Kimbongsu

Dina is an ordinary student who got a chance to become a ramp model in a modeling agency. She got in and accepted as a trainee. The trainer and the agency owner sees her as a potential to become the top model in the country. During the practice for one major event, she accidentally saw a murder in the building. However, no one knows she has the ability to see ghosts. She sees the ghost of the girl she found dead in the comfort room. What is the secret of the modeling agency and the models? How far can an individual do just to achieve her dreams in life?

Annette was nothing but a mobile blood bank to her stepsister and her fiancé. Bound to a heavy iron chair in a freezing basement, she watched her own blood drain into a plastic bag. Her stepsister, Gayla, smiled flawlessly and whispered the ultimate betrayal. "Your mother didn't die of a heart attack. My father poisoned her for her patent." Her fiancé, Bryton, stepped back in pure disgust, complaining that the smell of her dying blood was unbearable. They watched her struggle against the metal chains, her wrists tearing open as the coldness of extreme blood loss drained her core. They had stolen her mother's wealth, her home, and now her life, leaving her to flatline in complete darkness. As her vision faded into gray, extreme fury flooded her veins. Why did her mother have to choke on her own foam while these parasites lived in luxury? She swore to herself with her last heartbeat that if she ever had another chance, she would tear them all apart. A sharp alarm clock rang out, and Annette's eyes snapped open to the smell of peeling paint. She was back in her cramped trailer at seventeen, exactly three days before her nightmare originally began. She smashed the mirror, grabbed her hidden cash, and headed straight to Manhattan to secure her mother's legacy before they even knew she existed. This time, the timid country girl they expected was dead. The legendary hacker had returned, and the game was about to start.

My five-year-old son, Liam, suffered severe brain damage from an allergic reaction. A car accident left me with shattered ribs and a new heart beating in my chest. My husband, Mark, seemed broken by our tragedy. Then, I overheard his phone call. "Olivia, it's done. Liam is no longer a problem. The accident went perfectly. They said her heart was a match for you. It was almost too easy." I was paralyzed. He planned it all. He fed Liam peanuts, knowing his fatal allergy. He orchestrated my crash to get my heart for his mistress, Olivia. We were pawns, obstacles to be removed so his son, Ethan, could inherit everything. Mark walked in, feigning concern. He even asked me to give blood for Olivia, whose body was rejecting my heart. He dragged me out of bed, ignoring my weakness and bleeding hand. He was draining my son too. I fainted from blood loss. Mark then suggested we place Liam in a facility and "adopt" Ethan. But in his monstrous suggestion, I saw my escape. His phone was left behind. His password was Ethan's birthday. I found a video: Olivia giving Ethan peanut crackers and pointing to Liam. It was deliberate. I forwarded the video, emailed my friend, a neurosurgeon in Switzerland, and deleted the history. I bundled Liam and slipped out. I mailed divorce papers and the USB with the video to Mark's office. "I'm leaving, Mark," I told him, then hung up. Mark eventually found Liam's room empty. The nurse, witnessing Olivia's manipulative act, showed Mark security footage of Olivia pinching Ethan and falsely blaming me. Mark erupted. He threw Olivia out, showering them with cash, telling them he never wanted to see them again. I landed in Zurich, found freedom with Liam. The news came: Mark suffered a severe spinal injury in an accident, paralyzed. He left everything to me for Liam. I founded a non-profit for children with brain injuries. Liam thrived, discovering a gift for piano. Then, my transplanted heart began to fail. I was preparing for the end, writing birthday letters for Liam. Ben burst in: "We found one! A perfect match. A directed donation from a patient in the States." It was Mark. He had arranged it, his ultimate atonement. He had his life support removed. I watched his final message, then deleted the file. A new heart. A new life. Our new life.

