This episode contains violence, strong language, and themes that may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.
"Didn't I tell you to stop?"
"Why are you so stubborn, Human?"
"If you had just listened to me and stopped like I commanded, I wouldn't have thrown you against the wall and cracked your head like this."
Sehan stood with both hands resting on his hips, his posture radiating an unmistakable impression of arrogance, as if he intentionally allowed that aura to dominate him.
An odd expression—a mixture of annoyance and cynicism—was fixed on his face, looking like a joke crafted with the precision of a stage actor. It was not the kind of anger born truly from the heart, but rather anger worn like a costume: displayed as needed, maintained to remain perfectly dramatic.
He lowered his body and crouched down, moving close until his face was level with the young man who was still trying to focus his vision. Sehan's gaze shifted; it was no longer as sharp as when he was standing, but neither was it entirely soft.
His gaze followed the trail of blood that scored the back of the young man's neck, the red color flowing like a line drawn by an overly honest painter. Sehan observed the details as if he were studying something far more fascinating than it should be, and as he took in the whole sight, the corner of his lips lifted into a slight smile.
The smirk grew, not merely a sign of satisfaction, but also containing a biting touch of amusement—a mixture of emotions that made his expression utterly unpredictable.
"Hey, Human."
"Before I kill you... do you have any last words you want to offer to the world?"
"Or, since you are my fan... do you want to say something to me?"
"Maybe congratulations because I managed to take home the first winning trophy today... or because I got the most spotlight when I performed on stage earlier... or maybe a compliment because my styling truly made me shine?"
"You brought a lot of my photocards, didn't you? I could sign them... with my blood... and then you can take them with you when you die."
His tone sounded casual, almost like someone chatting while enjoying the gentle breeze on a home veranda at the end of the day. He spoke as if the situation before him required no caution, as if all of this were just an ordinary conversation that could be taken lightly.
Yet, beneath the softness of his voice, there was an undeniable gleam of threat—subtle, neatly packaged, and precisely because of that, it felt far more oppressive.
The young man was still desperately trying to piece together the image of Sehan before him; the shadow of his idol seemed vividly imprinted in his memory, every line of the face, every movement he had once adored, danced before his eyes.
However, the pain slamming into the back of his head exerted an invisible wave, systematically destroying every shape he tried to hold onto.
"Why... why... are... you... doing... this... to me?"
His words came out hunting, shattering in his throat, as if every syllable had to be forced out through the gaps of his constantly constricting breath.
"What... what... is... my... fault?"
"Let... let... me go... I... I... promise... I won't... won't tell... anyone..."
"Please... please... please forgive... forgive me..."
He pressed his palms together in front of his chest, rubbing them up and down in a gesture filled with anxiety, every friction seeming to radiate a despair that couldn't be expressed in words.
The movement resembled someone desperately grasping at air—reaching for a far-off forgiveness, one that was almost intangible.
Tears streamed uncontrollably from the corners of his eyes, tracing paths down his cheeks and splitting the dust and dirt smudges that stained his face.
At that very instant, Sehan's laugh erupted, shattering the dampness of the narrow alley with a force that made the space seem to tremble.
The echo of his voice ricocheted off the wet stone walls, splintering the silence into fragments of sound that collided and bounced in every corner.
There was an odd amusement he seemed to find amid the ongoing tragedy before him, an inappropriate yet undeniable pleasure.
"What did you say?"
"You... are seriously asking me that, after everything you've done to me... huh?"
The remnants of his laughter still clung to the edge of his breath when he posed the question.
Sehan took a deep breath, letting his chest slowly expand, like someone savoring the aroma of a newly claimed victory.
"Of course… As an idol, I have to look after my fans wholeheartedly. Even if sometimes a fan acts inappropriately just to get my attention… I will answer your question."
A smile bloomed on his lips—a smile that at first glance could calm thousands of spectators in a stadium, a smile that on stage was praised as the natural charm of a star.
Yet here, beneath the gloomy light that flickered like a dying candle flame, that smile looked like a carefully crafted mask—too sweet to be trusted, too soft to conceal the vicious grip behind it.
"First… your question was, 'Why are you doing this to me?', right?"
"The answer is simple: because you know what I truly am. And if you can't keep my secret… that will make things complicated for me. My reputation as an idol could be tainted by false rumors, even though they are all absolutely true."
"Don't you want your idol to remain undisturbed by things that could cause him stress, even depression... or worse, to hurt himself? You want him to stay clean of scandals, right? So his popularity remains intact."
Sehan's smile bloomed wider, spreading across his lips in a way that would usually send the RUNs into hysterical screams every time he appeared on a giant concert screen, scattering a charm that was almost intoxicating.
His eyes narrowed, creating a gentle curve that, on stage, looked soothing, warm, and inviting.
But here, in this narrow alley, at such close proximity, the stage magic warped into something different—something that made the heart race not from admiration, but from an uncanny terror.
"Second… you asked, 'What is my fault?', didn't you? Of course, you made a mistake that... necessitates your death."
"Look at this."
He raised both hands, using his right and left index fingers to point directly at his ears.
"You… you really don't remember what you just did to me?"
"A moment ago, you kicked my small body… and then stomped on me without hesitation. Your rough shoeprints—you know?—they even scraped my ears."
"You also said these things to me:
'You damned stray cat!'
'If you were born weak, wouldn't it be better for you to die?'
'A disgusting animal like you doesn't deserve to live, you don't even deserve to breathe this fresh night air.'
'The weak do not deserve to live. The small do not deserve to live!'
'Why should humans coexist with a small animal like you? Just die! You stray cat!'
'Your pathetic whining won't move my heart. Get lost!'"
Sehan's tone shifted as he began to mimic the young man, his voice laced with exaggerated annoyance, stretched to the edge of emotion as if he were performing a climax scene on a theatre stage.
Every word, every intonation, was repeated with a precision that made anyone watching feel the frustration he was mimicking, but also sensed something deeper—a psychological game that was deliberate, cold, and painful.
He did not stop at voice alone. His body movements followed suit, scrutinizing and copying how the young man had kicked, stomped, and moved his limbs with a specific stiffness or tension, all repeated with terrifying accuracy.