The motel sign buzzed like an insect on the edge of dying—JINJU in pink, the last letter flickering between pride and shame. Lee Min kept her eyes down as she crossed the parking lot, short skirt tight around her hips, hair hiding part of her face like it could hide her whole life.
Each step sent a tiny tremor through her. Not pain—worse. A private insistence that made her knees go soft and her thoughts go slippery, like someone had loosened the bolts holding her together.
The choker at her throat looked like a cheap accessory. Up close, it was a collar. The little black dot under her jaw was a mic, and she could feel its weight like a fingertip that never stopped pressing.
Her phone vibrated once. Not a call. A single buzz—code.
Go in.
She swallowed and didn't touch her throat.
Room 203. Second floor. The railing cold under her palm.
