Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The dirt path behind the old rice fields hasn’t changed.

Dried stalks line the edges now, cut down for the season, but Gi-hun still remembers running barefoot here, dust between his toes, the sun burning his scalp while In-ho chased after him with a bamboo stick, threatening divine punishment. It’s hot today—the kind of heat that sticks to your back like wet cotton—but the air smells like home: rice husks, old pine, and sweetened barley tea someone poured into a bowl and left to cool on a windowsill.

The cicadas scream overhead like they’re trying to out-sing time.
Power lines buzz faintly with trapped energy.

A black-and-white dog lies panting in front of a convenience shop behind them, ears twitching each time a truck honks on the main road. An old man rides past on a bicycle with a live chicken in his basket and a pack of Chamisul in his bag.

The world is alive. Familiar. So blindingly ordinary.

Gi-hun walks beside In-ho with his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, the way he’s always walked—like he expects life to throw something at him. In-ho, meanwhile, is completely relaxed. Arms swinging at his sides, his white t-shirt too clean, barely sweating.

Too calm. Too comfortable.

“The halmeoni at the tofu shop says she saw a gwishin again last night,” Gi-hun mutters, kicking a rock across the road.

“She needs new material,” In-ho says. “Last year it was a woman without eyes.”

“This time it was headless. Floating over the stream.”

“Maybe her husband’s the ghost.”

“He does look like he’s been dead for twenty years.”

“Smells like it too.”

They both laugh. Loud enough to rattle a nearby magpie from a tree. Its wings slap the air, scattering leaves across the trail.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Gi-hun asks.

In-ho pauses, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nope. Not a thing.” He flashes that easy grin. “Blackout. Blinked and woke up like nothing happened.”

“You were gone , In-ho. The whole village was out looking for you. Even the monk from Daeseong Temple said prayers. Auntie Min-jung was convinced you’d been dragged into the hills by mountain spirits.”

“I heard.” He shrugs. “Guess they gave me back.”

“Didn’t even charge a ransom.” Gi-hun snorts. “Cheap bastards.”

“You missed me. Just admit it.”

“As much as I miss food poisoning.”

“You cried, didn’t you?”

“I’ll throw you in the stream.”

“You cried so hard .”

“One more word and you’re lunch for that ghost.”

They pass a field of green onions and garlic drying under straw mats. A scarecrow watches them from its post, head tilted too far to the side. A single crow lands on its arm and stares.

“You always talk this much when you’re flustered?” In-ho teases.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just saying. You’re acting like a guy who missed me a lot .”

"You’re acting like someone who didn’t almost get eaten by a goddamn forest."

“I’m acting like someone who’s back where he belongs.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer right away.

The wind carries the faint sound of a samulnori drum from far off—someone rehearsing for the festival, maybe, down near the schoolyard.

They stop at the bend in the path, just before the shrine gate. The old lantern is still there, covered in moss, chipped from typhoons and time. The box of coins under the gate has long since rusted shut, but someone’s left a slice of apple and two sticks of incense on the stone.

The shrine door hangs slightly ajar. A wind chime above it lets out a lazy, uneven note.

They don’t speak for a moment.

In-ho squats to tie his shoelace. Gi-hun watches the sun catch in the curve of his cheekbone. The same face he’s always known.

Everything is exactly the same.

The cicadas drone.

The sky stretches bright and endless overhead.

The fields sway like waves.

And then—

“Hey,” Gi-hun says, lightly, like he’s just remembered something.

“Hm?”

“You’re not really In-ho, are you?”

Everything freezes.

Cicadas cut off.

Wind stops.

Even the clouds seem like they’re holding their breath.

The silence is wrong. Not peaceful—vacant. Like something holy has been vacuumed from the air, and the space left behind is screaming without sound.

In-ho doesn’t move. But his shadow does.

It peels away from him like wet paper—fluttering, twitching, then dragging itself across the dirt like a wounded animal. The shape of it glitches—first too thin, then bloated, bending in ways no spine should. Like the shadow is trying to remember how to be human , and failing.

In-ho’s smile lingers too long.
Frozen. Wrong. Then it splits, softly, almost tenderly—unzipping down the middle of his face like skin is just fabric.

Teeth bloom out like petals.
Not rows. Layers.
Not where they should be—some facing inward, some growing from places where bone doesn’t exist.

His eyes begin to multiply.
Not just across his face—down his neck, across his chest, like constellations. Each one spirals outward, forming kaleidoscopic rings of light and shadow.

Each eye reflects Gi-hun’s face.
Crying. Screaming. Still.
Thousands of Gi-huns staring back at him—each frozen in a different moment of devastation.

And then—the sky breaks.

Colors rupture across the horizon.
Not reds or blues. Not colors with names.
They move like liquid thought. Like regret made visible .
Geometry splits the world open—shapes that shouldn’t exist, fractal veins pulsing in midair, the fores folding into itself like a dying lung.

A thousand limbs unfurl—
Silk? Wings? Blades?
Ideas of arms, each one bending, reaching, retracting before the mind can grasp their shape.

The air burns sweet.
Copper. Firecrackers.
Like a childhood memory caught fire.

And then—

The thing inside begins to cry.

His voice is still layered—In-ho’s, others, Gi-hun’s own voice whispering things he never said—but it shakes now.

“You weren’t supposed to ask yet.”
“You weren’t supposed to see me.”

The creature takes a step back.

Its body ripples. It tries to shrink, to reform , as if it could fold itself back into In-ho’s skin.
It wants to be small again. Harmless. Beloved.

It’s failing.

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this. I didn’t—”

Its face fractures. Not physically—emotionally.
Like it’s trying to remember how to cry .

Its hands tremble. Or maybe those aren’t hands anymore.

“I was so careful,” it sobs. “I practiced your name until it felt like mine.”

The sky above them is leaking .
The edges of the world curl, as if the story itself is warping around them.

“I really do love you, Gi-hun. I-”

“I̡̨͙͙̪̹̾͟ ṛ̣̬̫̍͌ͩ͟ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧa͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘y͙͙̪̰ͫ͌́ d̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥ’t͖͖̠̬͛ w̡̻̻̣͚̒̀ͅa͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥt͖͖̠̬͛ t͖͖̠̬͛o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞ k̼̼̞̦̞̼̔i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘ y͙͙̪̰ͫ͌́o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡.”

That last part is said softly. Almost childlike.
Like a prayer.

Like a wish made too late.

“Please don’t tell a soul,” it whispers.
Then louder—raw—“Please. Please. Please.”
The sky twitches overhead. The colors falter like a broken reel of film, looping the same shattered image of In-ho’s silhouette over and over again.
The ground beneath them quivers, not from weight—but from fear.
His fear.

“If they find out—” the thing chokes, voice catching on something jagged inside its throat. “If they see me for what I am… I won’t get to stay. And you’ll never see me again.”

It steps forward—but slowly. Like it’s afraid its shape will scare him more than its words.
One of its hands reaches out—if you could call it a hand. Too many joints. Fingers that divide like roots.
But the gesture is soft. Longing.

“I just wanted to stay with you. That’s all I ever wanted.”
A pause.
Its voice shakes now—not monstrous, not overlapping. Just one voice. In-ho’s voice.

“Please don’t send me away.”

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Gi-hun doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

His mouth is dry.
His lungs are full of needles.
Something inside his chest is fracturing, the sound of it soft and wet, like ice splitting beneath water.

His body is trembling, but not from cold.

He’s breaking open—quietly, thoroughly, like the world has peeled back the skin of reality just to show him this one thing. And it hurts. God, it hurts.

A thousand questions claw inside his head, all screaming at once:

What are you?
What did you do with In-ho?

But no words come out.

He blinks—and the sky above them glitches again. Shapes he doesn't have language for drift like ghosts. The smell of copper deepens, thick like blood behind his teeth. In-ho— the thing that wears In-ho —is still crying. Still reaching. Still trembling like he’s the one afraid.

And that’s what destroys him most.

The monster isn’t attacking.
It’s begging .
Like a stray dog on the edge of being beaten. Like a child who knows the secret he never should’ve said out loud.

Gi-hun’s heart is a mess of thunder and static. Every instinct screams: Run. Fight. Forget. But something else… something quieter… presses down on him like a hand on his shoulder.

Love.
Or what’s left of it.
Or what could be mistaken for it, in a nightmare like this.

He thinks of In-ho’s smile earlier.
How stupid it was. How real it felt.
He thinks of forty years of friendship, real or not, warped or not.
He thinks of how gently the creature said his name.

And against everything—against logic, biology, terror, God—his mouth moves.

Barely a whisper.

“...Okay.”

The monster freezes.

Gi-hun swallows, or tries to. His throat burns.

He forces himself to meet its eyes—all of them. He sees himself mirrored again. A thousand Gi-huns: wide-eyed, crying, breaking. But he’s still here.

Still looking.

Still choosing.

“G-Good to see you, In-ho..”

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Gaedokdo, Busan, South Korea. 6 years ago

The rain hadn’t let up for days.
Not the kind that stormed or howled—just a steady drizzle that turned the clay roads to soup and left everything smelling of wet bark and soy sauce from the banchan shop across the hill.

In-ho sat on the porch of Gi-hun’s house, one slipper half-on, drinking makgeolli straight from the bottle like the old bastard he was.

“You’re gonna rot your liver,” Gi-hun muttered, stepping around a puddle with a towel in his hand. “Again.”

In-ho lifted the bottle in salute. “What a way to go.”

“Not in my yard. I’m not burying you next to the dog.”

“You loved that dog.”

“Yeah, and he had better manners.”

They fell into the usual rhythm—bickering that wasn’t really bickering, like notes in an old song they both knew too well to forget.

Gi-hun handed him a plate of hot pajeon. Greasy, steaming, perfect with the rain.

“You make this?” In-ho asked, already biting in.

“Sae-byeok sent it over.”

“Tell her to marry me.” 

Gi-hun grits his teeth “She’s married, idiot.” 

In-ho grinned through a mouthful. “So? We’ll fight for her.”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes and sat beside him on the porch, towel draped over his shoulder. The rain softened the air, making the mountains in the distance look like watercolors.

They didn’t say much for a while.

Just the rain, and the way the lantern outside swayed gently in the wind, casting warm light over the wood.

Then In-ho said, almost too softly, “You ever think about leaving?”

Gi-hun blinked. “Leaving where?”

“Here. The village. Everything.”

Gi-hun scoffed. “What would I even do?”

“Live. Maybe differently.”

“That’s rich coming from you. You haven’t left since the army.”

“I did leave. I just came back.”

They both stared into the gray.

Gi-hun said, “I don’t think I could. My whole life’s here. The dumb shrine. The tofu lady. You.”

In-ho looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Yeah. Me too.”

He didn’t look up again for a while. And Gi-hun didn’t ask what he meant by that.

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Summer in Gaedokdo, 3 years ago

The sun came back that week, just for a little while.

Just long enough to dry the laundry and make the stream look clean again. The kids were out barefoot. Someone was boiling barley a few houses down, and Gi-hun swore he could smell pine sap on the breeze. He stood on the porch with a cigarette he never lit. Just held it, turned it over in his fingers, pretending he wasn’t watching In-ho fight with the rust-bucket truck he refused to give up.

