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seongwars · 1 month ago

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𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢, 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 | 300 Followers Event

Pairing: psychiatrist!Jeong Yunho x yandere!Reader AU: non-idol Summary: What if in another life, you were the villain? Word Count: 9.8K Warnings: dark themes including stalking, m*rder, torture, asphyxiation, mental health issues, mentions of blood, violence--PLEASE do not interact if you are adverse to any of these themes. i want you to take care of yourselves.

a/n: here's the belated 300 follower event! it can be read alone but also fits into the forget me not universe now to work on my other wips

Forget Me Not Masterlist

"Yunho!" you screamed, twisting against the weight of the officers escorting you out. Your mind was spinning, unable to process what was happening. You searched his face for something, anything, that would tell you this wasn’t real. That he was going to stop them, that he was going to save you. But all you found was silence.

"Yunho, help me!" you sobbed, your voice raw and pleading. You reached for him, but the officers were too strong, dragging you backward as you fought to break free. Your limbs flailed in desperation, but it was no use.

Yunho stayed silent. His eyes met yours one last time, filled with sorrow, regret, and something else—something you couldn’t place, maybe pity. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words never came.

And then, he turned away.

The officers dragged you out of the room, your body still struggling against their grip. The last thing you saw was Yunho’s back, his shoulders hunched as he walked away from you, leaving you behind.

The air in the courtroom felt suffocating, every breath you took weighed down by the dozens of eyes watching your every move. You could feel the heat of the crowd’s gaze on your back, the low hum of whispered accusations, opinions, and judgments hanging in the air like a thick fog.

"Ms. Lee," he began, his deep voice resonating through the small space, "how do you plead?"

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t move, didn’t react, except for a subtle clench of your shackled hands. It was Choi Jongho, your lawyer, who spoke for you.

"Not guilty by reason of insanity, your honor," Jongho said, standing tall beside you, his tone as calm and collected as ever. His voice was a shield, firm and unwavering.

The murmurs that rippled through the crowd were quickly silenced by a sharp rap of the judge’s gavel. Beside you, Jongho remained calm, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at the defense table.

Judge Baek leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving you. "The court will hear evidence to support this plea in due course." He straightened again, addressing the prosecution. "The state may present its opening argument."

"Thank you, your honor.” Prosecutor Ahn began, her steps slow and deliberate as she moved to the center of the room.

“Esteemed members of the jury. What you see before you today is a facade. A woman who has worn the mask of a dutiful wife, presenting herself as gentle, caring, and harmless. But beneath that mask lies something far more sinister. A murderer, hiding in plain sight." She took a slow step toward the defense table, her eyes never leaving you.

"A murderer," the prosecutor repeated, louder this time, letting the word hang in the air. "One who premeditated the killing of each of her victims, who calculated every step, every detail with precision." She turned to the jury, her face twisting into a sneer.

"Lee Y/N didn’t just act on impulse or in a fit of rage. No, she was cunning, manipulative—"

She gestured toward you, her hand slicing through the air as if to emphasize the supposed deceit. "—just as she manipulated her husband into believing she was harmless. That she wouldn’t—couldn’t—kill his best friend, Jung Wooyoung. Or that she was incapable of murdering Ji Myungsoo, a close business associate of her father-in-law and his daughter, Soyi."

"And that," the prosecutor’s voice cut back into focus, "is the woman sitting before you today. Calculating, cold, and capable of manipulating anyone to suit her own purposes." She took a step closer to the jury, leaning in as if to share a secret.

"She is a murderer, plain and simple."

Jongho shifted beside you, preparing for his turn, his calm exterior a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. He turned to the jury, his eyes sweeping over their faces as he spoke, pulling them into a tragic story.

Your story.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let’s address the most critical point that the prosecution conveniently overlooked–my client, the defendant, is not even on the stand because she has been declared psychologically unfit to stand trial by reason of insanity. Yet here we are, with the prosecution making baseless allegations, attempting to sway you with a narrative that cannot hold up under scrutiny.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained,” Judge Baek replied. “Get to the point, Mr. Choi.”

Jongho paused for dramatic motion before continuing.

“Can we truly expect someone living in such a mental state to calmly and rationally plan the murders she’s been accused of? We’re talking about hallucinations, delusions — breaks from reality. During these episodes, Ms. Lee is not in control of her actions.”

You could see the jurors leaning in now, their attention firmly on Jongho. They were hooked, feeding off his indignation on your behalf. But they didn’t know, couldn’t know, how little you cared for their sympathy.

"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, stepping toward the front of the room, "the person you see before you today—Ms. Lee Y/N—has lived through more tragedy than most of us can even imagine. At fifteen years old, she lost everything. Her parents, her brother, her sister—all gone in a single, devastating moment."

"Ms. Lee was the only survivor. Just fifteen years old and left to navigate a world without her family." He let the silence linger for a moment before pressing on.

"The system put in place to defend her failed her. It left her alone, untreated, with the kind of trauma that no child should have to bear. And worse than that—it allowed Ji Myungsoo, the man responsible for the accident that took her family, to walk free."

You kept your head down, lips pressed into a thin line, as Jongho’s impassioned speech filled the room. He truly believed what he was saying. He thought this was about grief, about a mind broken under the strain of unresolved trauma.

"Her mental health deteriorated," Jongho continued, casting a glance in your direction as if to emphasize the fragility he believed lay behind your eyes.

"And it was only a matter of time before that untreated pain turned inward—until she lost control of her actions, driven by the overwhelming sense of loss and confusion."

He gestured toward you. "We are not dealing with a criminal mastermind here. We are dealing with someone who has been failed by every system designed to protect her. Someone whose untreated traumatic disorder has led her to a state of paranoia and psychosis, an illness that, tragically, went unnoticed until it was too late."

Jongho’s final words echoed through the room, his tone full of somber determination. "My client isn’t a monster. She’s a victim. And today, we are here to ensure that she gets the help she should have received all those years ago."