My name is Sarah, and I remember the cold. Not the chill of winter, but the stainless-steel table against my back. My sons, Michael and Gabriel, were gone, their screams replaced by silence. My husband David, blinded by ambition, led us to that abandoned clinic. His sister, Veronica, craved an heir for her powerful husband, Senator Harrison. She believed my "Legacy Fertility" and my children's "vital essence" could help her. A quack "expert" performed monstrous acts on my seven-year-old twins. Then it was my turn; they brutally harvested my ovarian tissue. I was left to bleed out on a filthy floor, my insides torn. I died there, a vow of revenge frozen on my lips. Later, I saw Veronica on the news, pregnant and glowing with what she stole. But then, warmth. Sunlight. My eyes snapped open to my own familiar bedroom. Michael was on my chest, Gabriel curled beside me, both alive, young, and whole. The calendar read October 14th—the very day it all began. The memory slammed into me: David's averted eyes, the isolated building, Veronica's cold voice, Michael's terror, Gabriel's whimper. This wasn't a dream; this was a second chance. Veronica, triumphant in my first life, had risen on my family's ashes, her belly swelling with a lie while mine was emptied by her greed. No. Not again. This time, I wouldn't just survive. I would take everything she had, everything she wanted. Her husband. Her position. Her future. My revenge would be absolute, and my children would live. The game had begun.

My husband, Mark, hummed happily in the shower, the sound a dull comfort. I picked up his phone, intending to set his alarm, a routine task in my seemingly perfect life. Then, a new message flashed: "Jessica." Followed by words that shattered my world: "Can't wait for the road trip, baby. Soon she'll be gone, and we'll be rich." Road trip? He' d mentioned one for us, next weekend. My fingers trembled unlocking his phone, our anniversary the passcode-irony's cruelest stab. Months of messages with Jessica, my adoptive sister and childhood tormentor, confirmed it: they were plotting my murder. "The brakes will fail on that riverside road," Mark wrote. "The insurance money will set us and the baby up for life." A photo showed Jessica with a newborn, and Mark's reply: "Our little one deserves the best." My marriage, my comfortable life, was a cold, calculated lie. Mark emerged, smiling, a predator's grin. He chattered about the "beautiful" road trip, oblivious, each word a hammer blow. He was going to kill me. My own sister, his accomplice. My cherished life, a carefully constructed trap. He left with a casual "Love you!", but the silence that followed was deafening. Then, rage burned away the shock. They wouldn't get away with this.

Dark clouds loomed over the old town of Ravenswood, casting an eerie shadow on the lonely and derelict manor that sat atop the hill. The locals whispered tales of a cursed estate, haunted by restless spirits from a forgotten past. Yet, despite the warnings and the chilling tales, the manor had been deserted for years, its secrets locked away behind its crumbling walls. One fateful day, a mysterious letter arrived at the doorstep of Elizabeth Reed, a young and ambitious investigative journalist. The letter, written on ancient parchment and sealed with wax, bore an emblem of a raven perched on a twisted tree branch—a symbol known to the locals as an omen of ill fortune. The message within was an invitation, beckoning Elizabeth to uncover the truth behind the haunted manor.

❝You do realise how absolutely ridiculous you're sounding, right?❞ Veer narrowed his eyes at her. ❝More ridiculous than a guy who just murdered someone?❞ Trisha countered, leaving him speechless. ☘ ☘ ☘ Aashna was aware that moving to Hazelynn to live with her aunt and her family was going to bring a lot of changes to her life. But never had she imagined even in her wildest dreams that it was going to change her life forever. Will she be able to handle the secrets and the truths life is about to throw at her? Or will those secrets consume her?

Six months into rebuilding her life, single mom Sarah is proposed to by Mark, a kind widower. Her heart, long dormant, finally warms as Mark proposes, surrounded by their hopeful children. But then, a terrifying premonition: a camping trip with Mark's daughter, Lily, turns deadly as Lily summons hordes of venomous spiders to kill Sarah and her son, Leo, coldly whispering, "No one gets to be Daddy's favorite but me and my real mom." Sarah gasps awake, back at the proposal, the chilling memory of venom and Lily' s malevolence still vivid. With a shudder, Sarah rejects Mark, baffling him and infuriating his family, who brand her cruel, while Lily's angelic facade cracks to reveal a glimpse of pure, icy fury. Lily, however, won't be deterred; she stalks Sarah, hacking Leo's smartwatch and staging a manipulative late-night scene that traps Sarah into letting her inside. The nightmare escalates when Lily kidnaps Leo from his after-school program, and Sarah discovers Mark's shocking history: all his previous girlfriends, and even his wife, died from mysterious "spider bites." Sarah' s confusion turns into a cold fury, realizing Mark isn't just oblivious but complicit, enabling his daughter's monstrous trail of victims. Lily' s voice, relayed by a tarantula-borne recorder, demands Sarah come alone to an abandoned quarry, threatening Leo with a spider attack. Knowing the police will only escalate the danger, Sarah races towards the quarry, ready to face the truth and fight for her son' s life.