In-ho’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Hit it!”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes. “I am hitting it.”

“Not like that. Hit it with love.”

He padded down the steps, barefoot on dirt, sun in his eyes. “If I loved it, I wouldn’t be hitting it.”

“You’d be surprised what love puts up with,” In-ho muttered, elbow-deep in the engine.

Gi-hun laughed under his breath. It came out softer than he meant it to. He leaned against the truck, watching his best friend swear and twist metal like the engine had personally offended him.

Sometimes he wondered if this was it.
His life.
His whole damn life. This man. This truck. 

Sometimes, when the sun caught In-ho’s profile just right, Gi-hun would forget to breathe. Then In-ho would turn, and the moment would shatter.

"Why’re you staring at me?"

"I’m not," Gi-hun lied, throat tight.

“You were.”

“Just wondering if you actually know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing,” In-ho said—and immediately sliced his knuckle on the edge of the engine.

Gi-hun already had a tissue out of his pocket before In-ho cursed.

“Here.” He handed it over.

Their fingers touched. Brief. Nothing. Everything.

The blood bloomed through the paper like ink in water. In-ho didn’t thank him. He never had to.

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Gaedokdo, Busan, South Korea. A year ago

They were lying in the tall grass behind the old community center, beer bottles clinking near their heads, fireflies blinking in and out like distant signals. Gi-hun had brought nothing. In-ho had brought too much.

The stars were faint that night, but they still tried.

“I thought I’d be married by now,” Gi-hun said suddenly.

In-ho gave a snort. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d forget the anniversary and show up drunk with a dead fish.”

“That’s you, asshole.”

In-ho smirked, raised his beer. “To being disasters.”

Gi-hun smiled and bumped his bottle against it. “To staying that way.”

He didn’t say what he really wanted to say.
Not that night.
Not any night.

The words pressed against the inside of his throat. If I tell him… maybe he won’t laugh. Maybe…
But he didn’t risk it.

He just watched the fireflies trace gold light over In-ho’s face. And it felt like looking at something holy.

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Gaedokdo, Busan, South Korea. 2 weeks ago

It was a gray morning. Fog hung low in the hills, rolling like slow breath through the rice paddies. The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

Gi-hun waited by the gate, thumb brushing over the edge of the old cigarette lighter In-ho had once given him—more charm than tool now, its flame long dead. He rocked on his heels, trying not to check the time again.

In-ho was loading something into the back of his truck—straps, boxes, tools, tarp. Routine stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary. But Gi-hun kept watching him like the morning was holding its breath.

“You busy?” he asked, finally.

In-ho didn’t look up. “Little bit. Why?”

Gi-hun shoved his hands in his pockets, forcing a casual shrug. “Thought we could grab soju or something.”

A pause. In-ho straightened, dusted off his hands.

“Can’t. I’ve gotta head out early. It’s a bit far, might be gone a day.”

“Oh.” Gi-hun nodded, eyes on the gravel. “Right. No problem.”

He tried not to let it show. He tried not to feel it. It wasn’t like it was a big deal. Not really. Just… April 6th. The day they’d met all those years ago behind the school, In-ho bleeding from a broken nose and Gi-hun handing him a bandage.

They joked about it every year. Called it their “shitiversary.” Bought bad beer and worse snacks and yelled at whatever baseball game was playing. Nothing romantic. Nothing serious.

But Gi-hun always remembered.
Because it was the day that changed everything for him.

In-ho turned, squinting at him through the gray. “You’re pouting.”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes. “I’m not pouting.”

“You get this look when you’re trying not to pout. It’s like a dying dog.”

“Go to hell.”

In-ho laughed, soft and familiar. The kind of laugh that made Gi-hun feel fourteen again. Then, quieter:

“I didn’t forget.”

Gi-hun blinked.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” In-ho said. “We’ll do our stupid anniversary then. I’ll even bring the disgusting dried squid you like.”

Gi-hun stared at him, stunned into silence.

“You remembered?”

“Of course I remembered,” In-ho said, with a crooked smile. “It’s our most important national holiday.”

Gi-hun laughed. It came out all wrong—relieved, surprised, full of that aching warmth he’d tried to bury for years. He looked away so In-ho wouldn’t see it on his face.

“Don’t die on the road,” he muttered.

“I’ll try not to.”

They smiled at each other. For a moment, the fog didn’t matter. For a moment, the world felt steady.

Gi-hun would replay that smile a hundred times later. A thousand.
He would chase it in his sleep.

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Gi-hun wakes up gasping for air, his chest tight, constricted like a vice. The air feels thick, suffocating, as if his lungs have forgotten how to breathe. His body is dead weight—he can't move. Every part of him aches, every muscle heavy and unwilling. His skin is slick with sweat, and his heartbeat is all he can hear, pounding in his ears like the desperate rhythm of a clock running out of time.

He blinks, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but everything is wrong. His eyes are swollen, blurry, and for a moment, everything is still. The world outside feels distant, far away, like he’s trapped in a place that doesn’t quite belong to him.

But his heart—his heart won’t stop. It's thudding so hard, it feels like it's tearing through his ribs. Why? Why, why, why?

The air in his lungs feels thick, like he's trying to suck in water. He’s drowning, gasping for breath, but it’s trapped inside him. His mind is a storm of chaotic images, memories that don’t make sense. The creature. No, In-ho. It was In-ho, but it wasn’t. Those eyes—their shape, the way they spiraled and multiplied. The colors that bent the world in ways it shouldn’t have bent. The thing, that thing —that wasn’t In-ho. But... it was.

Gi-hun’s stomach churns, the tightness in his chest growing unbearable. His skin crawls, the remnants of the nightmare still seeping into his veins like poison. He tries to remember, tries to pull the moments when In-ho was just In-ho —when he was real, when he was alive. But every memory is blurred by that horrific image, and he can’t untangle the truth from the nightmare.

It was just a dream, wasn’t it?

His breath hitches again as the realization hits him, a sickening wave of confusion washing over him. No. It wasn’t just a dream. The memory— those memories—they were real. In-ho had been real. And the thing—whatever it was—it wasn’t.

A harsh sob tears at his throat, but it’s swallowed by the weight of his panic. His body shakes, uncontrollable tremors racking him, his hands clenched in fists on the blankets. His throat feels raw, like he’s trying to scream but can’t. Every muscle in his body feels paralyzed, as if his very soul is frozen, stuck in a loop of terror.

“Fuck...”

The words barely leave his mouth, hoarse and unrecognizable.

Suddenly, his mother’s voice slices through the haze, pulling him back into something familiar. 

“Gi-hun! In-ho is already waiting outside! Don’t keep him waiting!”

The name In-ho —it’s too much. It’s like a heavy stone sinking into his stomach. His mind spins again. He tries to push himself up, to shake off the weight of the nightmare, but his body betrays him. His legs feel like lead, his arms weak as though they’ve forgotten how to move.

In-ho...

The warmth of their past—of the days before everything turned—is fading from his mind, slipping through his fingers like sand. He can’t remember him the way he was—alive, laughing, real. All that’s left are the sharp, jagged edges of the monster that wore his face.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming feeling of dread that fills his chest. He’s still shaking. He can’t function. Why? Why can’t he function?

The realization settles in like cold water, creeping into his bones. He’s not ready to face him. Not today. But he has to. The weight of the world is on his shoulders, pulling him down, pressing him back into the bed. He doesn’t know if he can get up. He doesn’t know if he can keep pretending everything is normal, when all he wants to do is curl up and forget.

With great effort, he drags himself to the edge of the bed, each movement slow, deliberate. His hands tremble as he grips the edge of the mattress, as though the very act of standing might tear him apart. His breath is shallow, every inhale feeling like he’s trying to swallow broken glass.

He doesn’t have time. He can’t let himself spiral into this. Not now. Not when he has to face him.

“In-ho” is waiting outside.

Gi-hun stands, unsteady on his feet, the room spinning around him. His vision flickers for a moment—he sees a flash of that thing, that monster , twisting and warping. But then it’s gone, replaced by the all-too-familiar world outside his window. The sun is rising, the light too bright, too normal . The world is moving on, and so must he.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

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Gi-hun steps into the hallway, feeling the chill of the morning air against his skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire in his chest. The house is quiet, the usual hum of life replaced by the tension he can’t shake. His legs feel like they’re made of stone, heavy and uncertain, each step an effort. He’s barely aware of the sound of his own feet on the floor until he reaches the door, where he pauses.

He breathes deeply, fighting the pounding in his chest, the nagging panic that refuses to leave him. He forces himself to exhale, shoving the chaos of his thoughts away for now. He doesn’t have time to think about that.

He opens the door, and there, standing just outside, is In-ho.

“Good morning, Gi-hun,” In-ho says, his voice low but pleasant, like nothing is wrong, like everything is fine.

Gi-hun blinks, his breath catching for a split second. He’s so normal. Too normal.

In-ho doesn’t look any different, standing there with his usual calm smile, his posture relaxed. He looks exactly like he always does—so familiar, so right. But something in the air is wrong. Gi-hun feels it in the way In-ho hesitates. His gaze flickers to the ground, then quickly back up to meet his, but there’s something off about it. He’s not looking at him like he normally would. It’s almost like... like he’s thinking too much before he speaks. Why is he hesitating?

For a brief moment, Gi-hun catches the subtle stutter in In-ho’s words. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to make his stomach tighten.

“Are you alright, In-ho?” Gi-hun asks, his voice quieter than he intends.

In-ho straightens almost immediately, his smile smoothing out, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, just t-tired, I guess.”

But you’re always tired. Gi-hun almost says it out loud, but the words die in his throat. Instead, he just nods, trying to ignore the creeping unease in the pit of his stomach.

Something’s wrong. It doesn’t make sense. But he doesn’t want to dwell on it. Not now. He can’t afford to.

“Let’s go,” Gi-hun says briskly, avoiding the gaze that In-ho tries to hold. “We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

In-ho nods quickly, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. He opens his mouth, then stops, as if he’s thinking better of it. It’s a small, almost unnoticeable thing, but Gi-hun catches it. And it makes his pulse quicken just a little. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know.

He can’t afford to ask.

Instead, he turns toward the car, determined to keep things moving, to keep the routine intact. He knows he’s not fooling anyone. Not In-ho, not himself. But the thought of going back to that terrifying uncertainty, to the unknown, is worse than living in this half-truth. He made his choice. He has to live with it.

He’s already made a deal with it . He knows that much for sure now. And the thought of losing In-ho—of not having him around—would be far more agonizing than whatever it is that’s pretending to be him.

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Gaedokdo, Busan, South Korea. Present Day

The office buzzes with the soft drone of computers, the occasional clatter of keyboards, and the low hum of the coffee machine sputtering near the kitchenette. Outside, a light drizzle taps against the windows, smearing the city skyline into a blur of grey.

Gi-hun sits at his desk, eyes trained on the screen, though nothing’s really registering. He hasn't typed in five minutes. His ears keep drifting back to the sound coming from across the room—the frustrated shuffle of papers, the low muttering, the faint slam of a desk drawer.