You could feel the tension in the room shift again, the jury’s sympathy building. They were buying it. Jongho was good, no doubt about it. He returned to his seat beside you, his hand lightly brushing your shoulder in a gesture of support.

The world ended the day your family’s car tumbled into the ditch. You remembered the screech of metal and the world flipping over and over.

A drunk driver had collided with the car, sending it spinning off the road. By the time everything went still, the smell of gasoline and blood filled your lungs.

You crawled from the wreckage, dazed and broken—your head pounding from the concussion, your body screaming with the pain of fractured bones. Blood trickled from your mouth and eyes, but it wasn’t just the injuries. It was something deeper—something inside you broke too, as your world collapsed around you.

The doctors said you’d be fine. But your parents weren’t fine and neither were your brother and sister. They weren’t coming back. And as you lay in that hospital bed, staring. Then, it happened. A sharp giggle escaped your lips, so out of place in the heavy silence that it startled even you.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late. The dam broke. Laughter, wild and uncontrollable, erupted from deep within your chest. It spilled out in frantic waves, rising higher and higher until the sound of your own hysterics filled the room, drowning out everything else.

You were laughing because nothing made sense anymore. How could it? Your family was gone, and all you could do was lie there, broken and alone, the absurdity of it all twisting in your mind like some cruel joke.

Then came the news. The drunk driver, a wealthy executive, had walked away with barely a scratch. A slap on the wrist, a fine, and he was free to return to his life. Free to laugh at dinner parties, to kiss his children goodnight. And you?

You were left to piece together the shattered remnants of a life no longer recognizable. The system failed you, abandoned you. Just like your family had, though not by choice. You were alone in a world that felt cold and indifferent, the edges of your grief hardening into something else—something dark and unforgiving.

The world felt different after your family was taken from you in that car crash. Every noise was too loud, every shadow too long. The nightmares came first, the panic attacks next. And then, the moments you couldn’t explain—the times when it felt like someone else was inside your body, reacting, lashing out, making choices you couldn’t remember later.

It wasn’t long before your behavior began to spiral. You’d always been guarded, suspicious of others, but something had shifted. Everyone around you started to feel like a threat—each smile hiding a blade, each friendly word masking a darker intent.

And then, one day, you snapped.

It was your first year of college. Everything was supposed to be different, better. But the tension had been building for weeks. You were running on empty, stretched thin between assignments and sleepless nights, haunted by old wounds.

“Y/N, you look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?” Yujin’s voice was casual, the way someone might ask about the weather. But to you, the words were an accusation, sharp and cutting, a spotlight shining on your fragility.

“Yeah, you look like you’re carrying bags on your face,” Jiwon chimed in with a laugh.

That was the moment. Something deep inside you, already frayed, snapped. The edges of your vision blurred, and all you could feel was the heat rising in your chest, your pulse pounding so loudly it drowned out the rest of their laughter.

Before you knew what was happening, your body moved on its own. You lunged across the desk, your fist colliding with Jiwon’s face. You didn’t hear the gasps of your group mates, didn’t notice the way the library went silent, all eyes fixed on you.

You grabbed Jiwon by her hair, twisting it in your fist with a strength you didn’t know you had, and slammed their head against the desk. Once. Twice. Again. The screams around you faded into nothing, your world narrowed to this singular moment of violence.

Hands tried to grab you, pull you away, but they were too late. You were beyond their reach, beyond control. You swung again, wild, desperate to silence the laughter still echoing in your ears.

But then, amidst the chaos—professors rushing in, students frozen in horror—you were dragged away, yanked back from the scene of destruction you’d created. Your arms were pinned, your movements restricted, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

And in the aftermath, as your body trembled with the adrenaline coursing through you, all you felt was…peace.

It was a strange, twisted sense of calm that settled over you as you stood there, panting, your knuckles bruised and raw. The world around you still buzzed with activity—professors shouting, students calling for help—but to you, it was all muffled, distant. Like the storm inside had finally subsided.

Prosecutor Ahn’s heels clicked against the floor as she approached the easel, her movements precise, deliberate. She taped a photograph of the first victim, Ji Soyi, to the board. The image showed a vibrant, smiling young woman, full of life and promise.

“Let’s start with the first victim—Ji Myungsoo’s daughter,” Ahn said, her voice cutting through the silence in the courtroom. “Ji Soyi. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her, unaware that her final moments would be spent gasping for air as the defendant, Ms. Lee strangled her.”

Ahn didn’t flinch, her gaze unyielding as she gestured toward the autopsy report in her hand. “Signs of asphyxiation. Bruises on her neck from sustained pressure. This wasn’t a quick death—this was slow, deliberate, cruel.”

She let the words sink in before moving on, the click of her shoes resuming as she taped another photo—this one of Ji Myungsoo, a middle-aged man with graying hair and kind eyes—next to his daughter’s.

“And then there’s Ji Myungsoo,” Ahn continued, her voice dropping to a darker tone. “This wasn’t a random killing. The defendant poisoned him, ensuring a slow, agonizing death. But that wasn’t enough. Ms. Lee inflicted wounds on him over time, stabbing him more than fifty times. He suffered greatly, ladies and gentlemen.”

It was a battle not to react to every detail she laid out, every twisted image she painted of you. The room had become uncomfortably quiet, each juror hanging on Ahn’s every word.

“And finally,” Ahn turned back to the easel, placing the last photograph—a picture of Jung Wooyoung, a smiling man with tousled hair—beside the others. “Jung Wooyoung, an innocent man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. For that, he paid with his life.”

Prosecutor Ahn continued, turning to face the jury with an air of false sympathy. “Three lives. Taken without remorse. Without hesitation. Each death meticulously planned and executed by Ms. Lee.”

