The sunset wasn't loud. It didn't roar across the sky like fire— it bled— slow and tender, like it was afraid to be seen. Orange seeped into blue, pink clinging to the clouds like a secret trying not to disappear. The whole playground glowed with it, every piece of rusted metal and faded plastic dipped in a sleepy, golden hush. It was beautiful in that way things are just before they vanish. Taejun sat alone on the swing. His fingers, small and pale, clutched the cold chain links, and his feet traced lazy half-circles in the sand below.
The swing creaked, a soft, tired sound that matched the way he moved— barely, just enough to keep from going still. The world around him shimmered with light, but none of it seemed to land on him. His eyes stared forward, locked on the horizon, but he wasn't watching the sunset. Not really. It only reminded him of something he couldn't name. Something he'd almost had once. Something warm. It stung the way a smile can sting when you're too tired to return it.
The playground was still full of children. Their laughter rang out like windchimes in a storm— bright, erratic, everywhere. Two boys zipped past the swing set, one chasing the other with a stick he declared was a "magic sword," both howling with glee. A girl with bright pigtails spun on the merry-go-round, arms flung out, head tilted back, shrieking into the sky. "Faster, faster!" her friend yelled, pushing with all her might.
A toddler near the sandbox threw sand at the air and squealed, "It's raining cookies!" while a little boy beside him laughed so hard he snorted.
Parents stood nearby, chatting, holding plastic water bottles, adjusting backpacks, laughing in that tired way only grownups could. One man scooped his son up with a roar and tossed him gently in the air, making the boy scream and cling to his shoulders. "Appa, again, again!" he shouted, breathless with joy. A girl ran to her mother with a scraped knee, and the woman kissed it like it was magic. "All better," she whispered, brushing dirt from her daughter's cheeks.
A few steps away, two kids huddled over a bug they'd found on the pavement. "It's got tiny legs," one said, eyes wide. "Maybe it's a robot," the other replied, and they both burst into laughter.
Taejun watched all of it like a stranger at the edge of someone else's dream. He thought about walking over. Really thought about it. He even rose slightly from the swing, his toes digging into the sand like they needed something to push off of— but then a boy shouted an inside joke, and everyone laughed, and that laughter hit Taejun like a closed door. He couldn't step through it. Couldn't interrupt their stories.
He wasn't part of them. He'd missed the moment. His body sank back down without a word. The chains clinked softly as the swing caught him again. He knew how this went. Better to sit still. Better to pretend he liked the quiet.
Bit by bit, the playground began to change. A woman clapped her hands, calling, "Time to go!" and her son groaned, "Nooo, just five more minutes." Another girl whispered something to her dad and pointed toward Taejun. The man looked over briefly, then turned away, crouching to tie her shoe. "We'll come again tomorrow," he said. A boy ran in circles around a lamppost as his father tried to wrangle him into a jacket. "I'm still hot!" the boy yelled.
Somewhere nearby, a zipper buzzed shut. Footsteps shuffled toward cars. The air cooled. The light thinned. Warm voices gave way to engine hums, tired yawns, and the slow drifting sound of people returning home.
But Taejun remained.
The swing beside him, empty now, moved only when the wind wanted it to. The merry-go-round had stopped spinning. The sandbox was quiet, the castles crumbling. The streetlamps blinked on, spilling pale yellow across the monkey bars and the cracked pavement, casting long, lonesome shadows that didn't belong to anyone anymore. The noise was gone, but its ghost lingered— faint laughter caught in the metal rails, tiny footprints stamped into the dirt like memories no one would keep.
Taejun looked down. His shadow stretched away from him, thin and sharp and strange. It didn't feel like it was his. It felt like someone else's shape— someone older, lonelier, already fading. It whispered to him, though no sound came. You're late.
His stomach clenched. He blinked hard. "Oh no…"
The words fell from his mouth like something broken. His legs shot out beneath him and he leapt from the swing, hitting the ground hard. Sand scattered. He ran— fast, without grace, breath ripping through him in panicked gasps. The silence of the empty playground shattered under his sneakers. His arms pumped like they didn't belong to him. His chest burned. The golden haze of the park fell behind like a dream dying at the edge of sleep.