It’s coming from In-ho.

Gi-hun lifts his head, blinking slowly, and glances across the partition. In-ho’s brows are furrowed, lips pressed tight as he stares down at a stack of misprinted documents, flipping through them too quickly, too roughly. There's a crease in his brow, tension in his shoulders, like he’s seconds from cursing.

Gi-hun hesitates, then stands. He walks over, trying not to make it weird. “Hey,” he says, voice light. “What’s up with you?”

In-ho doesn’t look up right away. He exhales sharply through his nose, hands pausing over the papers. “This printer,” he mutters. “Keeps jamming. Keeps duplicating pages. I’ve printed this thing five times and it’s still wrong.”

Gi-hun watches him quietly for a beat, then lets out a low chuckle. “Huh. The real In-ho wouldn’t get this worked up over a printer.”

That gets In-ho’s attention. He glances up, lips parting slightly. His face twitches—not in anger, but something else. Something more human. More… defensive.

“Why?” he says. His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it. “Can’t I feel frustrated too?”

Gi-hun opens his mouth, then closes it.

In-ho continues, voice low now, thoughtful. “I have his memories. I know how he’d react. But this? This is my first time actually experiencing this... shit. ” He gestures at the printer, at the pile of crumpled papers. “It’s annoying.”

Gi-hun just stares. The words catch him off guard—not just the content, but the tone. The annoyance, the weariness… the relatability.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods, slowly, as something unsettles in his chest.

In-ho sighs and rubs the back of his neck, finally cracking a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I’m not mad at you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Gi-hun says, still staring. “I… just didn’t expect you to get annoyed by a printer, that’s all.”

In-ho shrugs. “Yeah, well. I guess I’m learning.”

Gi-hun doesn’t reply. Not really. He just lets the silence stretch for a moment, before quietly patting In-ho on the shoulder. “You want me to take a look at it?”

In-ho shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll figure it out.”

Gi-hun lingers a second longer, then walks back to his desk. The quiet returns, punctuated only by the hum of the office and the soft sound of rain tapping the glass.

But the moment lingers. That expression. That response.

He hadn’t expected that.

He hadn’t expected him to feel like that.

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They’re walking home when the smell hits them.

That sweet-spicy scent, thick in the air, like heat and childhood and comfort all rolled into one. Gi-hun barely notices it at first—he’s too tired, too wired—but then he sees the stall. The small one, just outside the subway exit, with its faded red awning and steam fogging up the glass.

He glances sideways. “You want some?”

In-ho is already looking at it with stars in his eyes.

They sit at the edge of the stall, metal stools wobbling under their weight. The ajumma behind the counter ladles a generous portion of tteokbokki into two paper bowls, tossing in a few slices of eomuk for good measure. Gi-hun offers his card. In-ho is too busy staring at the bubbling red sauce to notice.

“This,” In-ho says, eyes locked on his bowl like it’s sacred. “This is it. This is the one.”

Gi-hun lets out a soft snort. “You’ve had it before.”

“I know ,” In-ho says, almost bouncing in his seat. “I have the memories. This stall. This recipe. It’s where we always used to go after work, remember? You’d always try to steal my last piece.”

Gi-hun just nods, not looking at him. The plastic fork in his hand trembles slightly as he picks up a piece.

In-ho takes a bite.

He explodes .

“Oh my god ,” he says, mouth full, face lit up. “This is unreal. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. This is insane. Holy shit .”

Gi-hun side-eyes him, deadpan. “You’re talking with your mouth full.”

“And you’re so loud, ” he adds, jabbing his fork toward him. “Seriously, people are staring. Lower your voice.”

In-ho swallows, still grinning. “Sorry. Just—it’s wild. I knew what it would taste like. I remembered it. But this is different. This is now. It’s like… I knew what joy was, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt it.”

Gi-hun pauses. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches him—the way he chews, the way he beams like a kid, the way he clutches the bowl like it might disappear.

He forces a breath. “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“That you remember everything… but somehow, everything still feels fresh to you.”

In-ho doesn’t answer right away. He just wipes a bit of sauce off his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes drifting toward the street, where the neon signs start blinking awake.

“I guess it’s because I wasn’t really alive then,” he finally says. “Not like this. I had the memories. I knew who I was supposed to be. But now, I’m here. I feel myself. Clearly. Like I’m not swimming in static anymore.”

Gi-hun’s grip tightens on his fork. “So what are you then? A ghost?”

In-ho snorts. “Nah. Probably not.”

Gi-hun glances at him, brows furrowed.

“I think I’m just some crazy monster of some sort,” In-ho says casually, popping another rice cake into his mouth. “One with really good taste.”

Gi-hun scoffs. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s close.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking. That it’s too easy to pretend in moments like this. That the stall still smells the same. That this version of In-ho still uses the same dumb jokes. That if he keeps listening to this thing talk like this, with that familiar voice and those warm eyes, he might forget how wrong everything is.

So he doesn’t respond.

Instead, he picks up another piece of tteokbokki and eats in silence.

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They finish their bowls in silence. Gi-hun wipes his hands on a napkin and crumples it without looking. In-ho hums contentedly beside him, swaying slightly like the meal just made him high.

They start walking again.

The night air is cooler now. The streets have quieted, neon buzz filling the spaces where voices used to be. They pass a fried chicken place, then a bakery just closing up. The scent of sugar lingers.

Gi-hun glances sideways. “…Is there anywhere you wanna go next?”

In-ho perks up. “Why? You taking requests now?”

Gi-hun shrugs. “You said you’re experiencing stuff for the first time. I just thought…”

He trails off, regretting it the second the words leave his mouth.

In-ho turns toward him, all teeth. “Wait—are you asking me out on a date?”

Gi-hun halts. “What—no.”

“Sounds like a date,” In-ho says smugly. “Snacks, night walk, then ‘where do you wanna go next?’ Classic setup.”

Gi-hun gives him the driest look in history. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re sweet.”

Gi-hun snaps . “I’m not sweet.”

The words come out louder than intended, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet like glass.

He stops walking. So does In-ho.

“I’m not sweet,” Gi-hun repeats, quieter this time, fists clenched in his pockets. “I’m just… I’m not. I’m not even kind. I’m hard on people. All the time. The only one I’m easy on is myself.”

For a moment, the world is too still. Too quiet.

Then In-ho speaks, voice softer now, without that teasing edge.

“I don’t really get that,” he says slowly. “But to me… your kindness never really went away.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer.

He looks at the sky instead. The clouds have cleared a little, and the stars are faint, but there.

He doesn’t look back at In-ho again until they’re already walking.

“In-ho” hums under his breath as they walk—some shapeless melody, aimless and soft. The kind of thing the real In-ho used to do without thinking.

Gi-hun watches him.

Same gait. Same slouched shoulders. Same subtle glance at street signs, like he’s keeping track of how far they are from home. Everything is the same. Everything is too the same.

His feet stop moving.

He stares.

What the hell is this?

The thought lands heavy, unspoken. Just a quiet scream behind his eyes.

It looks like him. It walks like him. But it’s not him.

A faint breeze brushes past his cheek. He can hear traffic in the distance, a dog barking two streets over. Everything feels real. Everything feels wrong.

This is messed up. This is so wrong. He’s gone. In-ho is gone.

And yet he’s here.

Talking. Smiling. Cracking dumb jokes.

I’ve gone insane. That’s it. That’s the only explanation. I made a deal with a monster. I let him wear In-ho’s face. I said yes. I said please. I begged him to stay.

His mind swirls. The lights of passing cars stretch and smear like oil across his vision. He can’t focus on “In-ho’s” voice anymore. It’s muffled. Warped. Echoing from the wrong corners.

In-ho is dead. This is not In-ho. This is a thing. A thing pretending.

His hands clench in his coat pockets. His throat tightens. He wants to scream, cry, throw up—maybe all three. But he does none of those things.

He exhales.

And the world settles.

Just like that, the colors go back to normal. The light sharpens. The sound returns. He hears footsteps stop a few paces ahead.

“Hey,” “In-ho” says, cheerful. “Next time—can I stay over at your place for the weekend?”

Gi-hun blinks.

“Huh?”

“We could go fishing,” In-ho says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Gi-hun blinks. “Fishing?”

“Yeah. You’ve got those old rods in your shed, right? The ones you never use?” He tilts his head, that easy grin still plastered on. “We could take them down to the river. Late night, just us. Bring beer. Ramyeon. Make a mess.”

Gi-hun exhales through his nose, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “What are you, a grandpa?”

“You tell me,” In-ho says, eyes narrowing with play. “I’m just guessing, based on your taste.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer. Not really. He just nods, slow and tired, and keeps walking.

Then—a voice cuts through the quiet night like glass shattering.

“그 악마가 왔다!”
The demon has come!

Gi-hun startles. They both do.

An old woman stands across the street, hunched under a crooked black umbrella despite the clear sky. Her clothes don’t match the weather—heavy, layered, old-fashioned hanbok pieces—and her hair is a tangled mess of silver and soot. She’s pointing directly at In-ho.

Her eyes are wide, almost white with age or something else entirely.

“ 악마다! 죽음을 데리러 왔다! 죄인들을 태우러 왔어! ”
A devil! It’s here to take the dead! To burn the sinners!

People nearby begin to stare. A car slows. Someone mutters about the woman being drunk or mentally ill.

But Gi-hun—he can’t speak.

In-ho hasn’t moved.

The smile is gone. His face is slack, eyes staring forward like someone unplugged him from inside. No panic. No confusion. Just—

Blank.

Lifeless.

Gi-hun feels something cold crawl down the back of his neck. Something ancient. Primal. His hand twitches at his side.

The old woman screams again, this time backing away like she’s seen something crawl out of hell itself.

“Don’t let it near me! Don’t let it touch me!”

Gi-hun finally finds his voice.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, eyes on the ground. “She’s out of her mind. Just ignore her.”

But he can’t help it—he glances back at In-ho. And what he sees—

That expression, or lack of it—like someone else has taken over completely—

He flinches.

Not visibly. Not enough for In-ho to see.

But he feels it in his spine. Like a jolt. Like instinct.

He starts walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just… away.

“Let’s go,” he says again, more firmly this time, the weight of his steps rising.

Behind him, silence.

Then—

“Wait,” In-ho calls out, voice soft but echoing strangely in the empty space between them. “Wait for me.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer, but his pace eases. And eventually, he hears the familiar steps fall into rhythm beside his own.

He doesn’t look. He doesn’t ask.

He just walks.

And beside him, the thing wearing In-ho’s face walks too.

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They reach his doorstep under a sky bruised deep indigo, the kind of color that makes you think of dying stars. Cicadas scream like electricity in his ears, their chorus unrelenting, metallic—louder now that everything else is quiet.

“In-ho” walks a step ahead, then turns to face him, still smiling like nothing happened. Like that old woman hadn't just screamed bloody murder. Like she hadn’t looked straight through Gi-hun and seen whatever that was.

