Chapter 1: The Letter

Rain hammered against the grimy window of Jin-soo’s third-floor apartment, a relentless percussion that drowned out the hum of the city below. The storm had rolled in at dawn, painting Seoul in shades of charcoal and steel. Water cascaded down the glass, distorting the view of the neon-lit streets into a grotesque kaleidoscope.

Inside, the air hung thick with the acrid tang of stale coffee and the musty dampness of unwashed laundry.

Jin-soo sat hunched at his desk, the flickering light of a dying bulb casting jagged shadows over the stacks of medical journals that surrounded him.

Their spines bore titles like Advanced Surgical Techniques and Critical Care Protocols, but their pages were dog-eared and yellowed, untouched for months. He traced a finger over the cover of one, his nail catching on a coffee stain that had long since dried into a rusty brown blotch. The journals were relics of a life he’d abandoned—or rather, a life that had abandoned him.

A draft slithered under the door, cold and insistent, carrying with it a single envelopE. It skittered across the warped floorboards like a spider, coming to rest at the toe of his scuffed leather shoe.

Jin-soo stared at it, his breath fogging the air. The apartment’s heating had broken weeks ago, but he hadn’t bothered to call the landlord. The cold suited him now.

The envelope was made of thick, yellowed parchment, its edges frayed as though it had been torn from an ancient ledger. A wax seal held it shut—a serpent coiled around a hollow eye, its pupil a void that seemed to swallow the dim light. Jin-soo’s hands trembled as he picked it up, the wax cracking like brittle bone under his touch.

Inside, the letter was written in a looping, archaic script:

"Dr. Kim Jin-soo,

You are summoned to the Isle of Asphodel. Here, the Veil Games await—a trial for those who seek redemption. Come alone. Come prepared.

The ferry departs at midnight.

—The Keeper"

The words blurred as Jin-soo’s vision swam. Asphodel. The name echoed in his mind like a funeral bell. He’d heard the nurses whisper about it during late shifts at St. Mary’s—a cursed island shrouded in fog, where the desperate and damned bartered their souls for second chances.

Superstition, he’d called it. A fairy tale for the weak.

But now, the paper burned in his grip, the ink seeping into His skin like poison.

The monitors had flat lined at 3:07 a.m.

Jin-soo could still hear the scream of the alarms, the frantic shouts of the code team, the way the mother’s wail had sliced through the sterile hospital air. “You promised!” she’d shrieked, her fists pounding against his chest. “You said you’d save her!”

He hadn’t slept since.

Now, the memory surged forward unbidden: the girl’s small hand in his, her fingers ice-cold even as the fever raged. Eight years old. Bright-eyed. A laugh like wind chimes. Leukemia, stage four. He’d promised her mother a miracle. He’d promised himself he could outrun the odds.

He’d been wrong.

The guilt had hollowed him, carving out his insides until only a brittle shell remained. He’d quit the hospital. Sold his apartment. Moved into this rotting studio, where the walls wept condensation and the neighbors’ arguments seeped through the floorboards.

A flicker in the cracked mirror above the sink caught his eye.

Jin-soo froze.

His reflection stared back—pale, unshaven, eyes sunken into bruised sockets. But as he watched, the corners of its mouth twitched. Then curled.

The face in the glass grinned, sharp and predatory.

Jin-soo spun around, his chair clattering to the floor. The apartment was empty. Rain drummed against the window.

“Hallucination,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. “Sleep deprivation. Stress.”

But when he looked again, the reflection was still smiling.

The docks reeked of salt and decay.

Jin-soo stood at the edge of Pier 13, his coat collar turned up against the biting wind. The storm had worsened, the sea churning black beneath the skeletal remains of the boardwalk. No one else was here—no fishermen, no late-night vendors. Just shadows that shifted at the edge of his vision, too quick to be real.

The ferry emerged from the fog like a ghost ship.

Its hull was rotted, barnacles clinging to the wood like tumors. No lights glowed in its cabin. No crew manned the deck.

As it drew closer, Jin-soo’s breath hitched.

The figure at the helm was impossibly tall, swathed in a tattered cloak that billowed in the wind. Its face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but Jin-soo felt its gaze—cold and unblinking—rake over him.

“Tickets,” it rasped, its voice the creak of a coffin lid.

Jin-soo fumbled for the letter. The figure snatched it, the serpent seal glowing faintly before disintegrating into ash.

“Welcome to Asphodel.”

The deck groaned underfoot as Jin-soo boarded. The ferry lurched forward, the island materializing in the distance—a jagged silhouette of stone, its cliffs shaped like skeletal hands clawing at the sky.

Behind him, the reflection in the rain-puddled deck smiled.

The cabin was empty save for a single lantern, its flame guttering in the damp air. Jin-soo slumped onto a mildewed bench, his head in his hands.

Why am I here?

The answer came not in words, but in a sensation—a cold finger tracing the curve of his spine.

Redemption.

Jin-soo jerked upright. The voice had been inside his skull, slick and serpentine.

You want to undo it, don’t you? The voice purred. The girl. The mother. The blood on your hands.

“Stop,” Jin-soo hissed.

The Veil Games will grant your wish… for a price.

The lantern flared, casting monstrous shadows on the walls. For a heartbeat, Jin-soo saw them—figures writhing in the darkness, their mouths stretched in silent screams.

Then the light died.

When it sputtered back to life, the cabin was empty.

But on the bench beside him lay a single playing card: the Hanged Man, his face a mirror of Jin-soo’s own.

The ferry ground to a halt on a beach of black sand.

Jin-soo stepped ashore, the granules crunching like broken glass beneath his boots. The air here was thick, cloying, stinking of rot and copper. Above, the sky churned with clouds the color of bruises, their underbellies lit by the sickly glow of a crescent moon.

Ahead, a path wound up the cliffs, flanked by gnarled trees that clawed at the air like arthritic hands. At its summit loomed a fortress—a sprawling monstrosity of black stone, its towers twisted into impossible angles.

Asphodel.

Jin-soo’s breath fogged the air as he climbed.

Halfway up, he paused, his pulse roaring in his ears.

The sand behind him was unmarked.

No footprints. No sign of the ferry.

Only the faint impression of something dragging itself toward the sea.

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