“I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to look at the evidence. To listen to the testimonies. To remember the faces of these victims. This was not a series of accidents. This was murder. And the defendant must be held accountable.”

As the prosecution’s final words lingered in the air, tension gripped the courtroom. All eyes shifted to Jongho as he rose to present the next crucial piece of evidence. He stood before the court, his expression calm yet resolute, and began playing the audio recording, allowing everyone to listen closely as the exchange between Wooyoung and San unfolded.

"San, I think something’s wrong. Y/N is—"

The jury listened intently, leaning in as they hear Wooyoung’s concerned voice, only for it to be interrupted by your frantic shouting.

"Let go of me, Wooyoung! Don’t touch me, I don’t know where I am!"

The recording continued with the faint sound of a struggle. Then, the unmistakable and chilling noise of the knife meeting flesh. Wooyoung’s shocked, labored gasp echoed like a whisper of death. The phone clattered to the floor with a muted thud.

As the recording ended, silence swallowed the room. The courtroom seemed frozen in that moment of tragedy, suspended between disbelief and horror. Jongho allowed the gravity of the evidence to sink in. After a moment, he took a measured breath and stepped forward, his face somber as he addressed the jury.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "what you just heard was a man trying to help a friend. Mr. Jung Wooyoung, a close friend of the defendant and her husband, recognized something was wrong. He wasn’t a threat. He didn’t raise a hand in violence. He was trying to help."

"But Ms. Lee didn’t recognize Mr. Jung at that moment. She wasn’t in her right mind. The recording clearly shows that she was disoriented, frightened, and acting out of what she perceived as self-defense. ‘I don’t know where I am,’ she said. A statement that gives us crucial insight into her state of mind."

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger before speaking again. "This is not the behavior of a calculated killer. This is someone who was mentally unwell, someone struggling with the reality around them. And that is why we must understand this case for what it truly is: a tragedy brought on by untreated trauma and mental illness."

"No one is denying the pain this incident has caused,” Jongho’s voice softened as he motioned to the jury. “But we must consider the true state of mind that led to this tragic event. Ms. Lee is not a cold-blooded murderer. She is a victim of a condition she didn’t choose, a condition that robbed her of her ability to understand what was happening in that moment."

As the trial resumed after a brief recess, the atmosphere in the courtroom felt heavier, as the court proceeded to the cross-examination. Jongho stood up smoothly, striding toward the witness stand where Dr. Kim Hongjoong, a seasoned psychiatrist, was seated.

“Dr. Kim,” Jongho began, his voice calm but commanding, “you’ve been treating the defendant, Ms. Lee, for how long now?”

Hongjoong sat upright, his hands folded in his lap. “Approximately six months,” he answered, his tone measured and professional.

Jongho nodded, pacing slightly as he glanced at the jury. “And in those six months, you’ve had the opportunity to evaluate her mental state thoroughly, correct?”

“Yes. I’ve conducted multiple sessions with Ms. Lee, as well as comprehensive psychological evaluations.”

“Let’s talk about those evaluations,” Jongho said, his eyes sharp as he approached the heart of his cross-examination. “In your professional opinion, what was Ms. Lee’s mental state at the time of the alleged crimes?”

Dr. Kim took a deep breath before answering. “Ms. Lee was suffering from severe psychosis, compounded by years of untreated trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder. She was not in full control of her actions. Her ability to distinguish between reality and hallucinations had been severely impaired.”

“So, are you saying that during the time in question, Ms. Lee would not have been able to fully comprehend the consequences of her actions?”

“Yes. Ms. Lee was experiencing delusions and episodes of dissociation. In my professional opinion, she was in a state of psychosis when the alleged incidents occurred.”

Jongho paused, allowing the weight of Dr. Kim’s testimony to sink in. “Doctor, could you tell the court about any specific episodes Ms. Lee experienced that support your diagnosis?”

“Ms. Lee described recurring visions, fragmented memories of violence, and a deep-seated paranoia that others were out to harm her,” Dr. Kim explained, his voice steady but somber. “In her mind, she wasn’t acting out of malice or cruelty, but out of a distorted sense of survival,” Dr. Kim explained, his voice steady but somber.

Jongho stepped back, giving the jury a moment to digest this before delivering his final question. “In your professional opinion, Doctor, had Ms. Lee received the appropriate mental health care before these tragic events occurred, could this situation have been prevented?”

Dr. Kim’s expression softened, and he nodded gravely. “Yes. If Ms. Lee had received immediate psychiatric intervention and proper treatment, it is likely that these tragic events could have been avoided.”

“Nothing further.”

The silence that followed was palpable. Jongho returned to his seat, leaving the jury with the image of a woman failed by the system, a woman whose suffering had been ignored until it was too late.

⋆

“Your Honor,” Prosecutor Ahn began, her voice crisp and authoritative, “the prosecution calls Choi San to the stand.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom as San stood up. He walked with a calm demeanor, but there was something unreadable in his expression. His eyes flickered briefly toward you as he made his way to the stand, but he said nothing, his jaw clenched as if holding back the weight of everything left unsaid between you.

"Mr. Choi," Ahn began, "you were married to the defendant, Ms. Lee Y/N, correct?"

San nodded slowly, his voice firm when he spoke. "Yes, we were married."

Ahn clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze unwavering. "And during the time of your marriage, did you notice any unusual behavior from Ms. Lee? Anything that might indicate she was…unwell?"

San hesitated for a moment, his eyes drifting to you again before he spoke. “There were moments. She would have these... episodes, where she would act out of character. She would get confused, paranoid.”

Prosecutor Ahn stepped closer, her voice soft but piercing. "Can you elaborate on these episodes?”

"I guess..." he hesitated, his voice quiet, "it started when we met my father’s business partner at a dinner," San’s voice faltered, the words catching in his throat.

"He was the one who killed her family in that accident ten years ago."

He took a deep breath before continuing his testimony. "After that run in, she wouldn’t let it go," he continued, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke.