He ran through the neighborhood. The houses watched him with shuttered eyes. A cat darted across the sidewalk and vanished under a fence. Somewhere, a wind chime tinkled, hollow and out of tune. Most windows were dark. A few still flickered with blue TV light. Taejun didn't look at them. He only ran. Past the porches, past the bushes, past the ghost of the swing still swaying behind him like it was waiting for someone who would never come back.
And then he stopped. His breath caught, and he staggered— and everything inside him collapsed. His legs buckled like they'd forgotten how to hold him, and he crumpled to the pavement, knees hitting hard enough to scrape raw. His palms slammed down next, catching just enough to stop his face from smashing into the concrete. But he didn't get up.
He stayed like that— folded in on himself, shoulders trembling, breath coming out in short, desperate bursts. The silence hit him like a wave. Loud and total. No voices. No laughter. No echo of the playground. The world had emptied without him, and it had done it quietly. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Above him, the streetlamp buzzed with a sickly hum. Its yellow light flickered in soft spasms, threatening to vanish with every pulse. That frail glow cast a broken halo over Taejun's small body, making him look even smaller. A forgotten toy left behind on the curb. His shadow reached sideways like a black smear, sharp and hollow. The concrete smelled faintly of dirt and rubber soles and something else— something colder.
His knees throbbed, bleeding slowly through the fabric of his pants. His hands were scraped, one of them sliced clean through with a thin, trembling cut that burned every time he clenched his fingers. He looked at the blood for only a second. Then he wiped it on his shirt, almost carelessly, like it didn't matter. Like he didn't want to admit it was his.
He didn't cry. But only because the tears were already buried somewhere deeper— past the point of showing. They sat behind his eyes like stones in water, unmoving, heavy. What would be the point? Crying was something you did when someone could hear it. When someone might care.
A breeze drifted through the trees, lifting dead leaves into the air for a moment, then letting them fall again. He stayed crouched, fists pressed into the pavement, chest heaving like something broken. Time didn't pass the same way anymore. It slowed, stretched, and dragged its heels just to watch him sit there and hurt.
Eventually, he pushed himself upright. Not with strength— just with the mechanical need to move. His arms trembled. His legs wobble, barely holding him. He stood, but he looked like he could fall again at any second. Dirt clung to his clothes. The knees of his pants were torn. His palms were red and raw. He sniffled hard and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, smearing blood across the fabric.
The walk home was slow. Quiet. His shoes made soft scuffing sounds with each step. His fingers clutched the strap of his bag like it might keep him from disappearing completely. The sky had changed behind him. The gentle sunset was gone— no orange warmth, no blushing clouds. Just a dull, bleeding red curdling into deep blue. The horizon looked bruised. The kind of color that made your skin look gray and your eyes feel tired. The trees leaned over the sidewalk like they were watching, or mourning, or both.
He walked faster. But not too fast. Not like before. The panic was gone now— burned away and replaced with something heavier. Like grief without a name. Like the feeling of missing something you never really had.
He passed the hedges. The fences. The silent porches and dark windows. Behind him, the wind whispered again— long and slow— and somewhere, in the distance, the unmistakable sound of a swing creaked once. Just once. Then silence.
He didn't look back. He just kept walking, arms tight to his chest, shoulders hunched against the chill. Not because he thought someone would be there. But because he was afraid they might.
Then— thump.
Behind him, a noise— sharp and hollow— cut through the silence. It didn't belong to wind or people. It belonged to something else. Taejun froze, the air in his lungs turning to glass. Every part of his body screamed to run, but something deeper— older, animal— made him stay still, like prey caught mid-step. Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned his head just enough to see.
A man squatted behind him, but no, it was not a man— never a man—something in the shape of one, grotesquely contorted, its back bent at a breaking angle, vertebrae bulging through its coat like snapped branches pressing through thin leather. The coat itself hung in tatters, soaked and clinging to the thing's misshapen frame with a sticky black-red ooze that oozed and hissed against the pavement like tar on a stovetop.
The puddle beneath it rippled as if breathing, thick with sludge and blood that bubbled up in slow, wet pulses. Each burst popped with a quiet, sucking sound, bleeding into the black surface, sending oily tremors across coagulated filth. Its head snapped sideways with a brittle crunch, an insect twitch, sharp and hungry. It didn't search with eyes, didn't listen like anything human. It felt— through the concrete, through the dirt, as though the earth itself whispered into its bones.
