I found myself abroad, just stepping out of an IKEA-like market, where I had spent the afternoon with my mother. The air was filled with the scent of fresh food and the distant sounds of laughter from families enjoying their time together. As we exited, I spotted Youna, along with her little brother. After our brief reunion, we parted ways, and I stepped into a city that felt eerily reminiscent of New York—a vibrant labyrinth filled with life and energy, yet beneath it all lay an unsettling tension.

As night fell, I met up with friends. The evening took a strange turn when we were approached by members of NewJeans, the popular K-pop girl group. They beckoned me to join them, leading me down into the depths of a building, where we took an elevator to the rooftop.

It was here, beneath the moonlit sky, that the atmosphere shifted. The members of NewJeans revealed their true selves—killers for hire, armed with guns and knives, and they had been contracted for a job. They were Dressed in Y2K style with a rabbit hat perched jauntily on her head. My heart raced as I instinctively understood: I was the target. “Are you going to kill me?” I asked, my voice trembling. Panic surged through me as I realized the gravity of the situation. We were supposed to board a plane to another country, but I was meant to die there. “Fine,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Until we get there, just try not to shoot me.”

As we walked to the bus stop, chaos erupted. A friend in our group spotted Youna in the crowd and rushed over, calling for help. I watched in horror as Youna misunderstood the urgency of the situation and attempted to slip away, oblivious to the danger.Just then, a courageous ally in our midst took a chance. In a moment of desperation, he pushed forward, knocking a gun out of the way and sprinting towards Youna. She was blissfully unaware of the peril we faced.

Our escape plan quickly unraveled. As we boarded the bus, the shrill sound of sirens pierced the air, echoing ominously. Police and special forces were converging on our location, and I knew we had to act fast. I told myself that with so many people around, they wouldn’t dare shoot. Navigating through the crowd, I dashed, climbing walls and making my way to the rooftops. Just as I thought I was safe, a fully armed special forces officer tackled me, pulling me up to safety. “What’s your name?” he asked in English, checking to see if I was alright.

On the rooftop, a doctor awaited, alongside a mysterious figure known only as "the Master." As I collapsed onto a makeshift bed, tears streamed down my face. “I’m their target,” I confessed, feeling the weight of my truth.

As sleep began to claim me, I envisioned a figure akin to a character from an anime—a formidable warrior dressed in gleaming armor. “You can create your own weapons,” he whispered, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of hope. But as I wrestled with my emotions, I realized I had lost that power, a sense of loneliness creeping in.

Years passed in a blur, and the world moved on. NewJeans had been apprehended, yet their story seemed to vanish without a trace. I found myself online, frantically searching for any mention of that night, diving into forums and Namuwiki entries, but it was as if the incident had never occurred. Their public image remained untarnished, and fans continued to idolize them.

It was then I understood—I was the only one who knew the truth, and it was a truth that weighed heavily on my shoulders. The high-ranking individuals who orchestrated this cover-up had buried the incident, and now, I felt an urgent need to share what I had witnessed.

I had the remnants of that haunting day still fresh in my mind. The sensation around my mouth—the swelling, the pain—was vivid, reminding me of the horrors I had endured. The memories clung to me like shadows, refusing to let go. As I sat up, a determined resolve settled within me. I was not just a witness; I was a bearer of a truth that had to be revealed. I would uncover the hidden narratives and bring the shadows into the light, no matter the cost.