[It takes Sung-hoon a while to find clothes that aren't bloody, made worse by the violent storm and constantly rising waters; his only reprieve has been the mirror behind him, giving him a chance to change into something dry. His hair is still soaked, from when gravity inverted and sent him splashing down a stairwell, and he dumps his old, wet clothes on the carpet. He ignores the red stain they leave behind, shrugging on a jacket with a wince.

He only glances up when he hears a sound, one that doesn't quite belong in the creaking of metal and concrete.]

Who's there? Show yourself.

[His tone gets across what Korean might not, as he reaches for a scalpel next to him.]

A | PUTTING THE LAB IN LABYRINTH;

[He regrets ever touching the mirror. It doesn't matter what it woke; Sung-hoon knew the feeling all too well and it sent him skidding down a hall, to a door. He'd torn it open and found himself in what was, unmistakably, a lab. A lab without windows or doors, filled with test tubes and hospital equipment, and that was all he needed to see before he turned back around to try his luck in the maze.

But of course the door was gone. Of course.

He kicks over a full-length mirror, out of place in the room, and doubles over, clutching his chest and struggling to catch his breath. The mirror, for its part, hits the ground, shatters, and returns to its hairline crack state. Like he'd never done anything at all.

Sung-hoon stares at it before he laughs, an ugly, unnatural sound.]

Well, that's interesting. I didn't know hell was supposed to be metaphorical.

B | COLLECT CALL;

[Another room without an exit. He takes the time to rummage around this one, keenly aware of feeling watched, and tears apart what might've once been a family attic. He kicks over a dollhouse, spilling decapitated barbies across the floor—he pauses to pick up a RAZR phone from the mess—before moving on to a cardboard box. He dumps its contents onto the floor and rifles through papers and picture frames; when that gives him nothing, he sets upon a desk. He knocks off everything on it, pulls out the drawers, and finally...

There's a cracked vanity behind it. The haunted feeling subsides as Sung-hoon stares at it.]

Found you. [He shoves the desk aside, grabs a wrench off the floor, and smashes the mirror. It's really loud. Sorry, whoever's on the other side.]

[He's given up on trying to use the phone as an actual phone, or even trying to manually punch in numbers. Instead, he's resorted to scrolling through the small list of existing contacts, which he finds are mostly incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers.

So he picks one and maybe, if you're really unlucky, it's you.]

FROM: p3wp3w

Who are you?