Soon, I was introduced to Lee Min Ho, a 45-year-old engineer from Seoul. He was polite, spoke broken Spanish, and promised me comfort and a better life. After three months of messaging, video calls, and promises, he proposed. I accepted, not out of love, but out of desperation and hope. I imagined a future free of struggle, a life gilded in gold, filled with opportunity and admiration.
On the wedding day, I wore the gold my cousin had sent. Necklaces stacked over one another, bracelets clinking against my wrists, earrings heavy enough to make my lobes ache. Everyone in the village exclaimed, “How lucky you are!” and I smiled, though a part of me wondered if this was truly luck—or just another trap.
The ceremony went smoothly. We exchanged vows, smiles, and bowing. The reception was a spectacle, lights glittering off the gold that clung to my body. I felt powerful, untouchable, as if nothing in the world could harm me tonight.
But then, the night came. We moved to a luxurious hotel room. He stepped out of the shower in a robe, and I prepared to lie down beside him, heart racing with nervous excitement. I lifted the sheet—and froze.
Underneath lay a man I did not recognize. Lee Min Ho’s body was skeletal, almost inhumanly thin. His skin had a grayish, waxy pallor, and his eyes… oh, his eyes were like knives, cold, calculating, empty. The polite engineer I had spoken to for months had vanished, replaced by someone I could only describe as terrifying.
For a moment, I could not breathe. My hands trembled violently, dropping the sheet. He sat up, and his smile—or what I thought was a smile—felt predatory.