Fingers scraped across the pavement, stiff and spasming, nails shattered and curled back like wilted bark. Splinters of bone jutted from beneath the skin, crusted in gore, twitching with a rhythm too broken to belong to life. One wrist twisted backward with a sound like wet rope tearing, and the forearm rolled into view— gnawed down to the glistening tendons, stretched thin like wires about to snap. Taejun didn't move. Couldn't. Something in him had already gone cold.
His feet locked to the ground, useless slabs of meat beneath him, while his heart thrashed like a dying animal inside his chest, slamming against his ribs in frantic, primal terror. And then— that smile.
It unfolded like skin being peeled back. Not a grin, not even close, but a rupture— lips torn open so far they split at the corners, revealing blackened gums and teeth packed in like broken glass shoved into raw meat. Blood seeped steadily from its mouth, thick and dark, bubbling at the edges as if something inside was still chewing. The creature's eyes weren't eyes— they were swollen, vein-marbled bulges of milky white, twitching independently, unfocused and wide, as if caught in a nightmare it couldn't wake from.
They stared above Taejun's head, not seeing him, but sensing— like it was watching the air unravel. Then its hand rose, slow, unnatural, jerking in little stutters like a puppet with tangled strings. The wrist cracked mid-lift, folding backward for a moment before snapping upright again. In its grip: a knife, but not a clean one. Long, almost too long, the blade was chipped and bent, its rust fused with clotted tissue that pulsed faintly with each heartbeat.
The cloth wrapped around the hilt was rotted and soaked through, leaking something that wasn't quite blood— thicker, darker, like oil mixed with bile. It didn't drip. It oozed. The weapon wasn't raised to strike. Not yet. It was being presented, like an offering. Or a promise.
Taejun followed the movement, his breath caught in his throat, unable to look away as the blade came down with a sickening wet crunch that echoed like it had struck through more than just flesh— like it had pierced through the world itself. He hadn't seen her until then, the woman beneath the thing, crumpled and folded in a way nobody should be, arms trapped beneath her like snapped twigs, her head buried face-down in blood-slick concrete that gleamed black in the lamplight. The knife slid into her shoulder with a resistance that made Taejun's teeth ache, a crunch that traveled through the air and into his bones, followed by another— deeper— ripping thrust. The creature wasn't killing her. It was dismantling her.
With every motion, something broke— flesh tore, bones popped free from joints, ribs cracked open like rotten wood splitting under pressure. Blood didn't spray— it fountained, thick and chunky, pulsing with each dying heartbeat, coating the creature's arms, splashing across its face in fat drops that rolled into the carved crevices of its too-wide smile. It shivered when it hit him, like it was tasting her through its skin.
The rhythm broke— stab, thrust, drag, again— becoming faster, more erratic, less human, like the thing was being operated by a thousand hands at once, all desperate to get inside. The woman's abdomen collapsed inward, her guts uncoiling in loops that slapped the ground with a sticky slap, organs piling like garbage pulled from a drain. The sound was unbearable— a symphony of destruction, cartilage popping, steel grinding against bone, the squelch of fluid bubbling as tissue was torn apart. The warmth of her blood reached Taejun even from meters away, a sick heat that steamed in the cooling night, reeking of iron and rot and something else— thick and sweet, like spoiled sugar boiled with meat.
The stench crawled into his sinuses and clung behind his eyes, making them water until he could barely see. His mouth filled with the taste of copper, though he hadn't bitten his tongue. His legs shook. His knees knocked together like they belonged to a different person. He could feel something behind his ribs twist, his body recoiling in disgust so deep it felt like it might make him unravel.
Then he stepped back. A single, instinctual motion. His heel crushed something. A soda can—its metallic crunch exploded like a gunshot. The creature froze mid-stab, the blade still embedded in her chest cavity, fingers clenched around the handle so tight the skin had split and peeled back from the knuckles. It didn't move, not for a second, just breathed— slow, heavy, like a furnace clogged with meat.
