Frankestein's hand reached out once more, his fingers splaying stiffly in the air, twitching with restless agitation.
His fingertips trembled, clutching and releasing at nothing, trying to seize something that kept slipping away. Margaret was right there—so close that her face remained vivid in his sight—yet at the same time, she felt impossible to touch.
The floor beneath him groaned under his heavy tread as he tried to swallow the distance between them with every forceful stride. Once, twice, his steps grew larger, more reckless. His shoulders leaned forward, his entire body lunging in pursuit, his hand snatching at the air once again—only to find it empty.
"How much longer are you going to run, Margaret?!"
His outcry roared again.
It wasn't a deafening shout, nor an explosive burst of aggression. Instead, the sound fractured midway—hoarse, raspy, and agonizing—like the scream of someone who had exhausted the energy to be angry, yet was too desperate to remain silent.
His face was haggard, as if the turmoil within had etched every line of fatigue onto the surface of his skin. His black hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his temples, while the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose had slipped slightly, the lenses fogged.
In that state, he looked like a man on the run—not just from exhaustion, but from a darkness that was inches away from swallowing him whole. Yet before him, the very light that was meant to be his sanctuary only drifted further away, leaving the relief he craved forever out of reach.
"Margaret!"
"Are you avoiding me on purpose?! Are you angry with me for punching that man?!"
"Stop right now, Margaret!"
The corridor wasn't particularly crowded.
Only a few people passed by—mostly nurses and doctors rushing with anxious faces, likely driven by emergency calls—who happened to glance or momentarily stare at the chase unfolding between Frankestein and Margaret.
Their gazes were a mix of shock and confusion, as if they were witnessing something that simply shouldn't happen in a sterile, hushed space like this.
A few of them tried to greet Frankestein, their voices tossed briefly into the air, calling his name or asking what was wrong. But none of it reached him.
Frankestein didn't turn his head, didn't answer, and didn't even seem to register the existence of anyone but the single figure ahead of him. His focus was utterly locked on Margaret—on the curve of her back, on her rapid footsteps, and on the agonizing distance that remained between them.
As for Margaret, she paid no heed to anything Frankestein said, as if his voice were nothing more than white noise she had to pierce through.
She was equally indifferent to the state of her legs, which had begun to feel heavy—her muscles tightening, the soles of her feet aching every time they struck the cold floor. Her body merely followed a single, simple command looping incessantly in her mind: keep going, and do not stop.
And so, she pressed on with rapid strides, occasionally breaking into a run, while one of her hands tightly gripped a white tote bag—containing chocolates and a mini bouquet of blue roses tucked inside.
"Margaret!"
"You're really ignoring me on purpose, huh?! Are you not afraid that I'll kiss you again until you're breathless?!"
"Does that damn man really mean that much more to you than I do?! Just one punch, and you're so angry that you're ignoring me like this?!"
"Margaret! Stop this instant!"
Margaret's ears twitched the moment Frankestein's threat reached her.
Instantly, her heart surged into a frantic, erratic rhythm—not merely from the exertion of her desperate escape, but because of something far more perilous: her memory. The image of the brutal kiss Frankestein had forced upon her that morning flashed vividly in her mind.
She violently shook her head from side to side, as if the physical motion could shake the haunting shadow out of her brain.
No.
She couldn't afford to think about that now.
And that was when her eyes caught something at the end of the corridor.
The elevator.
Someone had just stepped inside, and the doors were still open, as if offering the only path to freedom. Without a second thought, Margaret bolted. Her footsteps rebounded sharply off the floor, the white tote bag in her hand swinging wildly, its contents jarring inside—but she no longer cared.
She lunged inside just before the doors could hiss shut.
Once inside, without waiting for anyone, her hand shot up, slamming the button for the bottom floor—once, then again—pressing with a force far too great for such a small button.
Seeing the doors begin to slide, Frankestein's jaw clamped shut, hard.
In that split second, his body lunged forward before his mind could even catch up. He sprinted with everything he had, desperate to reach the elevator before the gap vanished entirely.
"Margaret!"
"Get out of there, now!!"
"Don't you dare get on that lift with someone else! Get out, Margaret!"
Margaret gasped, her breath hitching in her throat.
Her wide eyes were locked on the sliver of the elevator door that remained open. The distance between Frankestein and that closing gap—narrowing like a fading consciousness—sent her heart into a violent thrash against her ribs; he was so, terrifyingly close.