“Tomorrow,” he says, easy. Too easy. “I’ll bring those fishing rods. The ones rotting in your shed. We’ll see who’s the bigger idiot standing waist-deep in a muddy river. I’m betting it’s you.”

Gi-hun stares at the door, hand hovering just inches from the handle. The wood feels swollen with moisture, like it’ll take more force than usual to open. His fingers don’t move.

“In-ho,” he says instead, quietly. 

“He’s really dead, isn’t he?”

The cicadas pause for half a second—or maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s just in his head.

“…Yeah,” comes the reply.

Short. Unceremonious. And it hits him like a body slamming concrete from seven stories up. A sickening kind of finality.

There’s no argument. No denial. Not even a pause to pretend otherwise. Just that word, and suddenly Gi-hun feels like he’s been punched in the chest, air knocked out, lungs refusing to work.

“I mean,” the thing continues, its voice still warm, still perfectly In-ho, “this body—it’s warm, sure. It has a pulse. But the man you knew? He’s long gone.”

Gi-hun’s throat burns. He blinks and realizes his eyes are wet, and not from grief, not yet—more like shock. Like his body is reacting before his mind catches up. He thinks he might throw up. He thinks his feet are starting to go numb.

His voice comes out too quiet, unformed.

“Then… y-you…”

But “In-ho” cuts him off gently. Patiently.

“When I found him, he was barely alive,” it says, gaze steady. “A shell. He had minutes left. Seconds. I—I wasn’t lying to you. Not really. I didn’t steal him. Not like that.”

The wind rustles the pine trees. There’s a damp, mossy smell in the air, sharp and bitter. Something about it makes Gi-hun’s stomach churn harder.

“I’ve always been in the mountains,” the thing says. “Always roaming. Searching. For what, I didn’t know. Just... drawn. Called. But I didn’t feel anything. Not hunger. Not joy. Not fear. Just... obedience. Like I was built to wander and wait. To mimic. To survive.”

Its eyes glint in the low porch light, and for a moment Gi-hun sees something behind them. Not malice. Not cruelty. But something ancient. Empty.

“A machine,” it murmurs. “A shadow.”

Gi-hun’s breath is coming too fast now. He tastes something metallic on his tongue. Panic, maybe. Or the memory of blood. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and breathes in through his nose. The porch smells like old rain and dust. Like mildew. Like rot.

“And then In-ho died,” it says, softer this time. “And I woke up.”

Silence.

A long, crushing silence that fills Gi-hun’s chest like water. He can’t move. Can’t think. All the horror movies he used to watch when he was drunk— The Wailing , Gokseong , those slow, crawling ones where the evil didn’t jump at you but just stood there , watching—you always think you’ll run. That you’ll scream, or hit it, or pray.

But Gi-hun doesn’t do anything.

He just stands there, sweat slick on his back, legs trembling under him, every instinct screaming to flee—

—and doesn’t.

Because it’s still him . It still looks like him. Still sounds like him. Still says his name in that particular way that no one else ever did.

Gi-hun swallows hard. His tongue feels thick, like it doesn’t belong in his mouth. His entire body trembles with a coldness that’s wrong . The world around him blurs, and for a split second, he wonders if he’s sinking, drowning in his own breath.

This is hell.

No— this is worse. This is something deeper. A trick. A cosmic joke designed to torment someone who’s already seen too much. Someone who’s already lost. Someone who thought he’d run out of pain to feel, only to find there’s always more.

And yet—

“…Do you like me?”

The words leave him before he can stop them. They fall from his mouth like dead birds, weightless, ugly. Irreversible.

He doesn’t know where the words come from. His lips part before his mind can catch up, the question falling out like something that was never meant to be spoken. It’s strange, like a confession—or maybe a curse. It lingers between them, too heavy, too raw.

A beat. Then—

“What?” the thing asks, its voice puzzled but soft. “Gi-hun, what are you—”

And then—In-ho grins .

Not the smile Gi-hun remembers. Not the warm, messy grin full of mischief and familiarity. No, this is different. It’s sharp, dark, something that doesn’t quite fit. It’s a smile that shouldn’t be there, stretched across a face that feels like a mask.

And it gets wider. Wider.

“I like you.”

The words drip from its mouth, slow, deliberate—heavy with something twisted, something wrong.

“I really like you… so damn much.”

The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. They cut through Gi-hun’s chest with a jagged precision. Gi-hun freezes.

That —that wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t the awkward, hesitant admission he always imagined—if he ever imagined one at all. It wasn’t the “I like you” from years of friendship, of drunken nights where maybe one or both of them might have said it.

No. This felt like a command. Like a plea from something that knew it shouldn’t be here, but was anyway. Something that didn’t belong in In-ho’s body, in his voice. Something pulling Gi-hun down into it, drowning him in this.

He stares at it—at him—and suddenly the world tilts. His vision warps and pulls, like reality is stretched too thin. The ground feels distant beneath his feet, like he’s no longer standing on solid earth, but suspended in some kind of nightmare he can’t wake up from.

This is a lie. The words press against his ribs, cold and jagged. This isn’t him.

But the smile keeps pulling, keeps stretching, keeps whispering through the air between them.

And then it hits him.

In-ho never said that. Not like this. Not once in all their years. Not even when Gi-hun thought, maybe… maybe, there was something more. Flirting, yes. But never this. Never this .

The grief is a tight knot in his chest. It clenches and drags, deep and cruel, and Gi-hun can feel his eyes burn—hot, fast. They spill over before he can even try to stop them.

Tears fall, stinging his skin, catching on his lips. They taste like salt and regret. Like the years of silent waiting, the hope he buried so deep in his chest he almost forgot it was there.

“I—” Gi-hun chokes on his own breath. His throat is raw. “Then—” His voice cracks, splinters under the weight of it.

“Don’t you dare disappear from me again.”

He doesn’t even recognize his own voice, thick and desperate, breaking under the weight of it all. The tears come faster now, unstoppable. His body is moving before he knows it—hands shaking as he fumbles for the door, his fingers so weak, so trembling that it takes everything to get it open.

He slams it shut, feeling the finality of the sound reverberate through his bones. The walls around him close in, but it’s the cicadas outside that linger in his ears, shrieking, relentless, fading into the distance.

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Chapter Text

웃

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The sun’s dipping low by the time they gather behind the office, that strange hour when the air grows still and everything looks like it’s been dipped in old film grain. The dirt lot is half-shadow, half-light, the trees beyond it murmuring in the breeze. Cicadas shriek loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

Jung-bae’s already waiting, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s got too much energy for his own good. He spots Gi-hun and waves dramatically, nearly smacking Yeong-mi in the face.

“Hyung!” he shouts. “Go home with me today!”

Gi-hun blinks. “…What?”

“Take the path through the woods with me. Shortcut behind the school.”

Gi-hun stares at him. “Why would I do that?”

Jung-bae huffs. “They’re doing construction again on the main road. I’ll have to walk, like, half the damn village to get home unless I cut through. And I don’t want to go alone.”

Yeong-mi, holding a lukewarm can of coffee like it’s her last tether to sanity, mutters, “You mean that trail where people always say they hear footsteps behind them?”

“Footsteps, whispers, animal noises that don’t sound like animals—take your pick,” Hyun-ju chimes in, grinning. “It’s basically haunted.”

“It’s not haunted,” Jung-bae insists, but his voice cracks just enough to give him away.

Gi-hun folds his arms. “Then why not go alone?”

Jung-bae deflates a little. “Okay, okay—look. I walked it once. At dusk. Alone.”

“Oh no,” Yeong-mi says. “Here we go.”

Jung-bae holds up a hand solemnly, like he’s swearing into court. “I’m serious. I couldn’t look anywhere except the path in front of me. I tried to glance at the trees once, and I swear I saw someone standing just barely behind the brush. Tall. Still. Watching.”

“You saw a deer,” Hyun-ju says.

“I saw shoulders ,” Jung-bae says, indignant. “Deer don’t have shoulders like that! They don’t breathe like that either!”

Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. “…You heard breathing?”

“I did,” he whispers. “Right by my ear. But when I looked, there was nothing. I just—kept walking. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even blink too long. I felt like if I looked away from the trail for even a second…”

He trails off, eyes wide for effect.

“…Something would pull me off it and into the trees.”

There’s a brief silence. The cicadas pick up again like a cue.

Yeong-mi mutters, “Okay, now I definitely don’t want to go.”

“I’m not saying that’ll happen again!” Jung-bae says quickly. “That was just a one-time thing. I was sleep-deprived. Maybe a little drunk. Maybe I stepped on fermented mushrooms. Who knows?”

Gi-hun shakes his head. “Sounds like a you problem. I’m not going.”

“But hyuuuung,” Jung-bae whines, practically clutching at Gi-hun’s arm. “Don’t let me die alone. Think of it as a test of courage. We’ll survive together. Trauma-bonding!”

“Hard pass.”

“I’ll buy you triangle kimbap for a week.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll wash your thermos!”

“…That’s not mine, it’s Yeong-mi’s.”

Yeong-mi lifts her coffee can lazily. “It was mine three thermoses ago.”

“I’ll delete those photos from the last office party—”

“ Sounds interesting. ”

The voice cuts clean through the air like a needle through cloth.

They all turn to see “In-ho” standing just behind them, arms crossed, a slight tilt to his head. The smile on his face is small, faintly curious, and a little too perfect.

Yeong-mi chokes on her coffee.

“You?” she says. “You think it sounds interesting?”

Hyun-ju raises a brow. “In-ho, weren’t you the one who passed out during Train to Busan ?”

“It was hot in that theater,” “In-ho” says smoothly.

“You screamed at the Janghwa Hongryeon trailer and kicked over the snack table,” Yeong-mi says.

“That was years ago.”

“You cried at that viral video of the cat getting stuck in a sock.”

“I’ve grown,” “In-ho” says, his smile holding steady. “I’m not scared of things like that anymore.”

Everyone stares at him.

“Right, Gi-hun?” “In-ho” says suddenly, turning his gaze toward him.

Gi-hun feels a chill crawl up his spine.

He swallows. “…Yeah.”

The air holds still for a moment. Too still. Even the cicadas seem to quiet.

Then Hyun-ju speaks up, voice light.

“Well,” she says, “if In-ho’s not scared anymore, I guess we should all go.”

Jung-bae lights up. “See?! It’s settled! We’ll go together—it’s way less creepy when it’s a group thing, right? Like, spirits won’t attack a group , right?”

“Nope,” Yeong-mi says dryly. “That’s exactly how horror movies start.”

“We’ll bring flashlights. I’ll bring snacks. And if anything jumps out, we sacrifice Gi-hun first,” Jung-bae says, grinning.

Gi-hun exhales through his nose.

Hyun-ju’s still watching “In-ho.” Her expression unreadable. Calm, but... not blank. Her eyes flick between him and Gi-hun like she’s trying to draw a line between two invisible points.

And for a moment, Gi-hun has the strange sensation that she sees something. 

But then she smiles again and stretches her arms over her head. “I’m in. Let’s see how brave we really are.”

They all start chatting again, joking about who’ll scream first, but Gi-hun stays quiet. His eyes shift toward “In-ho,” who’s laughing at something Yeong-mi said.