Then, without blinking, its head turned. Not with surprise or confusion, but with something worse— recognition. It moved too far, the neck rotating past where it should have stopped, vertebrae grinding with wet clicks like someone twisting a rope of cartilage soaked in syrup. Its face aligned with Taejun. The smile didn't fade— it deepened, dragging the torn skin back toward the ears, exposing raw muscle beneath.
The bottom jaw unlatched with a sudden wet pop, hanging slack, gums draped in strings of blood and saliva. No words came. Just a noise, deep and alive, rising from within its chest like a breath sucked through liquefied lungs. It didn't sound like speech. It sounded like a warning, or a ritual, or hunger made audible. Taejun didn't realize he had stopped breathing until his chest began to seize. His vision flickered. He stumbled back again, and the air seemed to follow him, heavy, wet, charged with something ancient. It felt like the darkness itself had noticed him now, like the night had a mouth and it was opening.
His bloody hand dropped, the grin with it, melting into a dead slack as his jaw seized and shifted, joints clicking with insectoid rhythm, his neck twisting in jagged increments— dry cartilage grinding like wood splinters in a vice— as he turned toward the noise with the stiff precision of something puppeted by nerves long dead.
Taejun dropped into the darkness between two houses, the narrow alley barely wide enough to hold his terror. Brick scraped his back, cold and sharp, while his knees buckled beneath him. His limbs trembled with such violent spasms that the wall behind him seemed to vibrate with his heartbeat. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He clenched his teeth until they felt like they'd crack, his lips twitching with a prayer that never reached language. He didn't know who he was praying to. He didn't care.
The thing outside straightened with deliberate slowness, rising from its squat like a marionette dragged upright by invisible threads embedded in bone. The coat clung to its limbs like skin grafted wrong— bloated, sticky with drying blood that tore in brittle flakes as it moved. Each step it took toward the alley dripped sound into the silence. Shattered glass popped under its feet. Blood slapped the pavement in lazy, warm plops. The knife swayed low, slicing air with each motion, dragging thin arcs of gore behind it like a leaking pen scrawling madness on the ground. It didn't walk like it was chasing. It walked like it was already inside.
Taejun's lungs screamed, but he didn't breathe. Through the narrow slit of vision between walls, he saw it— saw the monster's profile slick with layers of someone else's life, cheek glistening with blood thick as jam, as though it had pressed its face into open wounds. Its mouth hung open— not in shock, but in permanence— peeled into a gape so wide the skin at the edges was torn, lips curled back like the flesh had been cut away to bare every rotted tooth. And deeper still, between the teeth, there was no throat. Just blackness. A cavity that absorbed the light like it led somewhere deeper than its body— somewhere colder.
The creature didn't look. Not at him. It moved as though it already knew where he was and had chosen, mercifully, to let the moment stretch. Like it was savoring something. Like hunger on a leash. Its steps grew closer. He heard the wet scrape of its soles, the soft hiss of blood-soaked cloth rubbing against its legs. His fingernails scraped down the brick wall, concrete dust collecting beneath his shaking fingers. His body felt full of cold needles. His mind refused to work.
And then it passed. Just like that. A shadow slipping beyond the alley, the stink of it dragging behind— blood and bile and something unclean. Something inhuman.
Taejun didn't think. His legs snapped into motion before his brain caught up, bolting from the alley like he'd been flung. His body was rubber and static, stumbling forward in a frantic lurch as if gravity itself had warped. Lamplight flickered overhead— too fast, too sharp— casting stuttering shapes that bled into each other, every shadow looking like a mouth. Houses blurred. The fences twisted. His own breath roared in his head like he was drowning in it. He couldn't look back. He wouldn't. The thought alone made his eyes sting and his stomach rise.
His house— his door— wasn't far. But every step felt longer, slower, as if time had ruptured. When he reached it, his hands wouldn't work. The key slipped, clattered, scratched, jabbed. He couldn't stop shaking. Finally, the bolt gave. He burst inside, slammed the door, twisted the lock with both hands like he was trying to sever himself from the world outside.
And then silence.
He crumpled against the wall just inside the entryway, limbs folding like wet sticks. His chest heaved, lungs clawing for air they couldn't hold. Blood roared in his ears, not his, not yet— but someone else's. Someone's still echoing. That woman. Her body. The sound the blade made going in. The way it had twitched in his grip, it shuddered like it had a mind of its own. The meat noises. The stretch of skin. The bubbles in the blood hissed and steamed on the hot pavement. It hadn't even splattered— it had crawled, slow and sticky, like it was alive, reaching for him.
