A Fall of Red Roses | The devil has a face
Author: Doll
Romance;Thriller
Chapter 11
- Sunha's POV -
The air in the isolation cell didn’t just stagnate; it putrefied.
Months pinned beneath that blinding, chemical white had thoroughly dissolved the world’s geometry, leaving my retinas to track nothing but the jagged, horizontal static of my own dying optic nerves. I sat frozen in the dead center of the floor, knees violently locked against my sternum, the heavy, crusted leather collar around my neck weeping fluid where it continuously gnawed into my collarbones. This confinement wasn't a physical sentence; it was an invasive, structural rot that methodically peeled back the gray matter of my mind until the raw, twitching circuitry was completely bare to the cold.
I felt absolutely nothing as the skin on my forearms parted.
My fingers moved with the quiet, rhythmic precision of a burrowing insect, digging deep beneath the flesh, peeling back the damp, white-soaked layers of my own neglected body. Sluggish, oil-dark crimson pooled in the deep creases of my elbows, entirely unhindered by pain. Pain was a luxury reserved for things that still possessed an identity. To me, this meat was just a heavy architectural failure—a cage of wet sinew keeping a broken machine from scattering into pieces. The true, suffocating horror was the realization that if I dug all the way to the marrow, I wouldn’t find bone. I would find only humming, infinite static.
“—peel it clean peel it clean peel it clean peel it—”
The whispers weren’t language; they were the wet, dragging sound of hair and sludge sliding down a choked drainage pipe, scraping directly against the interior of my left ear, close enough to leave a cold, phantom grease on my skin. A sudden, blinding migraine hammered a white-hot iron spike straight through my skull, buckling my vision at the corners.
The pristine white walls warped inward like melting, toxic plastic, threatening to liquefy and drown me beneath an artificial sky. The air turned instantly foul—clogged with the thick stench of sulfur and frozen copper, the sickening, heavy odor of an industrial slaughterhouse.
Then, the true frequency hit.
It was a high-pitched, metallic shriek—the sound of a rusted iron nail grinding directly across a dead television screen—accompanied by an immediate, deafening wall of agony that didn't sound human. It sounded like a thousand crows being systematically crushed under a heavy leather boot, a collective, rhythmic screaming that vibrated the very marrow of my bones.
The white walls imploded into oily, black smoke.
The shriek vanished, instantly replaced by the dead, freezing paralysis of a winter night.
I was fifteen. I was pinned to a cold iron bench in the dead center of an empty public park, my hands resting flat on my knees. I stared down at my long, adolescent fingers—they were clean, unmarred by the blood from the cell—but the pressure inside my skull was immense, a massive block of black lead balanced precariously on my spine. The dark silhouettes of the bare trees twisted like writhing, fractured backbones against the violet sky, pulsing in agonizing sync with the drilling ache behind my eyes. The entire landscape felt like a fragile, rotting tarp stretched over an immense, predatory void.
The whispers in my head were turning into a synchronized, deafening chant. She is looking. She is looking.
She is looking.
"You look like you're trying to figure out how to dissect the moon."
The voice didn't approach; it materialized from the sharp, blind spot directly over my left shoulder, vibrating against my ear before the speaker slid into my narrow field of vision.
Min-seo.
She stood beneath the flickering, amber glare of the streetlamp, her dark hair catching the freezing wind, her eyes a deep, unhealthily bright violet. She was smiling—a wild, razor-sharp little expression that completely ignored the rigid, homicidal stillness of my posture. Without waiting for an invitation, she dropped onto the iron bench beside me, her thigh dragging lightly against my dark wool coat.
She looked at me with an effortless, practiced malice masked as curiosity, entirely unaware of the abyss she had just stepped into. To her, I was just a boy. Another mind to hollow out, another heart to charm and discard for her own amusement.
I didn't turn my head. I kept my gaze locked on the empty, frozen gravel path, my voice dropping into a flat, winter-cologne chill. "You're loud."
"And you're hiding in the dark," she replied instantly, her tone bouncing with a dangerous, untamed amusement. She tilted her head, leaning forward just enough to force her face into my line of sight, her smile widening into something designed to pull victims in. "I haven't seen you around here before. I'm Min-seo. Are you going to tell me your name, or do I just have to keep calling you the boy who stares at nothing?"
I slowly shifted my gaze sideways, my neck moving with a sickening, micro-expressionless precision.
My eyes widened.