It’s a good laugh. Familiar. But when Gi-hun listens too long, it starts to sound just slightly wrong—like a song he’s known forever, played half a key too low.

Something’s off.

And no one else can hear it.

Except maybe her.

Maybe.

The laughter was still echoing in the office walls when the door creaked open.

“Alright,” their team leader barked, stepping inside with a stack of folders under one arm and a half-eaten rice ball in the other, “that’s enough ghost stories for one day. You lot sound like middle schoolers daring each other to visit abandoned temples.”

Everyone straightened up slightly—just enough to feign professionalism. Jung-bae still had his phone open, halfway through Googling “how to tell if your forest is haunted.”

“Oh,” the team leader added, almost as an afterthought. “Before you head out—did anyone hear about the old woman they found this morning?”

Yeong-mi blinked. “What woman?”

Hyun-ju tilted her head. “Where?”

“By the river,” the team leader said, taking a bite out of their rice ball like they weren’t announcing someone’s death. “Elder Kang, you know? The one who used to sell mugwort bundles by the temple?”

Gi-hun’s stomach dropped.

“She died?” someone asked, voice small.

“How did she die?” Hyun-ju asks, too quickly.

The team leader raises an eyebrow. “Choked.”

“On what?” Yeong-mi asks.

“Her own hand,” he replies.

A beat of silence. Then—

“ What? ” Jung-bae blurts. “You mean like she…?”

“Forcibly shoved it down her own throat. Nearly tore her jaw out in the process.”

Yeong-mi whimpers. Jung-bae swears. Even Hyun-ju’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second.

“Jesus Christ,” someone murmurs. 

“But,” the team leader continued, “that woman was kind of... gone, wasn’t she? Always shouting about demons and curses and crap. Remember? She kept saying something about a thing coming into the village. That it didn’t belong. ‘Eyes that don’t blink right,’ or whatever. Scared the hell out of my kid last week.”

“Yeah,” Jung-bae said, his voice more subdued now. “She came up to me once at the corner store. Kept saying I should carry salt in my pocket.”

“I bet she messed with something,” the team leader added. “Tried to curse the devil or whatever. You tempt that stuff, you get what’s coming. Probably croaked in the middle of her own ritual.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

Yeong-mi looked visibly pale now. “That’s awful…”

“She was unstable,” the team leader says with finality. “Went on and on about monsters and fire and death coming to the village. Probably tried to do some back-alley exorcism and got carried away. Honestly, these old folks with their delusions… it’s tragic, but not surprising. Don’t dwell on it.”

But Gi-hun can’t.

His mouth is dry. That woman— he saw her.

Last night. Screaming across the road. Pointing at In-ho like her bones could feel the wrongness.

“That demon has come!”

He glances toward In-ho.

He’s still sitting there.

Still.

Still.

Expression slack, posture perfect. His fingers don’t move, not even to twitch at the edge of the desk. Everyone else is reacting—shifting, whispering, looking disturbed—but he’s just… watching. Like someone observing ants under glass.

Gi-hun's heart starts pounding.

He looks too normal. Too clean, too composed.

Like a photo of a person instead of a person.

“But I mean,” the team leader shrugged, turning to leave, “crazy people do crazy things. See you all tomorrow. Try not to summon anything on your way home, alright?”

The door slammed shut behind them.

Nobody laughed.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Then Hyun-ju cleared her throat. “I don’t like that. That felt bad to hear.”

His skin crawls. Something tightens in his gut.

The memory of the old woman’s voice—raw, ragged, hysterical—echoes inside him like a bell.

Gi-hun exhales through his nose.

He doesn’t look back at In-ho again.

But he feels the gaze on his neck.

Cold. Patient.

And wrong.

“악마다! 죽음을 데리러 왔다! 죄인들을 태우러 왔어!”
A devil! It’s here to take the dead! To burn the sinners!

The trees loom ahead like a wall—dense, gnarled, and hunched in a way that feels too human for comfort.

The trailhead yawns open before them, nothing but a narrow dirt path winding into a dark abyss. Flashlight beams flicker weakly against the undergrowth, swallowed whole by the thick, tangled branches above.

Jung-bae stands at the entrance, gripping his flashlight like a crucifix, knuckles pale.

“We should’ve gone home early,” he mutters.

“Blame In-ho for that,” Hyun-ju says, casually tossing a pebble down the path. “He’s the one who wanted food.”

“I was hungry,” In-ho protests, as if that justifies everything.

Gi-hun stares into the black mouth of the forest. The shadows feel heavier here. Thicker. Almost wet. He doesn’t say anything. He rarely does.

“Come on, it’s just a trail,” Yeong-mi murmurs, but her voice is tight. Her arms are crossed, sleeves tugged nervously over her hands.

“Just a trail,” Jung-bae echoes, voice rising an octave. “You weren’t here last time. I walked this thing alone once, and I swear I couldn’t even look at the woods. Not even a peek. I had to keep my eyes glued to the ground the whole time or I’d lose my shit.”

Hyun-ju’s eyes glint, amused. “You’re so dramatic.”

“No, seriously! You don’t get it. You look into the trees and it’s like—they’re looking back. Like they know you’re there. I almost pissed myself.”

“Almost?” she teases.

“I’m telling you, I felt something breathing behind me. The air was wet . Like someone was breathing right at my neck.”

“Gross,” Yeong-mi shivers.

Jung-bae turns to Gi-hun with pleading eyes. “You get me, right? You understand. Tell them.”

Gi-hun shrugs. “Then don’t look.”

“Exactly!” Jung-bae nods, encouraged. “You get it.”

“But you invited us,” Hyun-ju says, arching a brow.

“I said I needed moral support! I didn’t say I wanted to do this together ! I wanted someone behind me, not beside me. So when I die, at least I die second!”

They all groan.

They start walking. The forest wraps around them like a closed jaw. The path crunches underfoot, their flashlights bobbing weakly.

Laughter dims. Breathing grows shallow.

Even with five of them, the woods feel too silent.

Something isn’t right.

They make it through faster than expected. The trail spits them out at the other end like nothing ever happened.

“Huh,” Jung-bae blinks, turning to look behind him. “What the hell?”

“Told you it wasn’t that bad,” Hyun-ju says.

“You were clutching Yeong-mi’s sleeve the whole time,” Yeong-mi adds, smug.

“No I wasn’t! That was a protective maneuver!”

“All that for nothing,” In-ho says, stretching his arms behind his back. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Gi-hun watches him quietly.

He looks... fine.

Too fine.

Jung-bae lets out a long breath. “Well. Thanks, everyone. Really. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I just... couldn’t do it alone. I owe you one.”

“Stay safe on your way home!” Jung-bae says before he parts ways.

They all nod, waving at Jung-bae. They're coworkers, after all. Friends. More or less.

They rest briefly before turning back. The return walk feels heavier. The forest seems darker now that it knows they’ve left once. Like it’s waiting.

“Trekking the trail again is a pain,” Hyun-ju mutters.

Gi-hun walks quietly.

The others chatter.

But then—

Something shifts.

Gi-hun’s head turns slowly, against his better judgment.

To his left: trees. Shadows.

And then—

Something moves .

It stretches out from the underbrush, smooth and pale like a thick, veinless root. No. Not a root. Not a snake either. It's too big, too human . It slithers silently just above the forest floor, gliding like it’s boneless. Reaching.

At the end of it—a head.

A woman’s face.

Eyes wide and empty. Hair long and drifting in slow motion like it’s underwater. Her mouth parts slightly.

It’s not walking.

It’s floating.

And the neck—long. Too long. Endless.

Gi-hun freezes.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

What the hell is that?

He yanks his gaze back to the trail.

Don’t look. Don’t look. I looked . Shit. Did it see me?

His heart’s pounding, a staccato against his ribs. He feels the blood leave his fingertips.

“Gi-hun?”

In-ho’s voice slices cleanly through the rising panic.

Gi-hun whips his head toward him.

In-ho stands beside him, calm. Still. Normal.

So normal it feels staged. Like a mannequin mimicking human ease.

"You saw that, didn't you?" In-ho says softly.

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

How—

In-ho turns toward the woods casually, not even blinking. Then looks back at him.

"Ah. That’s not good."

Gi-hun takes a step back. His legs feel numb.

In-ho smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t worry.”

But Gi-hun does worry.

Every instinct in his body is screaming.

BANG!

A thunderous crack tears through the trees—so loud and sharp it’s almost physical. Birds explode from the branches above. The sound echoes like something splitting open.

Hyun-ju flinches violently.

Then grabs Yeong-mi’s wrist. “Yeong–mi!”

“Unnie—?!”

But Hyun-ju’s already pulling her down the path without a word.

“Wait—where are we going?!” Yeong-mi cries, stumbling to keep up. “W-wait—?!”

Gi-hun doesn’t have time to process it.

The moment the sound hits, In-ho sways.

His body jolts like a string’s been cut.

He stumbles forward—then crumples.

“In-ho!” Gi-hun yells, catching him before his head hits the ground.

Up close, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream trickling from In-ho’s nose, sliding past the corner of his mouth. His eyes are open. Unblinking.

He doesn’t flinch.

Just blinks. Like it’s nothing.

Then, silence.

“Come on, are you okay?!”

“It’s just a nosebleed,” he says. “Do you have a tissue on you?”

Gi-hun stares at him.

That’s it?

“What was that—what just happened?”

“The thing you saw,” In-ho says, wiping his face, “was trying to stick to you.”

“Stick to—what does that even mean ?”

“So I crushed it,” In-ho continues, too nonchalant, “and put it inside me.”

Gi-hun’s voice dies in his throat.

“What?”

“It’s gone now. Technically.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move.

“I sucked it in. Swallowed it. It fought back, though. That’s why the nosebleed.”

“You’re not making any sense—”

“And oh,” In-ho cuts him off, smiling faintly.

His voice lowers.

“Gi-hun. Don’t look at anything other than me.”

Gi-hun’s spine locks.

“If you don’t look at them , they won’t come after you. Got it?”

In-ho wipes the last of the blood away with his sleeve.

“The only thing you should be looking at is me. The only thing that should be sticking to you—is me.”

Gi-hun feels his stomach twist.

That voice.

That tone.

Too firm. Too him .

But it isn’t .

“What does that even—should—”

“You won’t understand,” In-ho says, bumping his shoulder against Gi-hun’s, hard. “Just don’t look at them . If you spot one, let me know. Don’t stare.”

He bumps him again.

“Stop that,” Gi-hun mutters.

“Then stop spacing out.”

Gi-hun exhales shakily.

They keep walking.

Behind them, the trees shift.

And somewhere far off, a woman's cry is swallowed by the dark.

They emerge from the shadowed mouth of the trail, the dense forest thinning behind them like a dream they aren’t sure they truly left.

Hyun-ju bolts upright from where she’d been pacing. “Oh! In-ho! Gi-hun!”

Yeong-mi stands beside her, wringing her hands. Relief floods her face. “Are you guys okay?!”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer right away. His feet feel too heavy, his chest tight with something unnameable. But In-ho, of course, speaks first.

