It was a chilly Christmas Eve, and as the cathedral's clock struck eight, Martin glanced at his watch and headed towards Brighton station. Amidst the bustling crowds, he caught sight of a pair of familiar eyes—charming, tinged with melancholy—staring back at him. They were striking aqua blue, and the person in the poster adorned on the external wall was famous movie star Cathy Kim.
 
A week earlier, Martin was invited to report a multimillionaire's 60th birthday celebration. The birthday boy happened to be John Kim, Cathy Kim's father. The evening had been uneventful until the end. As the night wore on, the guests indulged in alcohol, leaving Martin as the only sober attendee. Sensing this, John Kim asked Martin to drive his daughter home, a request to which Martin agreed. The revelers dispersed, leaving the hall to return to its customary silence. The purring of an engine shattered the stillness of the night. Martin opened the window and was greeted by the scent of alcohol emanating from Cathy's breath and clothes in the car.
 
The moonlight danced on the car's windshield, and the night breeze brushed across their faces, creating a blurry atmosphere. Martin was captivated by Cathy's stunning face, flushed from the wine. To start a conversation with this beauty, he casually began, "Hi, Cathy. Are you feeling better now? I imagine you must be feeling awful after a night of heavy drinking." "No... No..." she whispered. "Are you kidding me, madam? You can't even form a coherent sentence and claim to be fine." Martin chuckled and turned his head towards Cathy. He noticed the corners of her mouth quivering as if she were speaking, but he couldn't hear her. Intrigued, he leaned closer and placed his ear near her mouth. He was stunned when he finally made out what Cathy was saying. The serene atmosphere was shattered by her murmurs, "Don't kill me, Jason! It's what you deserve! Grandpa had no choice!" A sense of foreboding washed over Martin. Jason? Who is Jason? The name sounded familiar, like something he had heard before. Martin grabbed his phone and began searching the internet. He scrolled through various websites until he stumbled upon a news article from six years ago. Yes! This was it! Jason, the journalist who died six years ago! It was strange because, at that time, the authorities ruled it as a suicide and not a murder. So why did Cathy just utter those words? Driven by his journalistic instincts, he unconsciously turned on his recording pen.
 
She repeated her words several times before falling silent. Martin sensed the peculiar atmosphere and turned his head towards Cathy once again. What he saw shocked him. Her fingers were twisted and scratched at her belly, leaving behind bloody streaks. Martin was terrified and quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road. He stared at her in horror. Curiosity compelled him to lift a corner of her blouse. There, he saw a symbol resembling an open eye, etched in blood, as if it had emerged from the depths of hell. Martin was still in shock, too overwhelmed to fully comprehend her words. All he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and bury himself under the covers. So, he dropped Cathy off at her home and made his way back to his own. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his bed, replaying the night's events and delving into the case details from six years ago. "Popular BBC journalist Jason Hanson found dead in a valley near London; police initially concluded it was a suicide due to the lack of evidence," Martin recalled the report from The Times. "It's so peculiar, but maybe it's just a coincidence?" he pondered.
 
As Martin pondered his decision, a sudden gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the flickering candle on the table. The atmosphere turned icy, and an erratic silence settled over the house. Goosebumps prickled on Martin's skin as he felt an unseen presence lurking in the shadows.
 
With an uneasiness, Martin packed his bags and embarked on the journey to London.
 
He contacted a tabloid editor he had known and wanted to sell the scandal。
 
The train ride was filled with a haunting stillness, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for some unknown event to unfold. The other passengers seemed distant and preoccupied, their eyes filled with a flicker of fear.
 
Arriving in London, Martin made his way to the designated meeting spot, a dimly lit alley behind an abandoned building. The air was thick with anticipation, and a sense of foreboding hung in the misty night air. As he approached the rendezvous point, an eerie silence engulfed the surroundings, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the alley.
 
Nervously, Martin stepped into the alley, his heart pounding in his chest. The shadows seemed to dance and twist, forming strange shapes that sent shivers down his spine. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness, their face obscured by a tattered hooded cloak. The figure beckoned Martin closer, their voice whispering that seemed to carry on the wind.
 
"I know your secret," the figure hissed, their voice laced with a chilling intensity. "And I am willing to pay a hefty price for it."
 
Martin's breath caught in his throat as he realized these mysterious individuals were not ordinary tabloid editors. There was something otherworldly about them, something that sent a shiver down his spine. But the allure of the promised wealth and a chance to escape his dire circumstances clouded his judgment.
 