My heart didn’t beat; it seized. Min-seo’s face—the specific, predatory curve of her jaw, the way her hair framed her forehead—it wasn't the face of a stranger. It was the exact, terrifying blueprint of the faceless girl from my childhood nightmares. The entity that had crawled down my throat in the isolation room was sitting right beside me, wearing a high school uniform, breathing real air. She was completely oblivious to the horror she mirrored, offering me a playful, charming grin as if this were just a normal, flirtatious encounter between teenagers. The sheer uncanny nature of her presence sent a wave of nausea through me; it was as if reality had suffered a malignant glitch, placing a demon in human skin directly within arm's reach.
The demon has a face, my mind short-circuited.
She found me.
A dark, monstrous thrill bloomed beneath my ribs, a sudden, suffocating fixation that made the drilling headache vanish for a fraction of a second. An overwhelming, vicious obsession sparked in the center of my chest. I didn't want to know her; I wanted to undo her. I wanted to break this creature piece by piece, peeling back the layers of her perfect face until the phantom in my head finally let me go.
She wanted to play a game of charm, completely unaware that she had just walked into her own execution.
"Sunha," I said, my voice smooth, a deceptive mask hiding the violent calculation spinning through my brain. "Baek Sunha."
"Sunha," she repeated, tasting the syllables, her violet eyes flashing with a bright, victorious spark as she thought she had successfully pulled me out of my shell. "Well, Sunha, you look... empty. Like a room somebody cleaned out with fire. I think you're going to be very interesting."
I felt a bizarre, icy numbness spread from my chest down to my fingertips. I looked down at my hands, trying to anchor myself to the physical world, my thoughts spiraling into a deep, silent void. I have to destroy her. If I don't break her, she will hypnotize the rest of reality.
I raised my head to look back at her—
But there was no girl. There was no park.
My eyes slammed into a monolithic, blinding white wall. I was sitting on the concrete floor, my nose inches away from the stark, sterile barrier of my childhood isolation cell.
A cold panic struck me like a physical blow. The transition was so violent, so unprimed, that my breath caught in my throat. The park was a lie.
Min-seo was a lie. I was still in the cage. I was still the broken mechanism. The terrifying realization settled in: my own memories were hostile territory, a shifting labyrinth designed to keep me perpetually off-balance and drowning in dread.
"No," I whispered, my voice cracking as I curled my body into a tight ball, pressing my forehead against my knees, my fingers digging into my scalp until my nails drew blood. "Get out. Get out of my chest. Stop showing me things."
I pleaded with the white wall for what felt like hours, my chest heaving, my mind thrall in pure, unadulterated agony as the high-pitched frequency returned, vibrating the fillings in my teeth.
I blinked.
The white wall dissolved into a gray, smoky evening.
I was standing by a barren roadside, the collar of my expensive black coat turned up against a biting wind. Between my fingers, a lit cigarette burned slowly, the thin wisp of smoke drifting into the overcast sky. I took a drag, inhaling the bitter tobacco calmly, my expression entirely neutral, as if the panic of the white cell had belonged to a completely different person.
"You left your lighter on the bench last time," a voice chirped from the side.
Min-seo appeared again, stepping out from the gray fog as though this were simply our second accidental meeting. Her smile was smaller this time, more intimate, carrying the weight of a shared secret. She reached out, her fingers pale against the dark fabric of my sleeve, and dropped something small and glittering into my open palm.
It was a single, silver earring, shaped like a sharp, geometric shard.
"A gift," she murmured, her eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying, playful intensity. "So you don't forget the face of the person who hypnotized you."
I didn't thank her. I slowly closed my fist around the cold metal, the sharp edge digging into my palm, providing a faint, grounding sting.
But as I looked past her shoulder, the gray fog behind her began to curdle into a dark, oily sludge.
The whispers of the demon girl intensified, transforming into a roar of overlapping frequencies that commanded my eyes to move. Look. Look at the end of the line. He is watching.
I turned my head toward the far end of the empty road.
Standing in the distance, silhouetted against the dead gray horizon, was that man. He stood tall, imposing, and completely unbothered by the freezing wind. Even from a distance, the absolute gravity of his presence made the air pressure drop instantly, suffocating the oxygen right out of my lungs. The space around him seemed to warp, pulling all light and safety into his looming silhouette.
Then, his gaze locked onto me.
Without a word, he broke into a dead sprint straight down the center of the asphalt, tearing through the gray fog directly toward me. His strides were heavy, calculated, and terrifyingly fast—the exact, relentless pace of a hunter who knew his prey had nowhere to run. My childhood instincts flared to life, a deep-seated conditioning flashing through my mind in a chaotic blur. The closer he got, the more my chest tightened, a catastrophic panic completely seizing my nervous system. The sound of his approach wasn't footsteps; it was the rhythmic, deafening thud of a closing trap.
