Anny lounged on her sleek, obsidian throne, a crystal goblet of deep red wine swirling lazily in her hand. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow emanating from the dying embers of a fire somewhere in the distance. With a sigh, she leaned back, the soft creak of the chair punctuating the silence.

"Life," she mused, her voice a melodic whisper that hung in the air like a haunting refrain. "Life is but a line, a fleeting journey from beginning to end. Mortals, they cling to it so desperately, as if their struggles could defy the inevitable."

Her eyes, pools of liquid crimson, flashed with a mixture of amusement and disdain as she surveyed the shadows around her. "And yet," she continued, "they fight tooth and nail to prolong their existence, chasing after meaningless dreams and hollow promises."

Outside the confines of her dark sanctuary, the world buzzed with the frenetic energy of mortal life. Voices clamored, their cries and whispers mingling in a cacophony of sound that reverberated through the night. But within the walls of her domain, Anny remained untouched by the chaos, a solitary figure in a realm untouched by time.

"For what purpose do they cling to such a fragile existence?" she mused, her words a soft murmur lost in the void. "What drives them to endure a life devoid of meaning and purpose?"

As the echoes of her words faded into the darkness, Anny's gaze lingered on the flickering flames, lost in thought. For in the tangled web of mortal desires and fears, she saw a reflection of her own eternal struggle—a battle against the inexorable march of time, and the inevitable end that awaited them all.

In the dimly lit room, shadows danced along the walls as Anny reclined on her throne, a glass of crimson wine swaying gently in her grasp. From beyond the confines of her chamber, the faint murmur of pleading voices echoed through the darkness.

"Please help me! I don't want to die here," cried a desperate voice, tinged with fear and youth.

"God, spare my son," begged another, the weight of a parent's anguish heavy in his words.

And then, a softer plea, tinged with hope and desperation, "Let my mother live to see her grandkids."

Anny's lips curled into a sardonic smile as she listened to the chorus of supplications. "Such meaningless and selfish reasons," she chuckled to herself, the sound barely more than a whisper against the backdrop of voices.

As she reclined on her throne, bathed in the faint glow of dying light, Anny's attention was drawn to the sudden cessation of her wine glass's rhythmic sway. With a languid movement, she set the glass aside and leaned forward, her eyes alight with curiosity.

"Well, well, well," she murmured, her voice a velvet whisper in the stillness. "Who do we have here? What fascinating soul dares to disturb my solitude?"

In the heart of Seoul, amidst the bustling chaos of the city, a hospital stood as a beacon of hope and despair. Within its sterile walls, a young boy sat alone in a dimly lit room, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. With trembling hands, he held a piece of paper bearing the weight of his world—a diagnosis that shattered his hopes and dreams with brutal efficiency.

Tears fell like raindrops upon the test results clenched in his grasp, his sobs echoing through the empty corridors. Each word on the paper seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death. How could he face such a fate, he wondered, when he had barely begun to live?

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Unable to bear the weight of his grief any longer, he rose from his seat and stumbled into the night, his steps guided by a mind consumed by sorrow. The world outside offered no solace, its streets teeming with life and laughter that seemed to mock his own despair. He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and despair, until he found himself standing before the solemn silhouette of a church.

The ancient stones loomed overhead, their weathered facade a testament to the passage of time and the enduring power of faith. With a heavy heart, he sank into a pew, his anguished cries reverberating through the hallowed halls. He prayed to a God he no longer believed in, begging for mercy in a world that had shown him none.

"God," he pleaded, his voice raw with pain, "take my life, but spare hers. This existence is a burden too heavy to bear, and if she is to perish, then I too shall meet my end. You are the cruelest of all, taking from me the only reason to live and leaving me to suffer in solitude."

With a bitter resignation, he fled from the sanctuary, his steps quickened by a storm of emotions too great to contain. The rain poured down upon him, blending with his tears as he stood upon the roadside, a solitary figure lost in the sea of humanity. The world around him seemed to blur, its colors muted by the haze of his despair.

As the traffic lights changed, he felt the pull of fate beckoning him towards the oncoming traffic, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. With each passing moment, the sound of the approaching truck grew louder, drowning out the tumult of his thoughts until all that remained was the haunting echo of his own fear. Yet, even in the face of death, he found no solace, no relief from the agony that consumed him. For in that moment, he realized that his suffering was far from over—that the greatest torment of all was the knowledge that he was powerless to change

He thought to himself, the rhythmic ticking of his watch punctuating the heavy silence. "This is better than seeing her die in front of my eyes. It's for the best. I wouldn't suffer after I endure this little pain. I am afraid, but this is nothing compared to what is waiting for me out there... Why is it not happening?"

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The sound of his watch echoed in his ears, a surreal accompaniment to the frozen tableau surrounding him. People mid-stride, cars halted in motion, even raindrops suspended in mid-air. Time had stopped, leaving him alone in a world devoid of movement.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the surreal scene, his breath catching in his throat. Raindrops hung in the air like glistening jewels, frozen in time. It was then that he heard it—the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps, their cadence steady and deliberate.

As the figure drew closer, he strained to make out her features, obscured by the shadow of her hat. She was an enigma, draped in black and crimson, her presence commanding and mysterious. With each step, the air seemed to crackle with an otherworldly energy, leaving him spellbound in her wake.

She stopped before him, her gaze piercing through the darkness, and raised her head to reveal her face. It was Anny, the immortal witch of legend, her eyes alight with a knowing glimmer.

"Well! Hello, charming stranger," she greeted him, her voice a melodic echo in the stillness.

The boy's heart raced as he struggled to comprehend the surreal encounter. "Who... Who are you? How are you not frozen? What is happening...?" he stammered, his words barely a whisper in the silence.

Anny's lips curled into a sly smile, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Who, how, what—does not matter at this moment," she replied cryptically. "I am here because I have something you need. And if you can, give me something interesting in exchange."

The boy's mind raced with questions, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and curiosity. "Something I need? What do you mean? What possibly could I need that you have?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue.

Anny's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Her," she said simply, her words hanging in the air like a promise of untold possibilities.