"Y/N started tracking his every move. She started talking about an eye for an eye, and how the system failed her. That if she didn’t do something to take care of him, he’d take me away. And that he deserved to lose everything he loved.”

"I didn’t believe anything she was saying," San confessed, his voice tinged with regret. "I thought it was just her way of venting out her frustrations and the pain she felt from losing her family."

Ahn pressed forward, her voice dipping into a quieter, more somber tone. “Mr. Choi, do you believe your wife was capable of committing the murders she’s accused of?”

San hesitated. His gaze locked onto yours for what felt like an eternity before he answered, his voice rough but steady. “Yes. In the state she was in... I believe she could have done it.”

Prosecutor Ahn nodded and glanced at the jury, making sure their attention was firmly on the tragic narrative she was building.

“Mr. Choi,” Ahn said, her voice quiet and deliberate, “do you believe Ms. Lee poses a danger to others?”

“Yes.”

"Thank you, Mr. Choi," Ahn said, before turning toward the defense table, offering the floor to Jongho. He stood up slowly, his expression unreadable as he prepared to dismantle the prosecution’s carefully crafted testimony.

“Mr. Choi, what was your relationship to the victim, Jung Wooyoung?”

San blinked, his expression hardening, clearly not expecting the shift in focus. He squared his shoulders and answered, "He was a close friend of mine. We had known each other for years."

"Now," Jongho continued, his voice calm but cutting, "you testified earlier that your wife, Ms. Lee, had episodes where she experienced paranoia, confusion, and breaks from reality. These episodes, as you described them, made her unpredictable, correct?"

"Yes," San replied, his voice strained.

"During these episodes, did you ever witness Ms. Lee act violently toward Wooyoung? Was there any indication that she harbored ill will toward him?"

San hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "No."

“But you also testified that you believed your wife was capable of committing these crimes because of her mental state. When these 'episodes' occurred, did you ever seek medical intervention for her? Did you ever attempt to get her the help she needed?"

"I thought I could handle it. I thought...it would get better."

Jongho’s tone turned sharp again. "But it didn’t get better, did it? And instead of intervening, you allowed her mental state to deteriorate further, and divorced her?"

"Objection!" Prosecutor Ahn shot up from her seat. "Counsel is badgering the witness."

"Sustained," Judge Baek replied, her voice firm.

"I’ll rephrase, Your Honor."

Jongho turned back to San, his eyes locking onto him. "Mr. Choi, did you ever try to commit your wife to a psychiatric facility, or ensure she received treatment when it became clear she wasn’t capable of seeking it on her own?"

"No... I didn’t."

“So at no point did you take any formal action to protect her or those around her. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client has been portrayed as a dangerous woman, out of control and violent. But the truth is, the people closest to her, who should have protected her, did nothing. They left her to spiral, and now, they seek to blame her for the results of their negligence."

Jongho’s voice rose in impassioned defense, but you barely heard him. It was all noise now. The trial, the evidence, the testimonies—they were irrelevant. His defense painted you as a victim—of trauma, of untreated mental illness, of circumstance. It was a masterful performance, really. He was doing everything he could to save you, using every legal trick in the book to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case.

But the truth? The truth didn’t matter to you.

None of what Jongho said applied to you. It never had. The psychological evaluation—full of words like unstable and delusional—had been nothing more than a tool. You needed it. The evaluation was a key piece of the puzzle, a carefully laid foundation in your plan to ensure your return to him.

Jeong Yunho.

He wasn’t just another doctor assigned to pick apart your mind after that brutal incident. You’d been sent to Cromer Asylum after the incident that left the faculty bewildered and your peers terrified. Everyone thought you were unhinged, unstable, dangerous—and maybe they weren’t wrong. But in the eerie, stuffy walls of the asylum, Yunho had been different.

It was Yunho’s kindness—those small, thoughtful gestures—that first made you feel something again. Like offering you tea during your sessions or slipping you an extra book from the library. But the gesture had been far from simple to you. It had been intimate. Thoughtful.

During sessions, never rushed you. Even when your words came out fragmented, your thoughts tangled in chaos, he listened, really listened, without judgment. There was a warmth to his presence that none of the others possessed, a patience that was unnerving in its sincerity.

You fell for him, deeply and irrevocably. The way he looked at you, the way his presence brought a sense of peace in the madness. He didn’t know it then, but you had seen it—the connection between you. You had felt it. He didn’t know it yet, but there was something between you. Something right.

But when you were informed of your release from the asylum, you begged him. You begged him to stop it, to keep you there, to let you stay with him. You pleaded with him like a drowning person reaching for something—anything—to hold on to.

You were supposed to be getting better. Supposed to be moving forward. But the thought of leaving him, of stepping into a world where he wasn’t there every week, listening to your deepest fears and watching you with those careful, thoughtful eyes—it was unbearable.

But all you found was silence.

When you were finally discharged, you felt hollow. The outside world swallowed you whole, indifferent to your desperation. And Yunho? He moved on. His role in your life ended the moment you walked out of Cromer’s doors.

But you couldn’t forget. You’d always find your way back to him, one way or another.

You weren’t quite the same person who had walked out of Cromer Asylum all those years ago—though, in truth, you had never really left that place behind. No matter how much you tried to suppress them, to move forward, they lingered, always just beneath the surface. And in the center of those memories, was Yunho. He was never far from your thoughts, even as you built a new life with San.

When you received the invitation to the dinner party hosted by Ji Myungsoo, your father-in-law’s business partner, you felt a chill run down your spine. The name alone was enough to make your skin crawl, but you couldn’t refuse the invitation. San insisted it was important to attend. The business connection with Ji Myungsoo was vital, and he wanted you by his side.

