is a mix of skepticism and affection. "Material gains can't compensate for time spent together."

As the room remains a vault of unspoken memories, Sunghoon's mind drifts back to a past that lingers. The echoes of his father's voice resurface, a chorus of expectations and unmet hopes.

A memory resurfaces: his father's stern expression.

"Study, son. Is there any other purpose?"

A different memory intertwines: his father's fading voice, an unwavering refrain.

"Study for us, Sunghoon. Make our sacrifices count."

A tear threatens to break free, but Sunghoon blinks it away, unwilling to bare his emotions. The room feels like a capsule suspended in time, preserving moments both painful and profound.

"study..."

"study..."

Suddenly, Sunghoon stands, a wave of emotion unsettling him. He heads for the door, leaving the room to wrestle with the past he's stirred, leaving his mother angry at his sudden disappearance.

Under the dim glow of streetlights, Sunghoon's phone buzzes. A subordinate's voice relays news of the individual behind the company's financial woes being apprehended. His steps lead him to a secluded alley, where he faces the defiant gaze of the responsible party.

A tense exchange ensues, each blow weighted with his frustrations and concealed battles. In a split second, a glint catches his eye, a knife wielded out of desperation.

The blade finds its mark, a jolt of pain coursing through Sunghoon's body. Instinct takes over, and he retrieves his gun, a symbol of authority he wields with familiarity.

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In the dimly lit halls of the rumored haunted hospital, the aura was heavy with an eerie stillness. The pale glow of the dim lights cast long shadows, each corridor seeming to hold secrets whispered only to those who dared tread its path after dark. The walls seemed to whisper stories of restless spirits and lingering malevolence, the air heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Yuna found herself on the late-night shift, her steps echoing through the labyrinthine halls. It was the kind of silence that makes your own breath seem loud, punctuated by every creak and groan of the building. She had heard the whispers, the tales of this place being haunted by tormented souls and vengeful entities, but dismissed them as mere superstitions.

However, as the night wore on, the stories took on a life of their own. In the corners of her hearing, she catches faint tapping sounds that seemed to echo from the depths of the building. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she feels a heavy presence lingering just beyond her line of sight. Each breath she took seemed to be met with an echo, as if something was mimicking her very existence.

Her heart raced as she cowered near the door, clutching a bat as a makeshift shield against the unknown. The darkness played tricks on her mind, shapes shifting in the shadows, and she can't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her.

Then, as if summoned by her fear, a strange figure emerges from the shadows. Yuna's grip tightenes on the bat, and without thinking, she swings it with all her might, connecting with a solid thud. But the figure merely grunted, uttering a bewildered—

"What the fuck?"

Panic coursed through her veins, her instincts urging her to escape, but before she could react, the figure shoved her forcefully against the wall. She closed her eyes tightly, muttering silent prayers under her breath, her thoughts a jumble of apologies and pleas for protection.

"For God's sake, open your eyes, woman," the figure's exasperated voice broke through her thoughts.

Slowly, hesitantly, Yuna peeled her eyes open, her breath catching as her gaze met the figure's. Instead of the ghostly apparition she had imagined, she was met with the sight of a man—very much alive and looking utterly baffled.

I didn't know ghosts were this hot, you can tell he was made with love and not some quick nut.

Her eyes traveled down, and her heart skipped a beat when she noticed the cuts on his face, traces of blood smudging his features. Guilt and concern swept over her, her voice apologetic as she stammered, "I-I'm so sorry! I thought you were an evil spirit trying to haunt me!"

He winced as she touched his wounds, her hands steady as she dabbed alcohol onto his cuts. He tried to mask his discomfort, determined not to show any weakness. She took his chin, the closeness almost too intimate for his liking, but he brushed it off, telling himself it was a necessary evil.

She prattled on, attempting to initiate a conversation despite the bizarre circumstances.

"So, who did this to you?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

He meets her gaze, his expression guarded, and remains silent. Undeterred, Yuna presses on, her voice softer now, "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. But here's an advice, when things get overwhelming, just run away. It doesn't matter when or where, just run."

For a fleeting moment, his eyes reveal a glint of emotion, as if her words have struck a chord within him. Her advice seems to resonate, finding a place in his thoughts.

Their brief moment, however, is abruptly interrupted by a nurse seeking Yuna's input on something. She turns her attention away, responding to the nurse's inquiries.

Once her conversation concludes, Yuna turns back, looking for the bloodied man. To her surprise, he's nowhere to be found. A mixture of confusion and disappointment washes over her. She wonders, almost to herself, "Maybe he was a ghost after all."

The encounter, as fleeting as it was, leaves an impression on both of them, sparking a connection that defies explanation and lingers in their thoughts.

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