The terror was too much. I whipped my head away, tearing my gaze from his approaching figure to escape the sight of him—
And the entire world glitched.
As my vision swung to the opposite side, the empty road and the rushing man vanished instantly.
Instead, my face slammed directly into a blinding, featureless white glare. A loud, metallic screeching sound—like a train brake grinding directly inside my eardrums—shattered my focus. My chest heaved as the sensory overload ripped the air from my lungs, bleaching my reality into absolute, terrifying nothingness.
I sat up with a gasping, sharp breath, my eyes snapping open.
Silk sheets. The smell of winter cologne and expensive leather. The heavy mahogany architecture of my own master bedroom.
I stayed perfectly still for several long seconds, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. I checked my hands—they were clean. I checked my chest—no wounds. The reality of the present day felt solid beneath me, but my mind remained incredibly foggy, a thick, suffocating layer of gray static slowing down my thoughts. The boundary between the dream and the waking world felt razor-thin, as if the darkness was merely waiting for me to blink.
I stood up, mechanically moving through my morning routine like a program executing its code. I dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, adjusted my cuffs, and stepped out into the long, echoing hallway of the estate.
With every step I took down the polished marble floor, the drilling headache returned, pulsing in time with the faint, persistent whispers returning to my left ear. The door. Go to the door. The game is waiting.
My pace quickened, driven by an unexplainable urgency, until I stopped directly in front of a pair of massive, carved oak doors. I didn't remember walking here. I didn't know why my hand was moving toward the brass handle.
I pushed the door open.
The room inside was vast, illuminated by tall, arched windows that showed a perfectly still, gray sky. Sitting in the very center of the room, at a massive mahogany table, was my older brother.
He looked entirely relaxed, leaned back in his leather chair, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips as he moved a white knight across a marble chessboard. He was playing against himself.
I walked in, my expression an unreadable mix of cold detachment and severe psychological disorientation. I didn't speak. I simply approached the table and sat down in the empty chair opposite my brother, my eyes scanning the surrounding room. The walls seemed too far away; the ceiling felt like it was slowly descending, a claustrophobic weight pressing down on my sanity.
"You look terrible, Sunha," my brother remarked smoothly, not looking up from the board. "Did your new toy keep you up all night? Or are the dogs in your head barking again?"
"Move your piece," I replied, my voice a flat, dead drone.
We played in silence for hours, the chess pieces clicking against the marble board with a rhythmic, hypnotic regularity. Everything felt normal. The estate was quiet. The static in my head was beginning to recede.
A servant entered the room without a sound, their face a complete, featureless blur of gray shadow—just another piece of the household furniture. The servant placed a silver tray on the table, bearing a pot of black tea and a small, porcelain plate filled with dark, glistening red cherries, before melting back out the door.
I reached out, my long fingers picking up a single, heavy cherry. I held it up to the light, examining its perfect, glossy skin. But as I looked closer, the texture felt wrong. It felt warm. It felt like soft, human tissue.
My eyes widened in sudden, visceral shock.
I took a bite.
It wasn't fruit juice. A thick, hot, metallic red liquid burst from the core, flooding my mouth and spilling over my lips, running down my chin in a heavy, unmistakable stream of fresh blood. The absolute body horror of the sensation paralyzed me, the metallic warmth coating my tongue like a waking nightmare.
The taste of iron slammed into my senses, and with it, my entire vision grew monstrously heavy, tilting at a nauseating forty-five-degree angle.
*Click*
Right at that exact moment, without anyone touching them, both the black king and the white king on the chessboard simultaneously tipped over, falling off the table and clattering to the floor.
The mahogany room evaporated.
I was standing in a vast, infinite field under an oppressive, bruised-purple sky. The grass beneath my boots was dead and black, rustling in a wind that carried the distinct scent of a slaughterhouse.
I spun around, my breath hitching, my hands coming up to wipe the blood from my chin—but my fingers only smeared more wet, hot crimson across my face.
Then, they emerged from the tall grass.
Countless figures. Hundreds of them, identical in height, identical in their rigid, immaculate posture. It was that man. Multiplied into an endless, suffocating army. Not a single one of them had facial features—their entire heads were obscured by dense, pitch-black shadows that seemed to swallow the light.
They didn't move toward me, but they began to chant. A low, rhythmic, distorted horror-choir that vibrated through the soil beneath my feet, repeating the same glitched, mechanical frequency from my childhood cell: “—A BROKEN MECHANISM CANNOT OWN PROPERTY. A BASTARD CHILD CANNOT KEEP THE JEWEL—”
"Get back!" I screamed, my voice tearing my throat, my sophisticated adult facade completely shattering as I fell backward, my boots tripping over the uneven earth. "GET BACK!"