The man who had taken everything from you—the man responsible for your family's deaths—was not only thriving, but he was hosting you, offering you drinks, parading you around his opulent home like you were all part of the same privileged world. The rage bubbled just below the surface, but you forced yourself to smile, to nod politely, and to keep up the facade for San’s sake. Every moment felt like an eternity.

Halfway through dinner, as the conversation turned toward families and futures, Myungsoo casually mentioned his daughter.

“You’ll meet her soon. I hope you two will become fast friends,” he said with a proud smile.

You nodded, forcing a polite smile, though your mind was elsewhere. The edges of the dinner party felt blurry, sounds muffled under the weight of your thoughts as you fought to reconcile with the fact that your family’s murderer was standing right before you.

Your heart raced, trying to keep your composure, knowing this was just another chapter in a long, cruel joke the universe had decided to play on you.

And then she appeared.

Soyi entered the room, but it wasn’t her entrance that made your blood run cold. No, it was the man beside her, the one she had looped her arm through.

Yunho.

You hadn’t seen him since the asylum, since the day they released you and tore you away from him. You thought you had buried those feelings, those memories, but seeing him now—so close yet so impossibly out of reach—made it all rush back with a force that left you breathless.

He hadn’t changed. The same calm, thoughtful presence radiated from him. And then, as if fate itself had conspired against you, his gaze drifted across the room and landed on you.

Seeing Yunho again had set everything into motion.

As you stood there, watching him laugh beside Ji Soyi, the daughter of the man who had ruined your life, you felt a bitter twist in your chest. Nothing would ever be the same again.

That night, when you lay beside San in bed, your thoughts were plagued with Yunho. His face, his voice, the way he had looked at you all those years ago. You had felt that connection with him immediately, and it had never faded. It had only grown stronger, all consuming, until it had taken over everything. Even your life with San. Especially your life with San.

He had been everything you should have wanted—a loving husband who was gentle, kind, and devoted. San gave you comfort, security. For a while, you tried. You really did.

But now, you were going to be reunited with Yunho, no matter the cost. San had been collateral damage—necessary, inevitable. You had always known that this life with him wouldn’t last. It wasn’t meant to.

Because your life, your future, had always been with Yunho.

⋆

Ji Soyi had been first.

Beautiful, kind, so perfect for Yunho. She was an obstacle, a barrier standing between you and Yunho. It was her constant hovering around him that grated on you the most. The way her laugh would ring out just a little too loudly whenever he spoke, her hand lingering on his arm a second too long, as though she had some unspoken claim to him. She would bat her eyelashes and brush against him, whispering things in his ear when she thought no one was watching.

But you were always watching.

And Yunho, ever so polite, didn’t see it. Or if he did, he played it off. He always played it off. You had seen it in his smile—the one he gave her, the one that was meant to be reserved for you.

Her death came swiftly, almost too easily. You played the long game, weaving your way into her life with care. Befriending her was almost laughably simple, as if your shared connection to San could bridge the gap between strangers. You used it to your advantage, knowing that her guard would drop. And it did.

“Stay the fuck away from him,” you hissed as you brought your hands around her neck. “You don’t know shit about him, you don’t deserve him.”

You had expected more from her, something resembling a fight, but when you knocked her out, it was over too quickly. She struggled, clawing and kicking at you as she tried to break free, the pulse beneath your grip beating frantically, begging for life, but you didn’t flinch. You watched the way the light left her eyes, how her breath came in sharp, erratic bursts, until it suddenly didn’t.

“He’s mine.”

It was quiet now, the room heavy with the absence of her breath. You lingered for a moment, taking it all in, before you stood up. You had done what needed to be done.

Upon hearing of his daughter’s death, Ji Myungsoo was consumed by grief. He had no idea that his own tragedy was about to begin.

The day had unfolded like any other, ordinary and unremarkable. But for you, it was anything but. Soyi’s death had been the first step—necessary to clear the path to Yunho. Now, with her out of the way, it was time to exact your revenge on the man who had destroyed your world. Ji Myungsoo.

His death would not be quick or merciful. No, it would be a meticulous masterpiece of suffering, each moment designed to make him feel every ounce of the rage that had been festering inside you for years.

You invited him over for tea, expressing your condolences, telling him that San would be running late. There was no hesitation in his acceptance; why would there be? You were, after all, mourning Soyi’s loss alongside him. And as always, Myungsoo’s arrogance blinded him. He saw only the fragile, heartbroken woman before him—not the calculating mind that had orchestrated everything.

“You were right when you said that she and I would become fast friends,” you said, your voice calm as you poured him a cup of tea. The poison swirled invisibly in his drink, a silent killer that would take its time.

He sipped, oblivious. The poison worked slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight discomfort twisted across his face, but he pushed it aside with a casual shrug. Perhaps he thought it was nothing—just stress or a mild irritation.

But as the minutes passed, the real symptoms began to set in.

You noticed the first signs before he did: the subtle clenching of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His hand reached for his stomach as nausea began to creep in, followed by a burning sensation that you knew must be coursing through his veins by now. He looked at you, confusion clouding his eyes.

“Are you alright?” you asked, feigning concern as he grew more uncomfortable in his seat. He forced a smile, but panic had already set in.

He attempted to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. His breath came in shallow gasps as his body convulsed, the poison coursing relentlessly through his veins.

The moment he realized he was going to die, his eyes locked onto yours, wide with fear. He tried to speak, but the words came out garbled, a pathetic attempt at pleading for his life.

But you weren’t done yet.

Dragging his half-limp body to your car had been easy enough, though the drive to the warehouse felt almost surreal. This was what you had waited for, planned for, every detail meticulously crafted for this moment.

You stared down at him, tied to the chair, his skin already pale from the poison. His eyes flickered open, unfocused, as you stepped closer. His breathing was ragged, each gasp a fight, and you savored the sight of his vulnerability.

"Do you remember where you were ten years ago?" Your words were venomous as you slapped him across the face with the hospital report—the one from the accident, the one you kept as a reminder of that night. The slap echoed in the empty room, but his head just to the side, too weak to hold itself up.

