Part 2: The Cage with a View

The first thing Sera noticed when she woke up was pain.

Her entire body ached like she'd been thrown into a raging river and left to tumble over rocks for hours. Her face throbbed, her neck felt stiff, and her limbs were as heavy as concrete.

Then came the stillness.

She blinked slowly, her vision blurry and unfocused. The ceiling above her wasn’t her own. It was cracked, yellowed with age, and faintly stained with water marks. The dim glow of an overhead bulb buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to set her nerves on edge.

She tried to move.

A sharp clang of metal followed.

Her heart froze.

She looked down and saw it — a collar. Thick, matte black leather wrapped tightly around her neck, its edge digging slightly into her skin. Attached to it was a chain. Not a flimsy one, but industrial, like it was meant to restrain something much larger than her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

No. No. No.

This wasn’t real.

She scrambled up, or tried to — her legs gave out before she even fully sat up. She crashed sideways into the cold floor with another clatter of chains. Her knees scraped the wood as she tried again, trembling.

Panic bloomed like poison in her chest.

She grabbed at the collar, pulling with shaking hands, her nails digging into her own neck, tearing at the material until her skin screamed.

But it didn’t budge.

"Where am I?" she rasped, her voice cracked and dry like sandpaper.

Her throat burned.

She looked around the room—four walls, one door, a high window she couldn’t reach even if she had her full strength. A bed. A rusted mirror. A camera in the corner with a red blinking dot.

He’s watching me.

The thought made her stomach churn.

She backed into the nearest corner, curling up like a child, her body shaking violently. Her breath came in ragged bursts.

She remembered the last thing before blacking out. His face. The tears. The fists. The rage.

Then — the door opened.

Her body instinctively shrank, arms coming up like a shield.

Jihoon stood there, a tray in his hands. The smell of warm rice and soup wafted in. His face looked composed—too calm, too normal for someone who had abducted a classmate and chained her like a dog.

He walked closer.

Each step was deliberate. Controlled.

Sera couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry. Her body screamed to run, to scream, but her throat closed.

He knelt in front of her and set the tray down gently.

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

And smiled.

That same crooked, broken smile he gave her the first day they spoke.

"Good morning," he said softly. "You must be hungry."

She stared at him. This couldn't be the same person. This boy—this soft-voiced, fragile-looking thing—hadn't just kidnapped her.

Right?

Her instincts screamed otherwise.

“I…” she managed, her voice hoarse. “Why?”

His eyes flickered. “Because I didn’t want you to leave.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “You could’ve just told me.”

He tilted his head. “Would you have stayed?”

Silence.

He stood, leaving the tray beside her.

“Eat. You need strength.”

He walked out and locked the door behind him.

The first day was hell.

The second was worse.

She waited hours before touching the food. But her hunger gnawed at her like knives. She cried while she ate, hands shaking as she shoveled rice into her mouth. She hated herself for it, hated how her survival instincts took over.

The room never changed. The cameras never blinked.

Sometimes she’d stare at the lens and whisper, “Please let me go,” over and over again, until her voice gave out. Sometimes she screamed. Other times, she stayed silent, numb, unmoving.

He came in twice a day.

Always with food. Always with the same gentle expression. Always pretending like this was normal.

He never touched her again.

But the violence hung in the air like static. She could feel it—beneath his calm, beneath his stillness—something unhinged, boiling just under the surface.

She tried reasoning.

“Your parents,” she said one night. “They’ll notice I’m here.”

“No one’s home,” he replied. “No one checks on me.”

She said nothing.

She believed him.

Days passed.

Weeks blurred together.

She began keeping count on the wooden frame of the bed, carving lines with a spoon she’d managed to hide. But eventually, she stopped counting.

Time didn’t exist in that room.

Only him, and her fear of what he might do next.

She began noticing his shifts—how he watched her more intently when she didn’t eat, how his hands twitched when she avoided eye contact, how his jaw clenched when she didn’t respond to his greetings.

Once, he came in to find her curled up, staring at the floor.

He sat beside her, not touching, just close enough for his presence to be suffocating.

“You were supposed to be different,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

He left.

Her first escape attempt came in the dead of night.

She had noticed the pattern—when he locked the door, how long he left her alone. She tested the strength of the chain, the placement of the camera. She began saving bits of food, hiding them under the mattress to give her strength when the time came.

That night, she used the metal spoon to pick the lock on her collar. It was slow, clumsy. Her hands bled. But eventually—it clicked free.

Her heart pounded in triumph.

She moved to the window and climbed onto the bed. She pulled herself up—and managed to squeeze through the tiny opening.

Cold.

That was the first thing she felt.

Pure, bone-deep cold.

She dropped into snow. No shoes. Bare arms. The wind howled like a warning.

She looked around.

Nothing.

No street. No signs. Just white.

White forever.

She stumbled forward.

But her limbs began to shake uncontrollably. Her breath came out in gasps. Her body screamed.

She realized it then.

There was no escape.

Even if she got away, she would die in this frozen nowhere.

Tears froze on her cheeks.

She turned back.

Back to the prison.

Back to him.

He was waiting on the roof, watching. Silent.

His expression unreadable.

The next day, he didn’t yell. Didn’t hit her.

He brought her breakfast and simply said: “I hope you understand now.”

She didn’t respond.

She just sat. Quiet. Dead-eyed.

He stared at her longer than usual. “Say something.”

Nothing.

He moved closer.

She didn’t flinch.

He reached for her wrist. She didn’t pull away.

“Do you hate me now?” he asked.

Still, she said nothing.

He touched her face, gently. “I didn’t want this to happen. I just wanted you to stay.”

She looked at him then.

And whispered, “You’re sick.”

He didn’t reply.

He just left the tray and walked out.

That night, she found the hidden knife.

To Be Continued in Part 3...