**The basement never changed.

Cold steel. Harsh white lights. The lingering smell of antiseptic. Minho lay restrained to a heavy metal table, thick cuffs locking his wrists and ankles in place. Beside him sat an immaculate row of scalpels, forceps, surgical scissors, needles, and other polished instruments arranged with unsettling precision.

Above him, a rusted shelf held rows of glass jars containing strange preserved specimens, cracked porcelain masks, old photographs with the faces scratched away, and antique wind-up toys that seemed to stare back in silence.

It was his third day.

The last time he'd been fed was yesterday. Now, darkness had settled outside once again.

His eyes slowly opened.

"...Ngh..."

The memories hit all at once.

With a sharp gasp, he immediately struggled against the restraints, chains clanking loudly as he pulled with everything he had. They didn't move.

His breathing grew uneven as his eyes frantically searched the room for any chance of escape.

Nothing.

Then—

Creeak...

The basement door slowly opened.

Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor.

Minho's head whipped toward the entrance. Fear quickly gave way to anger.

"AUGH! JUST LET ME DIE HERE ALREADY!"

His hoarse voice echoed through the room as he glared at the figure stepping inside wearing fancy clothes again, his chest rising and falling from exhaustion and rage.