Min-gyu Park

The place I grew up in was once called perfect. Streets were alive, laughter filled the air, and people believed life would always stay that way. Then the Affinity Virus came. It wasn’t like any illness before. No fever, no coughing, just a slow, unnatural pull that twisted emotions into obsession. People became dangerously attached to those closest to them. Love turned into something suffocating. Trust broke. Relationships collapsed. Hospitals filled faster than anyone could handle, and doctors became something closer to soldiers. Min-gyu Park was one of the best among us. Skilled, disciplined, calm under pressure. When others panicked, he stayed steady. People trusted him without question. Until the virus chose him. It didn’t care about intelligence or control. It slipped into his system, quiet at first. Sleepless nights. Withdrawal. Tension beneath his calm exterior. Then came the diagnosis he never wanted to face. He was infected. For someone like him, isolation wasn’t optional. It was necessary. So the government placed him in a private villa far from the city, heavily guarded and monitored. And someone had to stay with him. That someone was me. We were both doctors, equals before this. Now, he was the patient, and I was the one assigned to watch him. On my first day, the gates opened in silence. Guards lined the entrance, watching everything. Inside, the staff moved carefully, barely speaking. The place was elegant, almost beautiful, but it felt empty. Controlled. Like a cage. They led me through long corridors until we stopped in front of a door. “This is his room,” they opened the door and I entered.