"It was rhetorical, don't answer that," you snapped, tossing the papers aside.

You began with his hands, driving the blade of your knife into the back of his hand, dragging it down each of his fingers as his screams echoed off the cold walls.

“You took everything from me,” you whispered, the words calm but seething with fury as you tossed aside the knife and picked up an iron stake. The glow from the metal illuminated the look of realization that dawned on Myungsoo’s face. But it was too late for it. The stake hissed as it seared into his skin, his body convulsing uncontrollably, and you pressed down harder, savoring the way his flesh bubbled and blackened under the heat.

His words were a garbled mess, his once-commanding voice reduced to pitiful moans. You didn’t care. You weren’t looking for his answers—just his suffering. He begged for mercy, of course. They always do in the end. But you weren’t in the business of mercy. Not for him. Not for the man who had destroyed everything.

“Did you think I would just forget?” Your voice was soft, almost caring, but the malice beneath it was unmistakable. His eyes rolled back, his chest heaving, but all that came out were pitiful whimpers.

You took a step back, circling him like a predator. “Your family…” You spat, your disgust palpable. "All of you, filthy, corrupt pieces of shit." The iron stake gleamed in your hand as you lifted it, bringing it down with brutal force.

The first stab was almost surgical, controlled, as you sunk the metal deep into his shoulder. His scream was ear-shattering, but you barely registered it over the roar of blood in your ears.

“You destroyed my family!” Another stab, this time to his chest, your hand trembling not from fear but from the rage that had built up for years. "You took Yunho from me! Took everything!"

Your voice cracked as you drove the stake in again, punctuating every word with a strike. His body jerked with each stab, his life force dwindling with every ounce of blood spilled, but still, it wasn’t enough. Not for what he had done.

"You ruined my life!" you screamed, your throat raw from the force of it, but there was no stopping now. Not until the last shred of his miserable life had been bled out.

Ji Myungsoo had taken everything from you. But in the end, you had taken everything from him, too.

“Y/N?”

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath, heart raced as you turned to see Wooyoung standing in the doorway of the warehouse. Of all the people to walk in, it had to be him. San’s best friend, the real estate agent who had been helping you scout this very warehouse, now stood frozen, eyes darting between you and the bloodied mess that was Ji Myungsoo.

His face shifted from confusion to dawning suspicion, taking in the scene with wide eyes—the discarded iron stake, Myungsoo's lifeless form slumped in the chair, and you, soaked in sweat and smeared in blood. Wooyoung wasn't meant to be part of this. You hadn't planned for his death—not here, not now. But fate had a way of forcing your hand, and as you stood there, you knew there was no turning back.

"What’s going on?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.

"Wooyoung," you began, your voice steady, even as panic clawed at your insides. You tried to keep calm, but his eyes betrayed his growing doubt. He knew something was off.

"I-I don’t know what happened. I blacked out and found myself here," you cried, your voice shaking just enough to sell the lie. The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, and you watched as his brow furrowed in concern, his guard lowering slightly.

"Blacked out?" he echoed, glancing around the dimly lit warehouse. "What do you mean?"

"I swear, Wooyoung, I don’t remember! One moment I was home, and then... everything went dark." You let your voice tremble, tears welling in your eyes as you faked a sniffle. "I never wanted any of this! You have to believe me!"

Wooyoung hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. His eyes softened, his loyalty to San overriding his doubt. "Okay," he said, his tone gentler now. "We’ll figure this out. I’ll call San, he’ll know what to do."

You followed him outside, feigning hysteria as he led you toward his car. He fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking as he dialed San’s number. He was trying to stay calm, trying to protect you, but he had no idea what was coming.

"I’ll drive you home," he said, opening the passenger door for you. You slipped inside, wiping fake tears from your cheeks, watching him get into the driver's seat beside you.

As Wooyoung lifted the phone to his ear, you reached for the knife tucked into the waistband of your pants. Your breath hitched, not out of guilt but out of anticipation.

"San, I think something’s wrong. Y/N is—"

"Let go of me, Wooyoung! Don’t touch me, I don’t know where I am!"

Wooyoung’s eyes went wide, not in pain, but in shock as the blade of the knife came in contact with his throat. Blood trickled down as the phone slipped from his hand, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

"Wooyoung? Wooyoung?" San's frantic voice crackled from the phone.

You sat there for a moment, your chest heaving as you stared at Wooyoung's lifeless body slumped against the driver's seat. Unlike with Ji Myungsoo or his daughter, there was no satisfaction in this kill. No personal vendetta.

Wooyoung’s death wasn’t about revenge—it was about necessity. You needed chaos. You needed San to break, to crumble under the weight of grief and guilt. Wooyoung’s murder was the key, the catalyst that would force San’s hand.

Everything was falling into place. Wooyoung’s death had served its purpose, just as you had intended.

Wooyoung’s arrival wasn’t a mistake–it was destiny. The piece you hadn't accounted for but hoped fate would deliver. His blood on your blade, the chaotic scene at the warehouse—it was all necessary. For the world to collapse, to fold back on itself, to bring you back to that asylum.

Back to Yunho.

But the jury wouldn’t see it that way. They would see only the surface: a cold-blooded killer, a twisted mind, someone trying to claim insanity and self-defense for the bloodshed. And that was the point.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his voice firm yet measured, “we’ve spent the past few days unraveling a complex and tragic series of events. You’ve heard the prosecution’s version of events,” Jongho continued, his voice low, almost intimate.

“A calculated killer. A deranged individual who took lives without remorse. But this case—this trial—is about more than cold facts. It’s about understanding the human mind, the trauma that shapes it, and how one can be driven to unspeakable actions when their grip on reality slips away.”

He took a step forward, his eyes softening as he spoke, appealing not to their logic but to their empathy.

