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# Chapter 197: Conspiracy in the Shadows
Min-jun’s eyes opened in the darkness that Trap had created. He couldn’t remember when time had started moving again. Was it yesterday? Four days ago? The boundary had blurred long ago. His fingertips tingled. Even as he clenched and unclenched his fists in his pockets, the sensation wouldn’t return. The air was cold. Every time it touched his skin, his body shivered, and with each shiver, Trap seemed to seep deeper into his nerves.
‘When did it start?’
The smell of food pricked his nose. Somewhere, someone was preparing breakfast. The asphalt beneath his feet was wet with dew, cold and slippery. Min-jun walked forward step by step, wandering through the streets. Trap had already burrowed deep into his bones.
8 a.m. He stopped in front of a building.
‘Destar Entertainment.’
He stared at the sign. The letters trembled, blurry. It wasn’t his eyes shaking—it was his hands. He rubbed his forehead and exhaled a long breath. This building was the end and the beginning of everything. Where his dreams had lived. Where he’d lost them.
He pushed open the door.
The lobby was warm. The air conditioning hummed. Fresh coffee and the murmur of people filled the space, but to Min-jun’s ears, it was only noise. His mouth felt dry. He couldn’t tell if the footsteps on the hardwood floor were his own or someone else’s. The walls were white. Too white. The whiteness stung his eyes.
Trap still had his heart in its grip.
10 a.m. He entered a café.
Warm air enveloped his face as the door opened. The scent of coffee mixed with toasted bread. The barista greeted him. He raised his hand in acknowledgment. As he sat down, his fingers tingled again. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pressed.
“Orange juice.”
His voice sounded unfamiliar. It was as if someone else was speaking. The barista smiled and repeated the order. Soon a cold glass touched the table. The tartness of orange traveled to his fingertips.
He sipped coffee. Bitterness spread across his tongue. The chatter around him continued. Someone talked about a date, someone else about work. Normal conversations from normal people. Min-jun heard them but felt as if he heard nothing at all.
Footsteps on the hardwood continued. Someone came in, someone left. In that rhythm, Trap quietly, yet surely, consumed his mind.
Midnight. He stepped back onto the street.
The city was still alive. Car horns blared. People rushed past. Neon signs painted the night sky. The noise of the streets assaulted his ears. Everything felt distant, as if he were watching the world from behind a transparent wall.
His hands tingled again. He shoved them deep into his pockets.
2 a.m. He stood before the same building again.
‘Destar Entertainment.’
The same emotions flooded back—hope and despair intertwined. He pushed open the door. Warm lobby air wrapped around him. Fresh coffee scent stimulated his nose. But now that too was part of Trap. Everything was part of Trap.
He walked across the hardwood floor. His footsteps echoed. The thought struck him: he was alone. In this building, in this city, in this world.
4 a.m. He entered the café again.
Warm air, coffee aroma, people’s voices. Everything was repeating. Like watching the same scene in a movie over and over. The barista smiled and greeted him again. Min-jun sat down and ordered again.
“Orange juice.”
His hands shook. When he picked up the glass, his fingers tingled. He couldn’t drink. He set it down. The hardwood felt warm. Someone’s footsteps passed by him. That person looked happy.
Min-jun had forgotten what happiness was.
6 a.m. He stepped back onto the street.
A bus engine roared. The driver honked. Someone cursed. The city was waking up. Morning was coming. But Min-jun’s world was still night.
He pulled his hand from his pocket. His fingers had turned blue. He rubbed the numb digits and started walking again.
Trap still hadn’t released him.