The bloodstain in the alley was a vivid, haunting reminder of the fragility of their situation. The Villa residents gathered that evening in the cramped common room, the dim light from a single overhead bulb casting long, uneasy shadows. No one spoke at first, the air heavy with fear and uncertainty.

Mando cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"We should pray," he said, his voice trembling but resolute.

"For Soyeong. For her safety and for justice."

Most of the room nodded in agreement. Even the usually cynical Mija clasped her hands together, her face pale. But Bitna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression a mix of irritation and indifference.

"Pray?" she scoffed.

"That's what we're doing now? Asking some invisible force to fix this?"

Mija's head snapped up, her eyes blazing.

"Do you ever stop being insufferable? If you're not going to help, just leave."

Bitna rolled her eyes, but before she could retort, Daon stepped forward. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes evidence of sleepless nights.

"Enough," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension.

"Let's just do this—for Soyeong."

Reluctantly, Bitna joined the circle. Hands clasped together, the group bowed their heads as Mando began to pray. His words were simple, heartfelt, but the room's atmosphere remained heavy, the unspoken fear lingering even after the prayer ended.

The next morning, the police briefing was a tense affair. Chief Na stood at the front of the room, his posture rigid, his tone clipped.

"I'm reassigning the investigation," he announced.

A wave of shock rippled through the room. Daon shot up from his seat, his voice sharp.

"What? You can't do that!"

Chief Na's eyes narrowed, but his tone remained measured.

"You're too close to this case, Detective Han. I need a team that can remain objective."

"We're the ones who know the most about this case," Daon argued, his fists clenched at his sides.

"This isn't about objectivity—it's about justice."

"And justice is best served by those who can act without emotional bias," Na countered, his voice firm.

"This isn't a debate."

The room emptied slowly, murmurs of discontent filling the air. Daon remained rooted to the spot, his frustration barely contained. This wasn't just a case for him—it was personal.

That evening, Daon found himself at Dahui's apartment. The young woman was a wreck, her tear-streaked face a picture of guilt and despair. She stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.

"She's out there because of me," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"I shouldn't have let her go alone."

Daon stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, his arms steady around her trembling frame.

"This isn't your fault," he murmured.

"Soyeong wouldn't want you blaming yourself."

For a moment, Dahui clung to him, her sobs muffled against his chest. When she finally pulled away, her expression was a mix of gratitude and lingering guilt.

As Daon left, he found an envelope waiting for him on the apartment's small table. Inside were Soyeong's notes on the serial killer case, the papers meticulously organized but heavy with implication.

His hands trembled as he sifted through them. Soyeong had been shielding him from this, but now it was his responsibility.

Back at the Villa, Bitna stared into the enchanted mirror in her room. Her reflection stared back, her expression unreadable. She'd thought about using the mirror's power to locate Soyeong, to see if she was still alive.

But she hesitated. What if she saw something she couldn't unsee? Or worse—what if there was nothing to see at all?

The sound of the front door closing snapped her out of her thoughts. She found Daon in the kitchen, slumped over the table, his face buried in his hands.

"You look awful," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Daon lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot but determined. "Thanks for the observation."

She sat across from him, her fingers curling around a steaming cup of tea. "What's the plan now?"

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't give up."

Later that night, Daon's investigation led him to Jongsu, a supposed witness willing to testify against CEO Wonjoong. The meeting didn't go as planned.

Jongsu arrived late, his clothes rumpled and his eyes darting nervously around the room. He barely met Daon's gaze as he mumbled his apologies.

"I... I can't do this," he stammered.

"It's too dangerous."

Daon leaned forward, his voice low and firm.

"You're the only one who can help us. We need your testimony." But Jongsu's resolve crumbled.

"I'm sorry," he whispered before bolting from the room.

Daon chased him outside, catching him by the arm. "Who got to you?" he demanded.

Jongsu's eyes filled with tears, his voice trembling. "They threatened my family. I... I can't."

Daon released him, watching as the man disappeared into the night, leaving behind only the echo of his apologies.

At the Villa's store, Arong approached Bitna with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Did you know Daon survived J?" she asked, her tone laced with feigned innocence.

Bitna's expression didn't waver. "What's your point?"

"Just thought it was interesting," Arong replied, her smile sharp.

Bitna turned away, refusing to give Arong the satisfaction of a reaction.

The trial of CEO Wonjoong was a farce from start to finish. Lies about Mr. Won's supposed gambling addiction spread like wildfire, further tarnishing his already fragile legacy.

When Bitna handed down the sentence—one year in prison, two years of probation, and forty hours of community service—Daon confronted her outside the courtroom.

"How can you call that justice?" he demanded, his voice shaking with anger.

Bitna met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Justice isn't always about what you want, Daon."

His fists clenched, but he said nothing more, storming away in frustration.

In the hospital, Yugyeong's sudden recovery shocked even the doctors. Her vitals stabilized overnight, and the once-dire prognosis seemed like a distant memory.

The doctor called it a miracle, but behind the scenes, someone had ensured her survival. Anonymous payments covered her treatments, and though no one knew who the benefactor was, Aera's watchful gaze from Hell ensured the family wouldn't suffer further.