“When you look at the evidence, at the bloody scene, you see only the aftermath. But I ask you to dig deeper. To see Ms. Lee as a victim, not just of circumstance but of her own fractured psyche.”

“To convict Lee Y/N of murder, to ignore the clear signs of mental illness, would be to deny them the help they so desperately need. It would be to condemn them to a system that doesn’t heal but punishes.”

He walked slowly toward the jury box, lowering his voice once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t about vengeance. This is about justice. True justice. The kind that doesn’t close its eyes to the complexities of the human mind. Y/N is not a monster. She is a victim of circumstances and trauma she couldn’t control. For that reason, I plead with you—find Ms. Lee is not guilty by reason of insanity. Don’t let this tragedy end with another one.”

The courtroom fell into a suffocating silence as the jury left to deliberate. It was as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for the judgment that would either seal your fate or offer a sliver of mercy. Every sound—the shuffle of papers, the creak of chairs—seemed amplified, yet muffled by the overwhelming tension.

You were so close to Yunho. His face lingered in your thoughts, hazy and distant, but still the anchor that kept you grounded. You had tried so hard to return to him, to undo the chaos, to find the way back to the asylum where it had all begun. All of this—every desperate choice, every life you’d taken—had been to right the wrongs, to set the world on a course that could lead you back to him. Back to the only place where you’d felt whole.

Would the jury see beyond the blood and violence? Would they understand that your actions, twisted as they were, had been born from a mind in torment? Or would they condemn you, as the prosecutor had urged, to live out the rest of your days in darkness, with no hope of return?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the heavy wooden door creaked open. The jury filed in, their expressions unreadable, faces drawn and pale as if the weight of the decision had drained them of life.

The world around you blurred and you barely registered the judge’s voice asking for the verdict. Your pulse quickened, each beat pounding in your ears, drowning out all other sound. Every nerve in your body tensed, bracing for the moment when your future—everything you had done, everything you had been—would be reduced to a single sentence.

“In the case of Y/N, we the jury find the defendant…not guilty by reason of insanity.”

For a moment, the world had stopped to process the verdict. And then, chaos erupted. The courtroom exploded into a cacophony of shocked gasps, outraged shouts, and the frenzied hum of disbelief. Reporters scrambled to capture the scene, their cameras flashing like bursts of lightning, while murmurs of shock rippled through the gallery.

You barely registered the noise, the protests, the frantic movement around you. The words not guilty resonated within you, surreal and distant, as if they had been spoken for someone else. But they hadn’t. They were yours. You had been spared.

You had won.

A strange giddiness bubbled up inside you, an almost glee that coursed through your veins. Your limbs felt light, your pulse quickening with the intoxicating rush of relief and triumph. You could hardly believe it. You had done it. You were going back. Back to where it all began. Back to the asylum.

Back to Yunho.

It didn’t matter what they thought—what they saw in you. They would never understand. They couldn’t see what you saw. This wasn’t about guilt or innocence. This was about destiny. And destiny had delivered exactly what you needed.

As you were led out of the defendant’s seat, the press rushed toward you, their voices clamoring for a piece of you, a glimpse into the madness they’d only seen from the outside.

“How could you let this monster go free?” one reporter shouted, his words seething with disgust.

“This isn’t about freedom,” Jongho’s voice cut through the mayhem, firm and unyielding, though no one seemed to hear him. “This verdict means treatment, not freedom.”

But you heard. And it made your pulse race even faster. Treatment. The word tasted sweet on your tongue. They didn’t know it, but they were giving you exactly what you wanted. They were sending you back to Yunho, back to the place where everything had started to unravel and where, finally, you could set it all right.

A nervous, giddy laugh threatened to spill from your lips as security escorted you down the courthouse steps, flashes from cameras exploding like fireworks around you. You felt lightheaded, as if you were floating. The trial was over. They had given you exactly what you needed. You had won.

Soon, everything would be as it was meant to be.

As you descended the final steps, you caught Jongho’s eye. He gave you a curt nod, his expression unreadable. But you didn’t care. None of this was for him. This was for you and Yunho.

The asylum was waiting. He was waiting. And soon, you’d be together, just as fate had intended.

⋆

Yunho moved through the halls of the asylum, his footsteps steady, his mind focused on the quiet, predictable routine that had become his refuge. There was a strange comfort in the monotony—the steady rhythm of making his rounds, checking on patients, administering care where needed.

The asylum was a place where chaos was contained, where he could maintain control. And after everything that had happened, he needed that sense of order more than ever.

Since Soyi’s death, Yunho had distanced himself from the outside world, retreating into the sterile, unchanging walls of the asylum. Here, within the asylum, the order and routine soothed the jagged edges of his grief. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to feel. All he had to do was keep moving—one foot in front of the other—through days that blurred together in a haze of a routine.

But today, there was something different in the air. An odd tension hummed beneath the surface, something Yunho couldn’t quite place. The staff seemed restless, exchanging glances as they passed, but no one said anything. He brushed it off, convincing himself it was just another day.

As he headed toward the lounge for a break, he suddenly froze. Whispers drifted through the air like spectres. His back was to the nurses, but their words hit him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Did you hear the verdict?” one of them whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“I can’t believe it,” the other replied, shaking her head. “After everything that’s happened, they’re sending her back here?”

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Yunho’s heart began to race, his feet were fixed to the ground but his mind was spinning, grasping for a rational explanation.

You couldn’t be coming back.

He slowly turned toward the nurses, the look on their faces told him all he needed to know. It wasn’t a rumor. It wasn’t a mistake.

You were being brought back to the asylum.

Yunho had tried to help you back then, hadn’t he? He had thought he could guide you through the darkness in your mind. He had thought you could be saved. But you had twisted everything—warped every moment, every act of kindness, until the lines between reality and fantasy blurred beyond recognition.