And the smell. God, the smell.
It still clung to him. To his clothes. To his mouth. That scorched-metal stench of arterial blood, the sweetness of decay already beginning. A film of it coated his throat. He could taste it choking him from the inside out. His eyes locked on the door's frosted glass. It was pale, peaceful, glowing faintly from the porch light. He stared. Listening.
He expected footsteps. Expected the door to darken, a shadow behind the glass, fingers smearing blood across it as they reached for the handle. But there was nothing. Nothing moved. The night outside had gone quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn't feel empty, but waiting.
And so he sat. Breathless. Hollow. Eyes wide. He wondered if he had really escaped or if the thing was simply letting the fear seep in deeper before it came back.
As Taejun braced himself on the edge of the shoe rack, he tried to pull himself upright, but his sweaty palm slipped, and he tumbled forward onto the floor with a dull thud. His limbs folded beneath him in an awkward sprawl, one arm crooked like a startled cat. He let out a quiet groan, his cheek brushing against the cold floorboards, and managed a shaky laugh through gritted teeth. A single bead of sweat rolled from his temple and hit the wood with a soft tap. He turned his head, meaning to push himself up again, but froze. At the edge of his vision— just past his feet, between the hallway and the front door— stood a leg. A bare, pale leg, half-shrouded in shadow, unmoving. The shape was unmistakable. Someone was there.
Taejun's breath caught in his chest, his heart slamming like a fist in a locked box. His thoughts tangled in panic— Did he follow me? How? I locked the door. I know I locked the door. There hadn't been a sound, not even a creak. But the leg didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't breathe. He shifted slowly, dragging one foot beneath him to stand without turning his back on it, sweat now pouring down the sides of his face. He rose cautiously, spine stiff, every muscle screaming to bolt but frozen by fear.
As he reached full height, something touched his shoulder. A hand— soft, cold, not squeezing but resting, fingers just enough to feel real. Taejun's scream caught in his throat like a shard of glass. He turned sharply, throwing up his arm in front of his face in instinctive defense— and found himself staring into the face of death.
Or so he thought.
The man behind him was too pale. Skin stretched too thin over bone, like paper wet and clinging to something skeletal beneath. His mouth hung open— not in surprise, but in a smile that seemed carved there, lips curled far past what should be humanly possible, revealing rows of off-white teeth packed too tightly, gums raw and bleeding. His eyes— black, glossy pits with pupils glowing faint red like dying embers— locked with Taejun's. Taejun staggered backward, his stomach twisting, bile rising. It was him. The thing. The monster. The man with the knife. The blood. The smile.
But then the voice came again.
"Hey," it said. The tone was light. Familiar. Warm, even. "You okay?"
The creature blinked— and changed.
The smile softened. The eyes brightened. His brother stood there now, with a crooked grin and a plastic bag dangling from one hand. His other hand rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, as if nothing had happened.
"Did I scare you?" his brother said, laughing. "Sorry! I didn't think you'd be right behind the door like that."
Taejun's mouth opened and then closed. He blinked hard. The image of the monster lingered, burned into his retinas. The red glow, the gaping mouth, the stink of rot—it was still there, just under the surface. He stared, unable to speak, until his brother held out the plastic bag.
"I brought chicken," he said. "Got a bonus at work today. Thought we could eat together."
Taejun took the bag, his hands trembling so badly the plastic rustled like dry leaves. The scent of grease and soy garlic hit his nose, warm and grounding— but not enough to erase the metallic rot that still clung to the inside of his skull. He nodded. Didn't trust himself to speak. His brother chuckled again, already kicking off his shoes.
That night passed in a haze, too quiet, the chicken too salty. Every creak of the floor made Taejun flinch. Every shadow in the hallway stretched too long. His brother chatted as usual— about work, about some guy who got caught napping in the storage room, about how cold it was getting— but none of it stuck. Taejun nodded when he was supposed to. Laughed when it seemed right. All the while, he kept staring at his brother's eyes. At his smile. Waiting for the mask to slip again.