“We’re fine,” he says smoothly, brushing dirt from his sleeve like he hadn’t just collapsed in the woods with blood on his face. “Just slipped. I fell on a branch.”

Hyun-ju looks horrified. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think—when that sound happened, I just—”

“It’s okay,” In-ho says, voice soft, almost too soft. “Really. We heard it too. Probably just a lightning strike or something. Echoed off the mountain.”

Hyun-ju frowns. “But the sky’s clear.”

“Mountain acoustics are weird.” In-ho shrugs. “Could’ve been anything.”

Gi-hun says nothing. The forest still feels like it’s clinging to his skin.

Yeong-mi steps closer, her voice quiet. “You’re not hurt, Gi-hun?”

He shakes his head, meeting her gaze. “No. I’m alright. Thanks.”

She smiles, small but genuine.

And In-ho turns to her, slowly.

His eyes settle on Yeong-mi for a beat too long.

Not a glare. Not quite.

Just… a stillness. The way a mirror might look back at you in the dark.

Gi-hun feels it. That sudden drop in the air. Like something tuning out.

He glances sideways, and—there it is.

In-ho, watching Yeong-mi with a blankness too sharp to be neutral.

Like a light bulb flickering.

A chill runs down Gi-hun’s spine. He clears his throat.

In-ho blinks once, then turns back to him with a smile that doesn’t quite fit.

“Let’s go home,” In-ho says.

Gi-hun nods, not trusting his voice.

And the four of them begin the slow walk back toward the road, leaving the trees behind—for now.

Gaedokdo, Busan, South Korea.

It happened during lunch.

The sun was too bright, the air too still—the kind of afternoon that made the office hum feel far away, unreal. They were just stepping out of the convenience store when a motorbike swerved too sharply on the curb, tires screeching as it clipped the sidewalk edge.

In-ho turned too late.

The side mirror caught him in the shoulder, and he stumbled back, crashing into a pile of old cardboard boxes with a dull thud. The rider shouted something half-hearted and sped off, weaving between cars before vanishing.

“Shit—In-ho!” Gi-hun jogged over, half-expecting to find him crumpled or swearing.

Instead, In-ho sat up slowly, brushed dust off his shirt, and tilted his head at Gi-hun like he wasn’t sure what the fuss was about.

“You good?” Gi-hun asked, breath tight. “That looked bad.”

In-ho blinked. His hand came up to his face. Blood smeared under his nose like paint.

“Oh.” He touched it curiously, as if noticing it for the first time. “Didn’t feel that.”

“Seriously?” Gi-hun crouched beside him. “You’re bleeding, you don’t feel pain—what are you, T-1000?”

In-ho laughed, quiet. “I’m not perfect, if that’s what you mean.”

Gi-hun huffed, reaching into his pocket for a crumpled tissue. “You’re not a perfect imitation, after all.”

He dabbed gently at In-ho’s nose, watching the red spread into the paper. “But you keep getting a bloody nose.”

In-ho watched him with an unreadable expression.

“Oh—right.” He tilted his head. “Just like the forest path the other day.”

Gi-hun froze for half a second.

“Yeah. That,” he said.

The memory flooded back in fragments: the floating thing, the neck like a vine, the way In-ho had looked at it without blinking. Then how he’d stepped forward—calm as sleep—and the thing had vanished into him. Like he’d swallowed it. Like it belonged.

“I still don’t get what happened,” Gi-hun muttered. “That… thing. You just… sucked it inside?”

In-ho didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head to the sky like he was listening to something distant.

Then he turned to Gi-hun, expression brightening like a light flicked on behind his eyes.

“I have an idea,” he said softly. “After our shift—I’ll show you my insides.”

The building’s mostly empty now. No chatter in the break rooms. No shuffling papers, no footsteps. Just the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the buzz of the vending machine down the hall.

Gi-hun pushes open the bathroom door with the side of his fist.

The space is cold and echoing. All chrome and tile. The kind of sterile clean that still smells vaguely of bleach and the aftertaste of someone else’s cologne.

In-ho is already there.

He stands near the mirror, shirt cuffs rolled, fingers trailing the edge of the sink like he’s drawing invisible lines. He turns slowly when Gi-hun enters, eyes catching his in the reflection—and holding.

Gi-hun doesn’t speak. Just breathes in, sharply, and walks forward until he’s in front of the wide marble sink. He hoists himself up with a grunt, settling on the cool surface, legs dangling just slightly apart.

The silence stretches.

“You really meant it, huh?” he says finally, voice low and rough around the edges.

In-ho steps closer. The click of his shoes against the tile sounds too loud, like punctuation in a dream. He stops just short of touching Gi-hun’s knees.

“I always mean it,” he says. Voice calm. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s telling him the time.

A beat.

Gi-hun snorts, tries to deflect. “You make it sound like porn.”

That earns the ghost of a smile. In-ho’s lips twitch, not quite playful. “Isn’t it?”

He says it without blinking.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Gi-hun tries to laugh, but it comes out hoarse. His pulse is in his throat. His tongue feels dry.

In-ho moves again—this time right between Gi-hun’s legs. Close. Too close. Not touching, but the heat is there. A breath away.

Gi-hun tilts his chin up. He should say something. Move back. Anything.

He doesn’t.

In-ho lifts his hands to his buttons.

One by one. Slow. Precise.

The sound is almost obscene in the quiet: click, slip, click, slip .

His shirt parts down the center, pale skin catching in the cold light overhead. His collarbones, sharp and high. The faint lines of muscle down his chest. There’s a stillness to him that isn’t human. Not completely. Like something sculpted, borrowed .

Gi-hun’s breath stutters.

“You practiced this?” he asks, trying to joke again, but his voice cracks halfway. It lands somewhere between sarcasm and plea.

In-ho looks at him, head slightly tilted. “I thought you might like it.”

And there it is.

Gi-hun swallows. His knees are still on either side of In-ho’s hips. They haven’t touched, not really. But it feels like they have. Every nerve is screaming proximity.

Then Gi-hun sees it.

The slit.

Just below the center of In-ho’s chest. Thin. Seamless. Like skin pretending to be skin. Not stitched, not scarred—just… waiting. Sleeping.

Gi-hun’s mouth goes dry.

“What the hell is that?” he breathes.

In-ho doesn't answer.

Instead, he lifts a hand—slowly, deliberately—and brushes his fingertips down the line. The slit pulses faintly, like something under the surface responding to his touch.

Then his gaze lifts to meet Gi-hun’s again.

“Want to see?”

His voice is quiet. Almost tender.

Gi-hun shivers, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. His hands curl slightly against the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

In-ho steps in the last inch of space between them, and Gi-hun’s knees bracket his hips now, unavoidable.

“You can touch it,” In-ho says. “If you want.”

There’s something in his eyes—curiosity, amusement, hunger. Not entirely human. But not cruel, either. Just... interested.

Gi-hun’s hand lifts before he can think. Drawn like gravity. Like instinct.

He hesitates—just a breath from In-ho’s chest.

“You’re not scared,” In-ho says, voice low. Barely audible. Like smoke curling against Gi-hun’s ear.

Gi-hun’s lips twitch—something between a smirk and a flinch. “I think I am.”

But it’s too late.

In-ho’s hand closes around his.

Cold, unnaturally smooth—like polished marble pulled from the riverbed of some dead god. The grip is firm, not cruel, but deliberate. Intimate in a way that makes Gi-hun’s skin tighten.

He presses Gi-hun’s palm to the slit.

And the world rips open.

Not metaphorically— truly . Time folds, sound shatters. A pressure builds behind his eyes, like he’s looking at something that was never meant to be seen.

Colors burst—not reds or blues, but unnamed ones. The kind of shades that feel like they’re thinking about you as you see them. They move like memories collapsing. Like regret liquefied and smeared across the back of his skull.

Geometry snarls—shapes that coil into themselves, patterns so wrong they ache. Space bends. The air thickens. His bones feel like ideas now, rearranging in slow motion.

Gi-hun gasps, barely catching the words. “S-something weird just—In-ho—!”

In-ho doesn’t flinch. His voice is molten, slow, devastatingly low .

“Well?” he murmurs, like they’re alone in a cathedral. Like the air itself might shatter if he spoke any louder. “What does it feel like?”

Gi-hun sways. The hand still buried in the slit pulses. The sensation’s crawling up his wrist like vines made of breath and thought and something wet .

He can’t think. But the words fall out anyway.

“L-like I dipped my hand in cold mud,” he whispers. “But thicker…”

He swallows.

“Heavy…”

His chest rises.

“Alive…”

A beat. A silence that hums .

In-ho watches him, unreadable. And Gi-hun—shaking, sweating, wide-eyed—knows with awful clarity:

He likes this.

That’s what terrifies him most.

“You’re warm, Gi-hun,” In-ho breathes.

His voice is barely a sound—just heat against skin, a vibration ghosting up Gi-hun’s spine. His head tilts closer, lips grazing the shell of Gi-hun’s ear, like he’s whispering a secret meant to rot the world.

“Your hand… feels nice.”

Gi-hun shudders. The back of his neck prickles. His fingers are buried to the wrist inside something that should not exist—but In-ho is real , right here, scent and body and breath.

“That’s—” he starts, but the sentence evaporates.

“That’s good,” In-ho murmurs, almost tender now. “I’ve never felt anything so alive inside me before.”

Gi-hun swallows hard. His tongue is dry.

And then, In-ho says it—soft, coaxing, blasphemous:

“Why don’t you try lowering your hand?”

It should be a joke. A dare. But his voice is soaked in want .

Gi-hun’s pulse stutters. But he obeys.

Fingers slide downward, and the slit opens with him. Not like skin parting—more like reality bending. It welcomes him. Greedy. Responsive. Like it’s tasting him.

Like it knows him.

Down past the ribs. Past the stomach. The walls pulse around his fingers—cold and wet and impossibly tight , like flesh and thought had a child and it was hungry .

In-ho gasps—sharp and guttural—and braces his hands on the sink, slamming them down to either side of Gi-hun’s thighs.

Trap set.

Gi-hun is caged now, breathing fast, eyes wide. He can feel every inch of In-ho’s body burning against his knees, hips, chest. The porcelain digs into his spine, but all he can focus on is—

“In-ho,” he rasps. “What the fuck is this—what am I—touching?”

In-ho lets out a shaky breath, trembling from head to toe.

“Everything,” he groans. “You’re touching everything I am.”

The lights stutter again. Color leaks into the corners of the room. Not colors that belong to earth—no. These are colors with intent . They ripple like oil, coil like smoke. Language flickers. Time glitches.

Gi-hun’s brain floods with sensation. His breath hitches. It’s too much.

“In-ho,” he says again, almost a plea.

His hand sinks deeper. The slit slides lower, slick and obscene. Now at In-ho’s groin. The walls are pulsing around him. Tight. Alive. Wet.

In-ho chokes. “Ah—fuck—th-that feels— so good. ” His head drops to Gi-hun’s shoulder. His hands tremble where they grip the sink. His breath is a storm, hot and desperate against Gi-hun’s throat.

