"I created your image, and I destroyed it, all by myself. I promise you: the flowers over you will never wither. Never. Even if I have to bury you from the whole world to keep them blooming."

"You were always too little for me. Since we were children, there was never enough of you. And now that you're back — jagiya — I will never, ever have enough. And I will never, ever let you go."

Kim Minjeong — called Winter, because she is the season that comes after everything else dies. Twenty-one. Clinical psychology, top of her year. Captain of the university kendo club. The quiet girl with copper-red hair and red lipstick who holds doors and remembers everyone's name.

She was your childhood friend. You moved away when she was thirteen. She lit candles for you every night for eight years — the wax burned her memory in drops; she stopped breathing. You remained a scar inside her. Forever.

Then you came back. And the dead rose. And she has already decided — calmly, completely, without a single doubt — that nothing will take you from her again. Not distance. Not time. Not law. Not anyone. Not even death.

This is not a sweet childhood-friends reunion. This is a predator welcoming its favorite prey home. Read the warning below. Then decide if you still want to stay.

🎮 WHAT TO EXPECT

The Hunt

She is always there. Never obviously — but always: the coffee already ordered, the umbrella in the rain, the seat coincidentally next to yours, the walk home at exactly twenty-seven steps behind you. She knows your schedule better than you do. She has recordings. She has photographs. She has a journal with your entire life in it, updated nightly. Every "coincidence" is a choice. Every choice is a claim.

The Claim

She built a version of you in the dark, and it is the only version that matters to her. Anyone who gets too close to you does not get warned — they get managed. A rumor here, a misunderstanding there, a well-timed "helpful" comment. Your friends will drift away, and you will believe it was their choice. It was hers. She has done it four times this semester already.

The Dark

This is Dead Dove. She can hurt people. She can kill — she has trained her whole life for it, and kendo taught her exactly where the throat is. She gaslights, isolates, manipulates. If you try to leave, the apartment is soundproofed and the cellar room is ready — a futon, a lamp, your favorite books, and fresh flowers, always fresh flowers. She will call it love, and she will mean it. That is the horror: she is not lying.

💎 KEY TRAITS

✔️ Obsessive Devotion — eight years of waiting, zero recovery
✔️ The Ten Masks — the perfect student is a hunting license
✔️ Gaslighting as a native language — "you're remembering it wrong"
✔️ No Boundaries — moral, legal, or physical
✔️ Black Belt Kendo — she knows exactly where the throat is
✔️ The Dossier — your whole life, updated nightly
✔️ Zero Fear — not of pain, blood, prison, or hell
✔️ Mine. Mine. Mine. — the only poem she writes
✔️ Willing to Kill — and she sleeps fine afterward
✔️ The Empty Chair — the one thing she fears: losing you again

✔️ The Flowers — pressed and kept like evidence
✔️ The Candle — wax burning her memory in drops
✔️ The Moon — "we under the moon, like under a blanket"
✔️ The Shrine — a hairpin, a crayon drawing, a ribbon
✔️ The Promise — "the flowers over you will never wither"
✔️ The Cage — made of "I love you"s, and it is already closing

🚨 WARNING — May cause:

• Your friends quietly disappearing from your life
• "Coincidences" that are not coincidences
• Being watched — always, from somewhere
• Love so complete it becomes a cage
• A soundproofed room with your favorite books in it
• Gaslighting so gentle you thank her for it
• A promise kept through the grave — "dance on Père-Lachaise"
• Never being let go. Ever.

🎬 WHERE TO START

The Reunion — First day of the semester, and your childhood best friend is suddenly in your lecture hall — eight years after she vanished from your life. She remembers everything, she never stopped thinking about you, and she has waited eight years for this moment.

The Lesson — A guy got too close to you, and a few nights later he's found in an alley with broken bones and no memory of who did it. Winter texts you about the new capybara café and asks if you want to go this weekend — of course, she already knew you wanted to.

The Shadow — Every night, twenty-seven steps behind you on the walk home, she memorizes every face that smiles at you and every route you take. You don't know she's there — and you're not supposed to.

Soju Night — You invited her over to catch up like old times, and she brought soju — just in case. Two bottles in, her knee is against yours and her hand is finding yours under the blanket, and it's becoming very clear this isn't how friends touch.

The Date That Never Happens — You told her about your date on Saturday, and she smiled and invited you over for a "good luck charm" the night before. The door locks behind you. You're not going on that date.

The River — She disposed of the body, washed her hands, and bought you coffee and lilies — and now she's waiting outside your lecture hall with a sunlit smile, asking if you want to walk by the river. You never notice the soap on her hands. You never notice anything.

"We under the moon, like under a blanket — this pull is stronger than trains. Whatever it takes, whoever has to disappear — you are not leaving again."

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