UL Chapter 1: Prologue

“My husband is a brute.”

The woman spoke with a firm, unwavering voice. The silver-haired psychiatrist regarded her client with a renewed gaze.

Was this their third session already?

Her name was Choi Yeonha. Twenty-nine years old. A technical translator by profession. Married. And quite the beauty—that was all the psychiatrist knew about her so far.

Today’s response was a stark contrast to the ambiguity and excessive caution she had shown in their previous meetings.

A brute, she had said.

Nodding slightly, the psychiatrist asked, “How long have you been married?”

“…It’s been exactly ten years this year. I got married at twenty.”

“That’s quite young. Was it a love marriage?”

“No. Our families had ties.”

An arranged marriage. Rare, but not unheard of.

With the practiced eye of someone who had spent a lifetime observing and analyzing people, the psychiatrist took another brief but thorough look at her client.

Porcelain skin, flawless without a single blemish. Deep brown eyes. Full lips. A delicate, almost ethereal face. She assessed her quickly, careful not to be impolite.

The woman exuded an undeniable air of refinement. Like an orchid, nurtured with care, elegant and pristine. Everything about her—the way she held herself, the way she carried her words—hinted at a privileged upbringing.

Judging by her articulate speech and composed demeanor, she was clearly well-educated. It was easy to imagine a childhood spent in a wealthy household, receiving a first-rate education.

With parents of such wealth and status, an arranged marriage was hardly surprising. The only unusual aspect was that it had happened slightly earlier than the typical marrying age.

The psychiatrist imagined how much younger the woman must have looked back then and continued her questioning.

“After ten years, even in the happiest marriages, couples often experience boredom or dissatisfaction. When did you start feeling this resentment toward your husband?”

“From the beginning.”

“…….”

“I disliked him from the moment we met. He was too much—too overwhelming, too exhausting.”

Her breath trembled as it left her lips, as if she were trying to steady herself. Her delicate fingers wrapped around the teacup on the table, lifting it slightly. Even the simple act of wetting her lips was picturesque.

“Have you ever discussed this with your husband? If it was truly unbearable, you could have sought counseling together—or, as a last resort, considered ending the marriage.”

A quiet chuckle escaped the woman’s lips.

There was something different about her now—an edge that hadn’t been there before, something almost defiant.

“My husband isn’t the kind of person you can have a rational conversation with.”

“…….”

“He’s irrational. That would be another way to put it.”

Her deep brown eyes locked onto the psychiatrist’s.

“My husband is an irrational man.”

She had spoken with absolute certainty—without a shred of hesitation.

A brute. Irrational.

For a brief moment, the psychiatrist found herself uncharacteristically curious about the woman’s husband.

What kind of man was he, to be described in such terms? A man with such a reputation, and yet, the closest family to this woman, whose very fingertips, wrapped around a teacup, were as graceful as the rest of her.

The client fell silent.

It was unclear whether she refrained from speaking because she didn’t want to discuss her husband further, or because, having already labeled him as a brute and irrational, there was simply nothing more to say.

Her gaze rested on the window, unfocused.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken with heavy storm clouds, mirroring the somber cast of her face.

There was something about the woman that felt precarious, something that made it difficult to look away. The psychiatrist pulled her attention away and returned to the symptom record in front of her.

[A persistent burning sensation in the chest, occasional shortness of breath, insomnia, difficulty concentrating, increased irritability and anxiety over trivial matters. No abnormalities detected in internal medical examinations.]

Symptoms as common as the common cold in modern society.

A few likely diagnoses came to mind instantly—she could prescribe medication, suggest therapy, stress management techniques, and monitor her condition. In medical terms, the woman’s ailment was…

“Doctor, do you know how butterflies breathe?”

The unexpected question made the psychiatrist pause, lowering her pen. She responded with patient curiosity.

“No. Now that you mention it, I’ve never thought about it.”