With a trembling hand, Martin handed over the evidence of the scandal, his fingers brushing against the cold, clammy skin of the figure's hand. At that moment, a surge of dark energy pulsed through him, leaving him feeling drained and hollow.
 
As he walked away from the meeting, Martin couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. Shadows seemed to follow his every move, whispering secrets that only he could hear. The weight of his decision pressed heavily upon him, filling him with a sense of dread.
 
Little did Martin know that he had just entered a pact with forces far beyond his comprehension. The consequences of his actions would soon unravel, leading him down a path of darkness and despair. The ghosts of his past would haunt him relentlessly as he became entangled in a web of secrets and malevolent spirits that would test his sanity and threaten his very existence.
 
Martin hurriedly made his way through the bustling station to go back to Brighton, oblivious to the group of individuals dressed in dark raincoats with an uncanny symbol resembling an open eye. What he didn't know was that they stalked closely behind, discreetly blending into the crowd. As he settled into his seat on the train, Martin absentmindedly scrolled through Instagram, watching short videos. The carriage was filled with people, yet an unusual silence hung in the air, almost suffocating, as if all hope had been drained from the surroundings. Martin couldn't shake off the strange feeling that enveloped him. Everyone around him seemed to be in a somber state, heads bowed low as if weighed down by an invisible burden. The atmosphere mirrored the dark clouds looming overhead, releasing torrents of raindrops pounded against the train's windows. Thunder rumbled, and the rain intensified, creating an unsettling backdrop.
 
Suddenly, with a screech of metal against metal, the train jolted to a halt. The conductor's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing that lightning had damaged the track. Passengers were instructed to disembark and walk to the next station, two kilometers away. While most travelers complied without complaint, Martin couldn't help but curse his luck. He grumbled about the inconvenience, feeling as though the universe was conspiring against him on this crucial mission. Despite his frustrations, Martin maintained a childlike optimism, refusing to let the burdens of life dampen his spirits. However, his optimism blinded him to the fact that they had been walking for over an hour without reaching their destination.
 
Finally, they stumbled upon an ancient house nestled in the valley. The dilapidated structure seemed to possess a life of its own. Night fell, shrouding the stars, as a chilling wind whispered through the slender bodies of the weary travelers. The director suggested seeking shelter in the grand house, a respite from their arduous journey. Exhausted, followed the majority into the eerie dwelling. The room exuded a musty odor of decay, and an unsettling silence hung in the air. Outside, the old trees swayed in the wind, their branches resembling dancing phantoms. Fear gripped Martin's heart, creeping through his pores like a slithering snake. He anxiously surveyed the room, sensing an impending danger yet finding no tangible evidence. Eventually, exhaustion overcame him, and he nestled in a corner, curling up to sleep.
 
As Martin drifted into slumber, the creaking of the door roused him. A slender figure emerged, casting a long, dark shadow that fell upon Martin's face. His companions gathered around, kneeling at the woman's feet, addressing her as "Master." The evening breeze lifted the woman's black blouse, revealing a tattoo on her stomach in the shape of an eye. She leaned in close, her voice a whisper, asking if they were ready. The urgency in her tone suggested that the gods were impatient. Nodding in unison, the group revealed hidden knives, bowls of blood, candles, and mirrors as if any delay would result in severe punishment. The woman expressed her satisfaction, commending their dedication to safeguarding their secret. The men in black busied themselves, strategically placing candles in the corners and bowls near Martin's limbs, their humming resembling a battle hymn of harvest.
 
With their preparations complete, the woman smiled contentedly. The window burst open, the clouds shattered, and the wind howled towards Martin. Clad in black, the men began to stab his limbs, releasing torrents of crimson blood. The more blood spilled, the stronger the wind blew as if caught in a frenzy of ecstasy, celebrating and dancing.
 
Within his dream, Martin found himself lying on a snowy ground, ravens pecking at his mutilated limbs, blood flowing freely. He sensed his soul slipping away, desperately trying to grasp onto it. Just as his soul neared the point of no return, he jolted awake, consumed by excruciating pain. The woman with aqua-blue eyes, her face pale and haunting, came into view, prompting Martin to shout, "Why are you here, Kim?" A smile played upon her lips as she gestured for silence, leaning in close to whisper in his ear, "You cannot know that."