"Guys," Sora’s voice trembled. "The viewer count just jumped to 100,000. But look at the chat."
The air inside Gonjiam Psychiatric Hospital didn’t just feel cold; it felt heavy, like the atmosphere was saturated with decades of exhaled terror. Min-ho adjusted his head-mounted camera, the red "LIVE" light blinking like a warning heartbeat. Behind him, Sora and Ji-hoon hauled equipment bags over rotting floorboards that groaned under every step. Gonjiam: PsiquiГЎtrico Maldito
The "LIVE" light on Min-ho’s camera turned from red to a ghostly, flickering blue. Then, the screen went black. "Guys," Sora’s voice trembled
The walls were covered in mirrors, but they didn't reflect the room. They reflected the hospital as it was in 1979—full of screaming patients and doctors in blood-stained white coats. In the center of the room stood a tall, pale woman with long, matted hair covering her face. She held a rusted surgical tray. Min-ho adjusted his head-mounted camera, the red "LIVE"
Min-ho leaned over. The chat wasn’t moving with its usual frantic emojis. Every single user was typing the same word, over and over: RUN.
"One more room," Min-ho insisted, driven by the adrenaline of the viral peak. "The Director’s room is right behind that door."
Scrawled in what looked like dark, dried ink—or something worse—were names. Hundreds of them. Some were scratched so deep they had gouged the concrete.