For a moment, the world stood still.
Only the sound of Oska's heartbeat filled the silence—loud, uneven, trembling.
The knife trembled in his hand.
Its cold steel glinted under the flickering basement light, aimed right at the woman kneeling before him.
His breath came ragged. His mind burned.Memories clawed their way back—three months ago, the pain, the humiliation, the endless nights chained in fear. The hatred now surged like a black tide inside his chest.
"She deserves it." A whisper in his head. "She deserves everything she gave you."
His fingers tightened around the hilt.
He turned his head slightly—Mrs. Bao and the five survivors stood frozen, pale and trembling, their eyes wide with horror and expectation.
No words were spoken, but their faces said it all:
"End this. End her".
Oska's throat tightened.
His heart screamed.
Yes, this was the only way out. The only way to stop the blood. To stop her.
He raised the knife higher.
But then—his hand froze midair.
Because for all the hatred, all the pain, all the memories screaming for vengeance… there was something else. Something he couldn't explain.
Empathy.
Pity.
The image of the same woman who once smiled at him, whose laughter—though cruel—had once been human.
His arm shook violently. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill her.
"Oska, do whatever you think is right." Mrs. Bao whispered, her voice trembling.
Oska couldn't answer. His lips trembled. His chest heaved.
The knife was right there—only a breath away from her heart—but his own heart refused to move.
Stevanie lifted her head.
Her eyes—bloodshot, yet suddenly lucid—locked on his. And then she screamed.
"What are you waiting for? Please, Oska. The only way to save them, is to save me. Just do it."
Her voice tore through the basement, raw, desperate, full of madness and grief.
"End it, Oska! Don't you understand? I can't live like this anymore! Do it—KILL ME!"
He shook his head, tears spilling from his eyes. "No… I can't. I can't!"
"Then I'll do it myself."
Before he could react, Stevanie lunged forward.
Her hand seized the knife still trembling in his grasp.
They struggled—his hand holding the hilt, hers forcing it forward.
"Stevanie, stop!" he cried. "Please, don't—"
But she pushed harder.
The blade slid in.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as steel pierced through her upper chest, near her collarbone. Her body trembled violently. Oska froze, his hands still gripping the hilt.
Blood welled around the wound—thick, dark, and horrifyingly real.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the air.
Then, slowly, her lips curved into a weak smile.
"…Finally," she whispered, her voice faint but calm. "The voices are gone."
Her gaze softened, distant, as if she were looking somewhere far beyond the room.
"Thank you, Oska. I'm glad… I met you. Goodbye."
Her hand slipped from the knife.
The blade clattered to the floor.
Oska caught her before she fell, cradling her limp body in his arms.
"Stevanie… no, no, please, stay with me—"
His voice cracked, breaking apart into sobs.
He shook her gently, begging, pleading, but her head only lolled to the side.
Her face is smiling, calm, empty, and peaceful.
"Arggh!!!" A scream tore from Oska's throat. Raw. Broken. Animal.
"What did I do to deserve this!"
He screamed until his voice shattered.
Tears poured down his face as he clutched her body, rocking back and forth on the cold floor.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he whispered, over and over, though he didn't even know who he was apologizing to—her, himself, or the life they'd both destroyed.
The basement door burst open.
"Freeze! Police!"
Denis and Annchi appeared at the entrance, followed by a squad of officers.
Flashlights cut through the dark, beams crossing over the bloodstained floor.
Then silence.
Every officer stopped cold at the sight before them.
Six survivors—wounded, barely breathing.
And Oska, holding the lifeless body of Stevanie.
No one spoke.
Finally, a voice from the back broke the stillness.
"Call it in! We need an ambulance—now!"
The next few minutes blurred into chaos.
Paramedics rushed in. Stretchers. Voices. Orders. Lights.
But Oska heard none of it.
He just sat there, clutching her, as if letting go would mean losing the last piece of himself.
Outside the house, red and blue lights flashed across the front yard. Rain began to fall all of a sudden. The sky seemed to mourn what had just happened to Oska.
Annchi climbed into the ambulance beside her mother's body, refusing to leave her side.
The doors shut, sirens wailed, and the vehicle disappeared into the night.
Mr. Han arrived moments later under the umbrella, his face pale as he took in the scene.
He approached Oska, froze in front of the gate, watching the ambulance disappear into the distance. Soaked, motionless, eyes empty.
"Oska…" Mr. Han said quietly. "I'm so sorry."
Oska didn't respond. He just stared ahead—his face drained, his soul somewhere far away.
Mr. Han sighed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Come inside. Let me give you a drink. You shouldn't stay out here."
He led him back into the house. Mr. Han was busy in the kitchen brewing hot tea, while Oska sat like a living corpse on the sofa with dead eyes. Steam rose from a cup of tea on the table, untouched.
Mr. Han sat across from him in silence. The clock ticked softly in the background, counting the minutes of a night that felt endless.
Outside, the sirens faded.
Inside, only silence remained.