When she opened her eyes, everything around her was white.

The walls, the lights, the smell of medicine.

Her mother sat beside the bed, eyes red from crying. Her father stood next to her, silently holding her hand.

“Yerin… sweetheart…” her mother whispered. “We almost lost you…”

Two police officers and a psychologist entered the room. One of the officers, the older one, turned to her parents.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Her mother nodded. She wanted the truth, even if it tore her heart apart.

The officer sat down in front of Yerin.

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

Yerin looked away. The psychologist immediately understood that she wouldn’t speak with her parents present, and gently asked them to step outside.

When the door closed, the officer repeated the question.

“I… I just wanted to go to the college. I wasn’t feeling well. I took a shower… then everything went dark. I fainted…” she whispered.

“But the doctors say you have several cuts on your arm,” the second officer noted cautiously.

“I don’t remember,” Yerin breathed. “My head hurt… I fell…”

“You don’t remember because of the impact?”

“No… I just… don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please.”

The officers exchanged looks. The older one closed his notebook.

“We’ll come back when you feel better.”

They left. Only the quiet beeping of the heart monitor remained.

Yerin closed her eyes. She didn’t know how to keep living — but she knew she had to try.

The officers silently walked out of the ward, the heavy door closing behind them.

The hospital corridor was dim, the flickering lights reflecting off the glossy tiles.

They walked several meters toward the service exit, where their car was waiting.

“She’s lying,” Minho said quietly but with certainty as he sat behind the wheel.

“Yeah,” Dongjun agreed, settling into the passenger seat. “She just said the first thing that came to her mind.”

“Exactly.” Minho lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke out the open window. “And her eyes…

Those aren’t the eyes of a victim. Looks more like fear and guilt.”

“It’s all strange,” Dongjun replied slowly, flipping through his notes. “Her parents are teachers, a normal family. Good kid, class leader, active, no issues. And then this. There has to be a reason.”

“There is,” Minho muttered. “And that head injury. She says she slipped… Then she cuts her wrists right after? Doesn’t add up. The weirdest part — she lives near the other victims.”

“Maybe a boyfriend?” Dongjun suggested. “They argued, he hit her, she covered for him so it wouldn’t become a scandal. And then she broke down.”

“Not a bad theory. But everyone says she doesn’t have anyone. She’s either at college or at home. Always in sight.”

“Then she’s hiding something.” Dongjun drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the dashboard. “When she started talking, her voice cracked. And then… she finished way too calmly. Like a memorized script.”

“I noticed,” Minho said. “And one more thing… she had a bruise on her neck. Small, under her hair. She tried to hide it, but I saw it.”

“Really?” Minho turned his head sharply. “Damn. Then it’s definitely no accident.”

They fell silent. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, and somewhere far down the hospital corridor, the faint sobbing of Yerin’s mother echoed like a shadow.