The next morning crawled in like a sickness. Sunlight spilled across the floor in thin gold lines, catching on dust that danced slow and ghostlike, but none of it felt warm. The light didn't reach Taejun's skin. It just sat there— empty. Cold. He dressed in silence, his limbs stiff as if his joints had rusted overnight. Every button felt heavier than it should, his socks slightly damp from sweat or something else he didn't want to think about. His thoughts were slow, heavy, smeared like oil across his brain.
By the time he reached the table, his brother was already seated, grinning as he waved a spoon at him. "Look at that," he said cheerfully. "Tteokbokki for breakfast. What kind of brother am I, huh?"
The steam rising from the plate carried a sweetness, that familiar kick of gochujang and sugar— but something beneath it stung. Taejun sat down, forcing the corners of his mouth up. The spoon felt too cold in his hand.
"Special breakfast today," his brother added. "Gotta start the year off right."
Taejun stared at him. "It's April."
His brother didn't blink. Just paused— subtle, quiet, a fraction too long— before smiling again. Not brighter. Just wider. Like something pulling at his skin from the inside. "Right. Still," he said, poking at a rice cake with his chopsticks. "No harm in celebrating, right? The first week's always the hardest. So, how was school? Have you met anyone yet? Make a friend or two?"
Taejun looked down. The tteokbokki sat in its shallow bowl, steaming quietly, the rice cakes slick and bloated in a sauce that looked off. The red was too deep. Not bright, not the spicy warmth he remembered— it was the kind of red that didn't belong on a table. It looked like blood left to congeal, like something scraped off a wound and warmed over flame.
He took a bite anyway. The texture fought back. The rice clung to his teeth, gummed up and chewy, like cartilage that refused to tear. The sauce hit his tongue next— rich, oily, but not quite right. It was metallic. Sharp. Like rust and pennies. Like licking a nail pulled out of flesh. He swallowed with effort, trying not to gag.
His brother was still watching him. "Taejun?"
He didn't look up. His fingers curled tighter around the spoon.
"You're quiet," his brother said. "Rough day?"
Taejun forced a breath through his nose. "I'm fine."
"Nightmares?"
That made him stop. His throat twitched. He looked up slowly.
His brother's expression hadn't changed. Still smiling. Still calm. But his eyes were wrong. Too still. Not searching, not blinking. Just waiting.
Taejun shook his head. "No."
A beat of silence passed, long enough to notice. Then his brother stood, voice light again. "Wait! Can't forget the kimchi." He stepped away from the table and opened the fridge. The sound of the door, the low hum of the appliance— it all felt louder than it should have. Like the kitchen was holding its breath, listening.
Taejun stared at his back. The slope of his shoulders. There was a faint hitch in his left leg. The way the fabric of his hoodie clung slightly where it was still damp. Not from water. From something thicker. Something that had soaked deep.
He blinked, and it was gone.
His brother returned with a small dish and placed it beside the bowl. "There. Now it's real breakfast." He sat again and picked up his own chopsticks, stirring the tteok with lazy circles. "You need to eat more. You've got school after this. You'll fall behind if you don't keep your strength up."
Taejun nodded, but he didn't lift his spoon. His eyes stayed locked on the table, on the small puddle of red sauce that had dripped from the edge of his bowl and smeared across the surface like a stain. It was too dark. He watched it for a long time, waiting for it to move.
"I'm heading out first," his brother said, rising from his chair. "Don't forget to lock up. And don't be late." He grabbed his coat, his movements smooth. Natural. Too natural.
Taejun didn't answer. The door opened. Closed.
The apartment fell silent again.
He sat at the table, listening to nothing, watching the steam curl off the untouched food. It didn't drift. It rose in a straight line, like it was being pulled by something. It didn't make sense. None of it did.
And then, just before he left, he walked past the shoe rack. A shape caught his eye. A stain, faint but undeniable, dark and crusted where the leg had been. Red. Dried. Soaked into the floorboards like something had bled there and been wiped away too late.
He didn't imagine it. It hadn't been a dream. He stood there staring, heart beating so loud it filled his ears, and the silence seemed to lean in around him. Watching. Waiting.
Something had been here. And maybe it still was.
The steam still rose from his plate, curling in those strange, narrow spirals, almost too perfect. They twitched and dissolved in the air like they were being watched. The room felt… alert. Like it had swallowed something and was holding it tight inside its walls, waiting for the next breath to betray it.