“…They breathe through tiny openings in their abdomen called spiracles. Like how fish have gills.”

Where was she going with this?

Throughout their sessions, the woman had never spoken unless directly asked. The psychiatrist chose to wait in silence.

“There are creatures that breathe through lungs, like humans, and others that use their skin. Every living thing is born with some way to breathe. And I always found that… strange.”

Her breath hitched, as if she were struggling to continue.

“Because I’ve… always felt like I was suffocating. Like a butterfly born without spiracles.”

Even as she spoke, she did not look at the psychiatrist.

Outside, raindrops had begun to speckle the window. The damp, heavy atmosphere made the world beyond resemble a water tank. The woman’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

“I feel like a fish born without gills, trapped in a tank.”

For a moment, the psychiatrist caught a glimpse of something slow and simmering beneath the woman’s calm exterior—rage.

Not a fleeting anger, but something ancient, long-repressed, and overwhelming. A fire so intense it threatened to consume her small frame.

But then, with a single blink of her long lashes, it vanished.

Resignation. Lethargy. The familiar weight of something pressing it down, smothering the embers before they could flare.

She rearranged her face into the composed expression she had worn before, but once something is seen, it cannot be unseen.

“What do you mean?” the psychiatrist prompted. “Can you explain it more clearly?”

“…It was just a passing thought.”

And just like that, the conversation ended again. A brief silence followed.

But something had changed.

For the first time, the woman was wearing an expression the psychiatrist could read.

The look of someone who had carried anger for so long that it had charred the edges of their life into a permanent, blackened scar.

It was an expression she recognized well—even in herself, after all these years.

After a brief moment of deliberation, the psychiatrist picked up her pen and scrawled down two syllables.

Hwabyeong (Fire Illness). A stress-induced disorder caused by long-suppressed rage.

Not an uncommon diagnosis. But…

She turned to look at her client’s profile, still gazing out the window.

The gentle slope of her forehead, the curve of her nose, the softness of her lips—her face, in that moment, looked strikingly unguarded, almost childlike.

A woman in her late twenties, someone who seemed to lack nothing, yet carried so much unspoken fury.

The woman spoke again.

“Doctor, can this be cured?”

Her tone was oddly detached, as though she wasn’t really expecting an answer.

As though she didn’t believe in the possibility of healing at all.

A memory surfaced—the woman’s first visit.

She had walked into the office of her own accord, but her expression had said she didn’t know why she was there.

The psychiatrist had seen that look countless times before, but for some reason, this time, it had stuck with her.

Why?

The woman was waiting for an answer, so the psychiatrist spoke.

“If we identify the cause and work toward a solution, it can certainly help. But…”

“The cause is obvious, isn’t it?”

A flash of white filled the windowpane.

Lightning.

“It’s my husband.”

“……”

“It’s because of my husband.”

That boy… I knew he would ruin me.

The words were murmured as though to herself.

That boy.

A woman nearly thirty referred to her husband not as a man, but as if he were some schoolboy she had met only yesterday.

The moment she finished speaking, thunder roared across the sky, splitting it in two.

And now, a new, undeniable curiosity took root.

“Ms. Choi,” the psychiatrist asked, “why did you marry your husband?”

If he had been unbearable from the very start, if they had never been a match—why?

Even in an arranged marriage, she had been young enough to resist.

Why?

The woman’s large, clear eyes met hers.

There was something eerily innocent about them.

Then, her red lips parted.

“…Because he didn’t love me.”

“……”

“Because he despises me. That’s why.”

It is human nature to seek love, even in the most barren of relationships.

And yet, here they were—two people in the prime of their lives, drawn not by love, but by hatred.

Suppressing an unsettling curiosity, the psychiatrist merely scheduled their next session.

The woman rose from her seat and bowed politely before turning to leave.

Her posture, her movements—still graceful, still impeccable.

Beyond the window, the rain had finally begun to fall in earnest.