Yunho clenched his fists, recalling the strange things you used to say, the way you always looked at him with a strange intensity, as if there was something between you that had never been there. He had been your doctor, your guide through a fractured reality. But to you, that had never been enough.

In your mind, every small interaction, every professional courtesy had turned into something else. Something far more intimate, far more meaningful. He remembered the way you would smile at him after a session, lingering in the doorway longer than necessary, your eyes gleaming with an unsettling warmth.

The tea. You had held onto that memory like it was a shared moment of affection, but Yunho had only brought it to you so you could take your medication. He never lingered or stayed with you—it was just protocol. And the books—you believed he had slipped them to you as a secret gift, but in truth, you had stolen them from his office. While you imagined a private exchange, Yunho had been searching for those missing books, unaware of the narrative you had created in your mind.

Yunho had been oblivious at first, chalking up your behavior to the paranoia and delusions of your condition. But as the months had worn on, it became clear that you were building something dangerous. You began to speak as if he were yours, as if the two of you shared something secret and forbidden. And when he tried to correct you, to explain that none of it was real, you had lashed out.

He had been forced to distance himself, to reassign your care to someone else. He couldn’t risk letting you believe any longer. But even then, you hadn’t stopped. The stalking had started—notes left in his office, small gifts appearing on his desk, the feeling that you were always there, watching.

You had vanished without a trace after your release, and though there had been whispers, rumors—mostly mundane—no one seemed to know what had truly happened to you.

But when he saw you that night, at the dinner party, and that unsettling smile playing on your lips, something in him had recoiled. He’d tried to convince himself it wasn’t really you at first—maybe a shadow of his imagination, a trick of the light, the product of too many sleepless nights. But it was you.

Married to another man nonetheless.

You hadn’t changed, not in any way that anyone else could notice, but to Yunho, there was something different. Something darker. The way you watched him—how your gaze never left him, even when you pretended to mingle with the other guests.

At first, he tried to ignore it. To tell himself that he was imagining things, that the distance between you had made him overly paranoid. But the gnawing feeling never left. The unsettling gaze you cast his way lingered, even in his dreams.

And then the deaths came.

Soyi was first. Found in her own home, strangled to death. The image of her lifeless body flashed across his mind like a nightmare he couldn’t shake. She had nothing to do with any of this, yet her murder felt…deliberate. Calculated.

The police hadn’t found any leads. Yunho knew Soyi wasn’t a target, but a message. The first drop of blood in what would become a flood.

Then her father, only days later. The grief had barely settled over the funeral before another tragedy struck. He was found in a warehouse, unrecognizable as he was branded and mutilated to death.

Wooyoung’s death didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit your pattern. Where Soyi and her father’s murders were deliberate—carefully tied to your twisted sense of fate—Wooyoung was different. He wasn’t part of the narrative you’d constructed around Yunho. He wasn’t a pawn in your obsession, nor did he pose any threat to your plans. And yet, there he was—dead.

Yunho tried to make sense of it. He wanted to believe it was all some horrible coincidence, that Wooyoung’s death wasn’t connected to you. Why would a married woman go on a killing spree, carefully orchestrating deaths that, at first glance, seemed unrelated?

But the more Yunho thought about it, the clearer the truth became. Wooyoung wasn’t just collateral damage in the fallout of your unraveling marriage. His death had been deliberate—another piece of your twisted puzzle. A final push.

Yunho’s stomach twisted as the realization sank in. Wooyoung’s death had been the last piece of the puzzle to get San to divorce you. The timing was too perfect. San had been distancing himself, pulling away the moment the killings began. But Wooyoung? His death was the breaking point—the one thing that pushed San over the edge.

Yunho couldn’t escape the truth now. Your silence, the way you had watched him before you disappeared, the cold calculation behind every move—it had all been leading to this. You wanted to sever every tie, burn every bridge.

And it worked.

Now, standing in the asylum, Yunho felt the dread he had long tried to suppress rose to the surface. You weren’t just a memory or a ghost lingering in the corners of his mind anymore. You were here—flesh and blood—inside the place where everything had begun to unravel. The line between reality and delusion had long since blurred.

He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he approached his office. The hallway seemed longer, the air heavier, as though the very walls of the asylum were closing in around him. His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing down the corridor.

And there you were—sitting in the chair, waiting for him, your presence filling the room like a ghost that refused to be banished.

“Yunho,” you said softly, your voice carrying a strange intimacy that made his skin crawl. You rose from the chair, stepping toward him with a slow, deliberate grace, “I’m back.”

Your smile—small, almost innocent—didn’t reach your eyes. They gleamed with something Yunho couldn’t quite place, something darker, obsessive. His heart pounded, and for a split second, his instincts screamed at him to run, to leave, to escape. But he couldn’t move. His body was frozen, tethered by the force of your gaze, by the sheer gravity of your presence.

“Can you believe it? Fate finally brought us back together.”

Your words tightened around him like a noose, each one pulling tighter, cutting off his air. Together. That was what you believed, wasn’t it? That this was fate. That everything—the years of distance, the separation, the silence—had all been leading to this moment. This reunion.

You were smiling now, a slow, eerie smile that didn’t match the sharp edge in your tone. “Do you understand? All those years of waiting, of watching you live your life without me…it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.” Your voice trembled with emotion as your lips curled into something that might have been joy, if it hadn’t felt so disturbingly wrong.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” you cooed softly, reaching out to brush your fingers along his arm, the touch light but charged with an undercurrent of possessiveness.

“This is what was meant to be. We were always meant to be together, Yunho. Nothing can change that. Not time. Not distance. Not even death.”

The pit in Yunho’s stomach churned violently. He stared at you, the full horror of your words sinking in like poison. You had killed for this—for him. Because you truly believed that your twisted bond, your warped sense of destiny, justified everything.

You stepped even closer, your breath warm against his skin.

“Just like it was always meant to be.”

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