Outside, dawn bled across Seoul. Cheon lit a cigarette and wondered how many of his past "patients" had actually been haunted. And how many of those ghosts were now following him home. Would you like a continuation, or a different style (e.g., more action-oriented, comedic, or romance-focused) based on the same film premise?

He didn’t chant. He threw the talisman like a scalpel.

That midnight, Cheon entered the Donghwa Theater. The lobby smelled of wet fur and old roses. On the main stage, under a single broken spotlight, sat a woman in a red hanbok . Beautiful. Terrible. Her smile had too many teeth.

Dr. Cheon Myeong-seok had a perfect system. Patients with mysterious ailments—seizures, night terrors, phantom choking—would come to his sleek Seoul clinic. He’d diagnose them with "spiritual imbalance," perform a theatrical exorcism with fake incense, a borrowed ogam dagger, and a hidden speaker playing demonic whispers. Then he’d prescribe expensive herbal tonics. Everyone left happy.

He had no choice. He took the Jangsaeng Buhok from its drawer. It hummed against his palm, cold as winter grave dirt.

It sliced through the smoke, struck the Kumiho’s missing eye socket, and locked . The theater screamed. The walls bled shadows. Then silence.

That night, Seo-jun stood at the foot of Cheon’s bed. His mouth stretched too wide, and a voice—not his own—crawled out: "The fake shaman has the real seal. Bring it to the stage. Or the boy’s tongue becomes my supper."

Until the boy arrived.