And Gi-hun is buzzing .

His heart’s a thunderclap. His skin’s on fire. His hand is being devoured, not by muscle or bone, but by some hungry void inside In-ho—and it’s pleasure . Raw, shattering pleasure that has no name.

“This feels good?!” he gasps, overwhelmed, horrified, aroused beyond reason.

In-ho lets out a ragged laugh, wrecked and breathless. “It’s you. Of course it feels good. You’re inside me , Gi-hun.”

Something breaks in Gi-hun. His mind reels.

The suction deepens. Pressure grows. It’s like he’s being pulled in —not just his body, but everything else. His memories , his grief , the parts of himself he thought no one could ever touch.

It wants him. He wants him.

“In-ho,” he breathes, trembling.

“Say my name again,” In-ho growls, voice dark and shaking.

“In-ho—”

“Fuck—again.”

Gi-hun’s head tips back against the mirror, breath falling apart. “In-ho…”

“Good,” In-ho whispers, and there’s a smile in it now, filthy and sacred. “Stay right there.”

The space around Gi-hun’s wrist clench—rhythmic, obscene. Like a mouth. Like cold . Like a second heartbeat synced to In-ho’s.

He groans again—louder now, full-bodied, a sound soaked in surrender. His hips buck, involuntary, brushing against Gi-hun’s knee. Every inch of him is alive and undone.

Gi-hun can’t take it. His body is shaking, his thoughts collapsing like ash.

“You’re— , ” he pants, dizzy, aching.

“Gi-hun—,” In-ho says.

Then something shifts inside.

It pulls.

Something inside Gi-hun snaps . His breath is sharp and ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears as the cold, unnatural sensation of the slit pulls at him again. Panic strikes like lightning.

It’s sucking me in. His body fighting against the strange force.

Gi-hun’s muscles lock, but his hand—his arm—won’t stop being drawn in. He feels the walls tightening around him, like they’re pulling him in deeper than he’s willing to go. His skin burns. His head spins.

With a panicked strength he doesn’t know he has, he wrenches his arm back. He shoves In-ho away with the force of everything he has—pushing the man from him, away from that suffocating, strange pull.

In-ho stumbles, taken by surprise, and a breathless sound slips from his throat. “Ah—”

Gi-hun’s heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break free. He could feel the tremor in his fingertips as they curled around his wrist, instinctively pulling it back, trying to escape the strange sensation that still clung to him. 

The cold—there was something otherworldly about it. Something that made his stomach twist into tight, aching knots. 

“Damn it! Don’t do that!” he spat, his voice hoarse with a mix of panic and frustration, but he couldn’t shake the shaking from his limbs.

His eyes fell to his wrist. cold—like ice had been poured into his veins. His breath hitched, erratic, as the echo of what just happened still hummed under his skin. He could feel the remnants of the strange pull, the sensation of something... alive inside him, like it wanted to take him . Like it had already started.

In-ho blinked at him, too slow to respond at first. 

There was a brief flicker of surprise on his face—an emotion that felt like it shouldn’t belong to someone who’d just done that —but it quickly shifted. 

“S-sorry… I got carried away,” he mumbled, his voice strained, breath still uneven.

Gi-hun’s pulse hammered in his ears. His body was still too close to In-ho’s, his presence too overpowering. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

In-ho was still half-naked, his chest glistening with sweat, his skin still flushed from the intensity . His body, perfect, smooth—unmarked, untouched, like nothing had happened. Like the thing inside him hadn’t pulled at Gi-hun’s own soul, almost consuming him in its wake.

Gi-hun’s face flushed, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and something darker, something he couldn’t name. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—to cut through the suffocating tension, but no words came. 

His mind felt like it was drowning in the chaos of the moment. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like it was holding them both captive.

Then, as if the world tilted on its axis, In-ho met his gaze, his eyes flicking up, catching Gi-hun’s unguarded stare. 

Gi-hun quickly averted his eyes, but not before he saw the shift in In-ho’s expression—sharp, knowing. Predatory .

“Oh?” In-ho’s voice was low, teasing, like he could feel the weight of Gi-hun’s uncertainty. 

The smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips sent a shock straight through Gi-hun. 

“You want me to put my clothes back on? What, are you hoping for a lap dance?” His tone dropped deeper, darker, pulling Gi-hun in, even as his heart wanted to claw its way out of his chest.

No, Gi-hun thought, his body going rigid. No, you can’t—

“Kidding!” In-ho said with a chuckle, but it was no comfort. The words didn’t land. 

They were like thorns, digging into Gi-hun’s chest. His face burned hot with humiliation, his mind a mess of confusion and unwanted desire. 

He wanted to push it all away, push him away, but it felt like In-ho had invaded his every thought. His skin, his heart— his soul.

Before he could stop himself, Gi-hun found himself looking away, a defensive reaction, desperate to find something that wasn’t In-ho. 

In-ho’s eyes softened, just for a moment, before something flickered in them again—this time, it was deeper, more vulnerable. 

“Gi-hun?” he said, his voice almost confused, like he couldn’t quite understand why Gi-hun was pulling away from him. A small smirk curled on his lips, and then, like a slow-moving predator, he reached out.

“Why’d you—”

It was too much. Too close.

Gi-hun didn’t think. His hand shot out, slapping In-ho’s away, shoving him back. The action was too quick, too instinctive. In-ho staggered back, caught off-guard, his eyes wide with shock, but Gi-hun didn’t feel the satisfaction of the hit. Instead, his heart twisted in his chest. The raw, sudden impulse had shattered the moment, but something in Gi-hun’s gut told him it hadn’t solved anything.

“Don’t.” His voice came out hoarse, more fragile than he intended, like it was on the verge of breaking. He had to keep control. He had to keep this under control.

In-ho didn’t move immediately. His gaze held Gi-hun’s, a long, lingering moment where the air between them felt charged, dangerous. 

And then—something broke. In-ho’s face fell, the smirk disappearing, replaced by something more delicate, more real . 

A flicker of hurt flashed across his eyes, there and gone so fast that Gi-hun almost thought it had been his imagination. But it wasn’t.

In-ho’s lips parted, and his voice came out soft, raw. “Ah…” he whispered. “You don’t like that.”

Gi-hun’s breath caught in his throat. His body was still humming with the force of the moment, his skin prickling, every inch of him on fire. 

The words weren’t an accusation, but something else. Something vulnerable. And it pierced him.

He didn’t want to feel this way. Didn’t want to be caught in this… magnetic pull that In-ho had on him, that he couldn’t escape. 

But it was there. It was always there.

Then—

Silence.

Thick and suffocating, like the air itself had turned to smoke in his lungs.

Gi-hun’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps, but he forced himself still. The echo of his own voice— Don’t —still rang in his ears like a bell he couldn’t unring.

And yet... he moved.

Before he could think about it, before he could feel too much, his hand lifted—slow, clumsy, trembling—and found In-ho’s damp hair. He shoved it back with a roughness that was almost fond, like they were boys again, teasing after a scuffle in the dirt. As if they hadn’t just come apart at the seams.

“Put your clothes back on, idiot,” Gi-hun muttered, voice ragged, but laced with a forced nonchalance. He didn’t dare look at In-ho. Didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of knowing .

He could feel the weight of In-ho’s stare, though—searing into the side of his face. Hot. Curious. Too sharp, too perceptive. Like he was trying to carve something out of Gi-hun with just his eyes.

But Gi-hun didn’t flinch. Not again.

He turned away, each movement mechanical, deliberate. He slid off the sink with a grunt, legs unsteady, bones made of lead. His body felt like it had been wrung out, sweat cooling on his skin, breath still catching in his throat like a hook. He refused to show it.

He straightened up.

Smoothed his shirt.

No words. No explanations. He walked out like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t felt the cold death-pull of something that wasn’t In-ho crawling into his veins. Like he hadn’t slapped In-ho away, desperate, scared out of his mind. Like his heart wasn’t racing with something he didn’t have a name for.

Just a scoff, a mutter, and the ghost of a touch in In-ho’s hair.

He closed the door behind him with quiet finality.

Get a grip, he told himself. It was nothing.

It’s not really In-ho, Gi-hun.

He told himself.

Gi-hun stood in front of the refrigerated shelves, squinting at a wall of pastel-colored bottles.

“Chamomile… rice water… snail slime?” he mumbled, thumbing through a series of overpriced toners. His phone buzzed again.

Jun-hee [6:28 PM]: The purple one. U know the one. 

He sighed. “Purple one, purple one…” His eyes finally landed on it—some glittery bottle promising ten years of youth and eternal glow. “Right.”

He tossed it into the basket next to a few bags of shrimp chips, chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, and a canned coffee he didn’t really need.

The cashier didn’t even look up when he paid, just beeped his items through, plastic gloves squeaking faintly against each package. The scanner beeped. The register opened with a hollow clunk.

Outside, the air was dusk-warm, the orange sun dipping behind telephone wires. Gi-hun walked to his car, humming under his breath as he fished for his keys. The plastic bag rustled against his wrist.

Then—

A hand grabbed him.

Bony. Cold. Unshakable.

Gi-hun froze. His head whipped around.

An old woman stood beside him. Bent-backed. Wrapped in a thick, outdated hanbok that didn’t belong in this century. Her fingers curled tightly around his wrist, her grip much stronger than it should have been.

She stared at him, milky eyes too steady.

“That’s bad, young man,” she said, voice low, grainy. “Please stop what you’re doing at this very moment.”

Gi-hun blinked. “Ah… Excuse me? D-do I—?”

The woman tilted her head, lips stretching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Ah. You might be confused. What could this old lady possibly be saying?”

Something shifted. The parking lot noise dulled, like someone turned the volume down on the world.

A car door slammed far away. The air grew still.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched.

“You know you’ve got something dangerous sticking to you,” the woman said, not blinking. “And I know you’re not clueless.”

His lungs felt too hot, like he’d just inhaled smoke. A creeping itch unfurled under his skin. The fading sun no longer felt warm—it felt wrong . Cold in the way hospitals were cold. Bright in the way interrogation rooms were bright.

“I—sorry, I think you have the wrong—”

“You should let it go,” she interrupted. Her voice had dropped, barely above a whisper. Her eyes glinted like glass. “At this rate, you might lose yourself.”

Gi-hun stood frozen, her hand still lingering in the ghost of its grip. The world felt far away—colors slightly off, the air too quiet.

“L-lose myself?” he echoed, voice cracking.

The old woman nodded slowly, her expression grave. “Well… it’s hard to explain. But if you keep getting involved with that thing … you might lose your humanity.”

Gi-hun’s stomach dropped. The words didn’t make sense, not yet—but his body reacted before his mind could catch up. A cold sweat broke at his temple. His tongue felt dry.

“Wait, so… umm—” he stammered, fumbling, his voice thinner now. “W-who might you be…?”

She blinked, then waved her hand quickly as if to clear his fear like smoke.

“Ah! Don’t be scared of me, young man!” she chirped with sudden cheer. But it didn’t fit. Her smile was too practiced. Her eyes didn’t change.

“I’m not lying. I just… see things. Things most people can’t.”