As my body tilted toward the ground, falling in slow motion, a cold iron barrel was pressed firmly against the right side of my head. The freezing metal against my temple was the final, definitive marker of doom.
“Correction,” a voice whispered from nowhere.
*BANG*
A deafening, catastrophic gunshot shattered the sky, blasting my consciousness into absolute darkness.
My eyes slammed open as I threw myself upward on the mattress, a sharp, ragged gasp ripping from my lungs.
The gunshot echo was gone, replaced instantly by the massive, violent roar of a real thunderstorm outside. Lightning flashed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the master bedroom in a harsh, skeletal white before a fierce crack of thunder shook the glass panes.
I sat there shivering, my chest heaving as I stared blindly into the dark room. My hands were shaking.
My head throbbed with a residual, blinding ache that felt entirely too real, the phantom pressure of the gun barrel still burning against my temple. The fog in my brain was thick, suffocating.
What did it mean? Why was my mind looping back to the park? Why was that man running? The sheer weight of the dream left me utterly disturbed, a toxic mix of panic and fury twisting in my gut because I couldn't wrap my head around the static. I couldn't anchor myself. The psychological terror of my own unraveling sanity was a far worse prison than the isolation cell.
Needing to shatter the silence, needing to prove to myself that I was the one in control, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
There, curled into a tight, shivering ball on the cold floorboards, was the girl.
Without a second thought, driven by pure, agitated adrenaline, I lashed out and kicked her sharply in the ribs to force her awake.
The heavy iron chains clattered loudly against the wood as she jolted, a weak, muffled gasp escaping her dry lips. She was completely exhausted. For two days, she hadn't touched a single bite of food—her body too frail to handle anything after the heavy medication and the fluids I had forced down her throat just to keep her alive. She could barely lift her head, her eyes unfocused and glassy as she stared up at me through the dark.
Furious at her silence, furious that the ghosts in my head were still laughing at me, I dropped to the floor and dragged her weak, shivering body into my lap. I wrapped my arms around her like a tight, suffocating vice, pinning her against my chest. She was my property. She belonged to me, and right now, she was the only thing that could make the room stop spinning.
"Listen to me," I commanded, my voice dropping into a petulant, demanding whine, trembling with the raw aftermath of the nightmare. I buried my face into her hair, gripping her shoulders so tightly the chains dug into her skin. "You have to listen to me! I had that dream again. The park. The bench. That man was there, and he was running straight at me. Why won't the frequency stop? What did you do to my head when we met?"
Instead of pulling away or shrinking back in terror, the girl leaned into the pain of my grip. A desperate, heavy sob caught in her raw throat, and she leaned her forehead against my collarbone, trembling violently.
"P-Please..." she whimpered, her voice a fragile, broken thread as she rubbed her face against my shirt, clinging to the very hands that held her captive. "I'm listening... I'm here... please don't be angry with me..."
I paused for a fraction of a second, my fingers tightening in the fabric of her shirt.
The reaction felt strange. My mind spun as I felt the fragile weight of her against me. The memory of the girl from the park was defined by a sharp, wild look, a predatory edge that had originally sparked my obsession to break her. This creature possessed none of that shield. She was soft, completely desperate for my attention, molding herself entirely to my shape as if my anger was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.
The contrast between my internal memories of her defiance and this total, unprompted submission sent a sudden, dark rush through my veins. It didn't make me question reality; it made me want to push harder, sinking deeper into a predatory instinct. If she was going to yield this completely, then I would consume every single piece of her existence. The desire to dismantle her morphed into a heavy, suffocating need to completely dominate her reality until her independent thoughts were completely erased. Having this absolute power over her was an addictive drug, a perfect armor against the internal horror threatening to split my mind apart.
"Look at me," I snapped, tightening my arms around her like a vice, forcing her face up. "Don't look away from me. You're supposed to fix this. You're supposed to make the noise stop."
"I will... I'll do whatever you want..." she cried softly, her glassy violet eyes looking up at me with an intense, desperate need to appease my anger. Her shivering body went completely limp against me, entirely dependent on my strength to keep her upright.
"Nod your head," I commanded, my voice smoothing out into a cold, possessive purr as I stroked her hair, letting the absolute weight of my control steady my racing pulse. "Let me know you understand your place. Give me a reassuring nod. Let me know you belong to me, Min-seo."
Helpless against my hold, her small head trembled before she forced a weak, submissive nod against my chest, offering the silent, desperate reassurance of a trained pet trying to soothe its master. I exhaled a shaky, victorious breath, burying myself deeper into her shoulder, using her bound, broken form to drown out the echoes of the dark field.