Six months into our marriage, my husband Adam declared our garage off-limits. He called it his "creative space," but it was my house, bought with my inheritance, and his sudden coldness felt like a violation. Soon, the secrecy became a prison. He began handcuffing me to our bed at night, chaining me up like an animal so he could sneak down to his precious garage while I slept. When I confronted him, he tracked my phone, punched me in the face, and threatened to take half my house in a divorce. He was a monster wearing my husband's face, and I was trapped with him. One night, after picking the lock, I crept downstairs and heard voices. It was Adam and his fugitive brother-a man who had killed an entire family in a hit-and-run. I heard his brother threaten to "handle" me. The next morning, I smiled and made my husband his favorite breakfast. But as I served him his pancakes, I added a special ingredient-a powerful laxative, enough to send him straight to the emergency room. He thought he had me cornered. He had no idea I was about to burn his entire world to the ground.

My twin sister, Olivia, lay terrifyingly still in a hospital bed, her pale face a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets. An IV dripped fluid into her arm, and chillingly, thick bandages covered her wrists, a silent testament to her desperate act. She had tried to end her life, driven to the brink by the relentless, sophisticated cruelty of Brittany and her followers at Northwood High School. Their audacious arrival at the hospital, complete with smirks and chilling taunts, twisted the knife deeper into our family' s raw wound. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, stood helpless, their attempts to rid us of the tormentors dismissed with scornful indifference. When the police finally arrived, their response was infuriatingly inadequate: a dismissive "warning" for minors, prioritizing Brittany' s influential family over Olivia' s shattered life. Then, the ultimate humiliation struck: a raw, brutal video of Olivia's locker room torment, her clothes torn and her pleas mocked by Brittany's cruel laughter, exploded across social media. My fragile sister, seeing it, whispered that she was "so weak," her spirit visibly drained from her eyes. A mere warning for such psychological torture, for driving my twin to attempt suicide, was a grotesque joke in their broken system. But a familiar darkness, a dormant, predatory instinct I had suppressed for years for Olivia' s sake, began to stir within me. Olivia had always been my anchor, soothing this other side, but now, she was the very reason to unleash it. That night, I made a decision that would redefine everything: I was going to Northwood High. They thought they knew Olivia Peterson – but they had no idea who was truly coming for them. They had broken my other half; I would break them in return, and the Peterson family had unique ways of ensuring justice.

I spent three years locked away by my husband, Ethan, in a soundproof panic room. My legs, shattered in the "accident" he orchestrated, were useless. He stole my songs, my career, my life, and gave them to Chloe, a talentless fraud he built into a star. Then, they wheeled me out-a prisoner displayed for the "happy family": Ethan, Chloe, and my son, Leo. Leo, who looked at me like a monster, holding Chloe's hand and calling her "mom." Ethan ordered me to confess to plagiarism, to blame my own "jealousy" for his intricate web of lies that destroyed me. But the ultimate cruelty came later. Chloe, supposedly dying from a heart condition, needed a transplant. "You're a match," Ethan stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will donate your heart to Chloe." It wasn't a request; it was my execution. My heart for hers, the last piece of me carved out and given to the woman who stole my life. As the scalpel touched my skin, Chloe whispered, "This is for stealing my life, you bitch." I closed my eyes, uttering one word to the mysterious "Pact" I made years ago. Then, I left my body to die. Yet, I woke up. Not gone, but back. And the Pact whispered a new bargain: return to stop Ethan, who, shattered by my death, was becoming a true monster. The deal was clear: save him and save my sister. I stepped back into hell, but this time, the chains were broken, and I was ready to fight.