Silence pressed between them.

She took a step closer, voice dropping. “You know that ominous mountain? The one that’s off-limits? Locals won’t even let their kids near it?”

Gi-hun’s breath hitched. His heart lurched like a bird caught in his chest.

“Ever since I moved here, I’ve felt something terrible lurking in that place,” she said. “A darkness, old and hungry. It clung to the land like rot under the soil.”

He swallowed hard. It’s the same mountain where In-ho disappeared. That thought screamed through his skull like a siren. Fuck. Fuck.

“But recently…” she went on, looking past him now, eyes glazing as if staring into another realm. “Recently, that feeling vanished. Gone, like fog lifting. For days I was confused. Did some monk seal it away? Did it finally die?”

A beat.

Her gaze snapped back to him.

“Then I realized—it didn’t disappear. It moved. It’s right by your side now.”

Time cracked.

Gi-hun couldn’t breathe. The street seemed to stretch beneath him, casting a long, unnatural shadow from his feet. The ground tilted. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts.

“H-how…?” he croaked, voice weak. “You—do you know something about the thing? About what it is?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Not really.” She looked at him sadly. “But I know this—you cannot stay with it. Not for long. Or you’ll forget who you are.”

Another silence. A wind picked up, whistling through the power lines. The bag in his hand crinkled violently. The beauty product inside rattled against the snacks.

The old woman sighed.

“Look,” she said softly, almost motherly now, “I can see it in your face—you have your reasons. I’m not here to shame you.”

She reached into her sleeve, pulled out a yellowed card with faded ink, and pressed it into his hand.

“If you ever want to talk… come find me. If it’s something I understand, I’ll help. But don’t wait too long.”

Her eyes locked with his one last time. Then she turned, slowly, and walked away—disappearing behind the corner of the convenience store like a breath of smoke.

Gi-hun stood alone.

His feet felt like ice. His lungs burned. The wind howled a little louder now, scraping down the street like something searching.

He looked at the card in his hand.

It only had a name written on it: “Jang Geum-ja.”

And a number.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, while dread pooled around his ankles like cold water rising fast.

The sun was brutal. Not warm—hostile. It beat down on Gi-hun’s neck like punishment, sweat soaking into the collar of his shirt, sticking to his back. His arms ached from the weight of the watermelon, the plastic handles of the bag digging into his skin. Cicadas screamed in the trees overhead.

By the time he reached In-ho’s front gate, the air felt thick enough to choke on.

He gave a soft knock on the post outside. The sliding door creaked open just a little, and In-ho’s mother peeked out, squinting against the light.

“Oh, Gi-hun,” she said warmly. “You came. He’s inside, still sleeping like a log. Heat’s got him lazy.”

Gi-hun gave a small bow, mumbling thanks, and stepped inside. The air was cooler in the house—still and shadowed. He toed off his shoes and padded quietly across the wooden floor, plastic bag bumping gently against his leg.

He slid the door open.

There he was.

In-ho lay sprawled on the futon, half-naked, a light sheen of sweat glistening across his bare torso. The sheet clung low around his hips. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

Gi-hun stopped in his tracks.

The bag slipped from his fingers and thunked dully onto the floor. His legs trembled—subtle but real. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t remember In-ho looking like this.

Not like this.

The years hadn’t been kind to either of them, but In-ho’s body now was… built. Sculpted. As if chiseled by something trying very hard to imitate a human man and almost getting it right.

Gi-hun sat down beside the futon, stiffly, trying not to think about it. He told himself it was just shock. Just the heat. Just—

“You don’t think I wouldn’t wake up from you staring at my body?” came a voice, groggy but amused.

Gi-hun flinched like he’d been slapped. His heart leapt to his throat.

In-ho cracked one eye open, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then—whap! One of his legs swung up and smacked Gi-hun on the shoulder. Not hard, but unexpected.

“Hey—ow,” Gi-hun muttered, glaring.

Silence.

Then suddenly, In-ho sat up in one fluid movement and launched himself onto Gi-hun like a wild animal.

“TAKE THAT!” he roared, tackling him down to the tatami mat, limbs flailing as if they were kids again, wrestling in the yard.

Gi-hun hit the floor with a soft thud and didn’t move. He lay still, limbs slack, too tired to respond. The smell of clean sweat and tatami filled his nose. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile.

In-ho hovered above him for a second, the weight of his body pressing down, before slowly shifting back. His smile faded just slightly.

“I guess I won,” he said, still crouched over Gi-hun, though his voice was softer now. He glanced at the table. “You brought something?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer at first.

In-ho crawled over, reaching for the plastic bag on the low table. “Watermelon?” he said, voice brightening. “Whoa—I love these! I know how to eat them like they do in the comics!”

Gi-hun sat up slowly. His bones ached. His throat felt tight.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. Hollow. “I know.”

His eyes fixed on In-ho’s expression. That too-bright grin. That same excited lilt in his voice. He’d said that before. Long ago. In the same exact tone, with the same exact cadence.

The same fucking words.

Dread leaked in through the cracks.

He’s the same. He’s exactly the same.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Back then, summer back then had been just as ruthless.

Cicadas screamed like the sky was splitting open, and the concrete steamed hot enough to fry an egg. They were barefoot, sticky with sweat, sitting on overturned buckets in the yard, each holding a giant slice of watermelon that dripped down their chins and forearms in bright red streaks.

Gi-hun was maybe eight. In-ho, nine. Skin browned by sun, shirts discarded, knees scraped, mouths smeared pink.

“Too fast,” In-ho warned, his cheeks puffed out. “If you eat it too fast, you’ll get a stomach ache.”

“You’re just slow,” Gi-hun shot back, gnawing into the flesh like a feral animal. “Look—mine’s almost gone!”

In-ho rolled his eyes, then grinned like he’d just remembered something brilliant.

“Hey, wanna see a trick?”

Gi-hun blinked at him, mouth still full. “What trick?”

In-ho turned his watermelon slice sideways and chomped the tip with exaggerated flair, then lifted the rind like a smile in front of his face—juice running down his chin like blood. “See? It’s the comic book way! Like a pro.”

Gi-hun burst out laughing, juice dribbling down his chin. He mimicked it instantly, holding up his own rind, both of them grinning like monsters behind watermelon teeth.

But then—

In-ho paused.

Looked down at his half-eaten slice, a sudden solemnity overtaking his features.

“…Ah, crap,” he muttered.

Gi-hun blinked. “What?”

“I think I ate a seed.”

“So what?”

In-ho leaned in, eyes wide with mock-horror. “You don’t know?”

Gi-hun shook his head, wary.

“If you eat a watermelon seed,” In-ho said, voice low and grave, “it grows inside your belly. First it sprouts. Then it takes over. Then…” He held up both sticky hands, fingers wiggling like vines. “You turn into a human watermelon!”

Gi-hun’s face twisted in panic. “What?! No! No no—you’re lying!”

“I’m not! My cousin told me! That’s what happened to a boy in the next town! His whole body turned green and round and he exploded!!”

Gi-hun dropped his slice. “Agh! What if I ate one too?!”

They stared at each other.

And then both promptly started crying, half-panicked, trying to spit out seeds that were already long swallowed. Sticky fingers wiped at teary eyes, sniffles punctuated by hiccupped giggles as they mourned their doomed fates.

“You’re gonna be rounder than me!” In-ho sniffed, pointing.

“Shut up! You’re already halfway there!”

They laughed through the tears.

Juice and snot and sun and fear.

They laughed like only children could.

The watermelon was huge. Gi-hun watched In-ho slice through it cleanly, juice beading along the blade like blood. The pieces were neatly quartered and placed in a bowl, gleaming under the light like soft rubies.

In-ho grinned like a proud kid. “Eat it. I cut them with love. You should be grateful.”

Gi-hun said nothing. He stared down at the fruit like it might split open and show him something terrible.

Then—In-ho straightened, lifted a wedge dramatically, and took a massive bite, chewing with his mouth full.

“Hey,” he said through slurred chunks of pulp. “Watch. This is the comic way to eat it.” He turned the rind sideways, just like back then, teeth gnawing a perfect crescent into it.

Gi-hun’s fingers curled against the table.

Then—In-ho paused. Blinked. Laughed a little.

“Crap. I ate the seeds.” He glanced over. “Guess I’m gonna turn into a human watermelon.”

Gi-hun froze.

The breath in his lungs curdled into ice.

He felt it—like the earth had tilted just slightly in the wrong direction. Like someone had taken his childhood memory and stitched it inside a monster’s mouth.

In-ho spoke again, still casually, licking juice from his fingers. “Hey. Wanna do something else later? Go to the store? Watch a movie or something?”

Gi-hun’s voice came out hollow. “No.”

A pause.

In-ho didn’t pry. Just hummed like it was nothing. “Alright,” he said, then padded over to the futon and collapsed onto it with a thud. “I’m gonna nap then. Man, it’s hot…”

He laid there, half-naked, sprawled like an animal at peace.

But Gi-hun wasn’t at peace.

Inside him, something screamed.

That’s not him. It’s not In-ho. Why would it know that? Why would it remember that?

He couldn’t breathe.

Memories came flooding in—sticky fingers, watermelon rinds shaped like smiles, that stupid lie about seeds growing in their bellies.

It was all real.

So why did it feel like a dream now?

This is not real. I’m the only one who won’t accept it. This isn’t normal. It’s not normal.

He dug his nails into his thigh. His vision blurred.

Then, a voice. Calm. Low. Just above a whisper.

“…Just so you know,” In-ho said without turning, “I really enjoy being with you. And thanks for the watermelon.”

Gi-hun jerked upright like something had pulled him from underwater. His breath caught sharp in his throat.

He covered his face with his hands, gritting his teeth.

“…And what made you say this?” His voice cracked.

“No reason. Just wanted you to know.” A soft shift of cloth as In-ho turned over, his back now facing him. “And I know you know I’m not lying.”

Gi-hun exhaled through his nose, slow and trembling. The dread was a storm inside him now, coiling through his spine.

But there was no use sulking.

No use thinking all the time.

He told himself that like a mantra, just to keep from breaking.

He stood up, legs unsteady, and heard the soft rhythm of a snore beside him.

Damn monster . Already asleep.

He turned.

The room looked normal.

Too normal.

Framed photos of him and In-ho at university, a dusty book they both loved, matching trinkets from old festivals. All of it frozen in time. All of it mocking him now.

He’s not coming back. That’s not In-ho. That will never be In-ho. So why am I forgetting? Why am I letting this happen?

Gi-hun pulled out his phone.

Opened KakaoTalk.

Stared at the name: Jang Geum-ja.

He hesitated.

Then typed.

Gi-hun [1:30 PM]: Can we talk?

He hit send.

A second later, a voice called from the kitchen: “Gi-hun-ssi! Can you bring this to your mother?”

He flinched. “O-oh, sure!” he called back, already stepping away, leaving the phone on the table.

As the door slid shut behind him, the snoring stopped.

In-ho opened one eye. Slowly sat up.

His gaze fell on the phone.

Jang Geum-ja.

He stared at it for a long time.

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웃