Driven by pure reflex, her hand hammered the button again. And again. Her movements were frantic, jagged, and consumed by panic—each desperate press felt like a scream forced out through her fingertips.
The stranger standing beside her could only stare in bewilderment, frozen and confused; yet, like Margaret, they found themselves holding their breath until finally—the doors slammed shut. They sealed tight, barricading her just as Frankestein was mere steps away from reaching her.
However, that relief was short-lived.
The moment the doors sealed completely, the elevator shuddered violently.
A series of deafening metallic clangs echoed as the steel absorbed a barrage of incredible blows—Frankestein was hammering the doors repeatedly in a fit of pure frustration, his voice never-ceasing as he demanded her to get out.
Margaret jolted, the tote bag nearly slipping from her grasp, while the stranger beside her was visibly shaken by the sheer, unexpected force of the vibrations.
"Are you alright, dear?"
The voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet so thick with tenderness and concern that it jolted Margaret's spine, as if an invisible hand had just brushed against her.
"It seems the two of you are having quite a quarrel, aren't you?"
Margaret snapped her head to the side, her eyes widening instantly.
The first thing that caught her gaze wasn't a face, nor the eyes that might have been watching her, but something much closer—far too close.
The person's belly. It was swollen, protruding sharply before her, nearly as large as a balloon inflated to its breaking point—yet somehow, it felt far more immense than any ordinary balloon.
The stranger let out a soft chuckle, as if unable to fully suppress her reaction to Margaret's stunned expression.
Her laughter was light—barely more than a breath tucked between a smile—yet clearly muffled as if to avoid sounding excessive. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but one filled with deep understanding.
The sound was enough to pull Margaret back to reality. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
A woman stood before her, seemingly in her thirties, with features that were soft and serene. Her eyes met Margaret's with a warm glow—not the fleeting glance of a stranger passing by, but a look that held something far deeper.
"Are you and your baby alright, Ma'am?"
"Those loud bangs earlier must have been quite a shock… the baby in your womb surely felt uncomfortable, didn't they?"
The woman didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes lingered on Margaret's face—on the trembling gaze filled with a worry so delicate, yet so undeniably real. But her eyes also caught something else: a flicker of guilt that surfaced and vanished just as quickly in the depths of Margaret's eyes.
In that instant, a thin smile graced the woman's lips—warm and gentle, like the first ray of sunlight piercing through a window curtain.
"I'm alright now," she said softly.
"When those heavy blows struck, I was indeed startled. But fortunately, my baby didn't overreact—he is safe."
"So, you don't need to worry… and thank you for caring about him."
A sigh of pure relief evaporated from Margaret's chest, escaping through her slightly parted lips.
She let her back sink against the elevator wall with a slow, weary motion. Her shoulders, once rigid and knotted with tension, finally began to slacken, replaced by a soothing, warm sensation that spread through her limbs.
Her eyelids fluttered shut as one palm pressed against her chest, rubbing repeatedly—a small, frantic ritual to tidy her heartbeat and calm the lingering tremors that had shaken her breath.
The woman paused again, caught in a wave of confusion by the sheer sigh of relief Margaret had just exhaled.
There was something unsettling the woman's composure—something she felt she shouldn't dwell on, as instinct told her it was none of her business. And yet, curiosity won over.
"I'm not quite sure how to say this, but…"
Margaret's eyes snapped open at the hesitation in the woman's voice. As their gazes locked, the stranger continued.
"I've never seen Doctor Frankestein like that before. If he ever was, he surely hid it well. For as long as I can remember—even though I don't come for my check-ups often—people have always known him as someone firm, kind, and professional."
"But just now… something seemed a bit different, didn't it? He looked so livid when you entered the lift, even forbidding you from riding with a stranger. Is Doctor Frankestein always such a protective father toward his daughter?"
Her tone, though soft, carried a distinct caution—as if she feared that every word might inadvertently cause Margaret discomfort.
"I didn't expect it either..."
"To find that Doctor Frankestein is already married and has such a beautiful, caring daughter like you."
She smiled again, wider this time—a smile of someone truly grateful, as if she had just met someone who played a vital role in her life.
"Your name was Margaret, wasn't it?"
"My name is Viona Kalestein. I am a staff member at Adamas Entertainment and the manager for CHASEMINE. You can call me Miss Viona."
Her hand slowly extended toward Margaret, while her smile remained fixed on her face—wide, warm, and sincere—causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners.