That night, Gyeon-woo stood in the dim glow of the archery range, bow in hand, but his focus wavered. His arrows missed their mark, one after another, the sound of them hitting the outer rings echoing like quiet disappointments. His mind kept drifting—not to the target, but to the warmth of Seong-ah's smile, the ghost's sudden disappearance, and the lingering ache of his grandmother's absence.
Somewhere else in the city, Yeomhwa moved silently through the funeral chamber where Gyeon-woo's grandmother's photo rested among incense and carefully arranged offerings. Her gaze lingered on the smiling portrait, and a slow, cruel smirk curved her lips. Fingers brushing lightly over the frame, she whispered something under her breath—words that carried an unseen malice.
Meanwhile, far from the quiet solemnity of the funeral chamber, the abandoned house groaned under the weight of night. Inside, Mother Goddess and Seong-ah crouched over an unsettling sight—the twisted, lifeless form of an evil spirit's body. The air was thick with stale incense and a faint metallic tang that clung to the walls.
Seong-ah adjusted the lantern's light, her brows furrowing as they examined the marks on its chest. But the moment was interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps—then the glare of a phone camera light cutting through the darkness.
A pair of eager voices whispered excitedly. Two young men, clearly YouTubers, had stumbled into the scene, their cameras rolling. "This is gold," one of them muttered. "Real shaman stuff—"
Before he could finish, Seong-ah strode forward, her patience snapping. With one swift kick, she sent the nearest one stumbling back toward the door. "Delete that," she barked, her voice sharper than the night air.
But even as they retreated, clutching their equipment, she knew it was too late—at least some of their recording had caught her and Mother Goddess on film.
Mother Goddess only sighed, the corner of her mouth twitching in irritation. "Trouble always finds us," she murmured, turning back to the body.