He sat there until the food lost all heat. Until the broth filled over. Until he felt the silence press against his chest like a hand.
Then, finally, he stood.
He didn't plan to look. But his eyes dropped as he passed the shoe rack— instinct, maybe. Dread guided them. And there it was.
A stain. Not large, but distinct. Rust-dark in the center, still damp around the edges, soaking into the wood in a slow spidering pattern. It pulsed with the memory of the night before, the shape of that leg burned into the air like a shadow at noon. He crouched down, breath shallow. Reached out.
Touched it.
His fingertips came away sticky, tinted red. It smelled faintly of iron. Not food. Not sauce. He didn't want to believe it. But it wasn't dry. It hadn't been cleaned. It hadn't even been hidden. It had just been left there, like a reminder. Like a warning.
His heart thudded in his ears. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. He wiped his fingers on his uniform pants without thinking, the red smearing into the fabric like ink. It felt wrong. Too real.
The moment the front door closed behind him, the hallway pressed in. The walls leaned close, paint cracked at the seams, floor too still. The single bulb above his head buzzed with an uneven flicker, like it was whispering, but he couldn't make out the words.
He glanced down the hallway. Empty.
But it didn't feel empty. Something unseen lingered just behind the silence. Just behind the corners of vision.
He started walking. Fast. Not running. Not yet. But faster than usual. And he didn't look back.
The streets outside were already stirring with life, car horns pulsing through the morning haze, mothers tugging at their children's wrists, tired workers clutching coffee cups as they shuffled past cracked sidewalks. Taejun moved with the current, his body slack, eyes heavy. He waited at the crosswalk, the police traffic light ticking slowly through its cycle. People gathered around him— mothers, students, men in suits, all unaware, all alive— and he almost felt normal among them.
But then he saw it.
Across the street, standing perfectly still in the crowd, was a silhouette. Tall. Too tall. Not quite touching the ground, not quite standing either. Its face was swallowed by shadow, darker than the air around it, a void where a face should be. No one else seemed to notice. The crowd flowed past it like it wasn't there. Or like it had always been there. Taejun blinked. Once. Twice. And it was gone. Or maybe it never was.
He didn't stop walking.
The school building loomed ahead, its windows catching the light in warped reflections. The painted walls were cheerful in a way that tried too hard, the murals cracked, the flowers on the fence chipped and sun-bleached. The air smelled of old lunch trays and wet concrete.
Inside, the hallways buzzed louder than the morning before. Parents lined the corridors in small clusters, peering into classrooms, crouching beside their children's desks with watery smiles and too many snacks. Some kids cried. Others clung to their mothers' sleeves. A father argued quietly with a teacher near the staff room, voice tight and low.
That girl from before… she's not here. Huh. Taejun sighed inwardly, the question gnawing at him as he shuffled past a knot of chattering parents and squirming children. His eyes darted through the crowd, but the girl with the ribbon in her hair— the one who'd laughed so loudly yesterday— was nowhere to be seen.
Taejun lowered his head and kept walking. He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about the red-stained floor back home. Or the dream— no, not a dream— of the figure with the knife and the face he almost recognized. His footsteps barely made a sound on the polished linoleum, but the noise around him pressed in from all sides. The parents cooed. Children giggled. The occasional sharp voice broke through— scolding, reminding, rushing. It felt too loud. Too bright.
When he finally reached Class 1-2, the sliding door screeched as he opened it, the metal track groaning like it hadn't been oiled in years. A few students near the front turned to look, flinching at the noise. One boy actually flinched so hard he dropped his pencil. Taejun muttered a quick apology and hurried to his seat near the window.
The classroom was warmer than the hallway, stuffy with the smell of freshly waxed floors, eraser dust, and something vaguely sour— maybe spilled milk or a forgotten lunchbox. The morning light slanted through the high windows in narrow gold bars, slicing across desks and casting long, crisscrossed shadows like prison bars. He dropped into his seat without a word, eyes fixed on the scratched surface of his desk. There were dents from pencils, initials carved deep, and one strange spiral gouged into the corner that hadn't been there the day before.
Chairs scraped as more students filed in. Hushed whispers floated past him.
"Did you hear about that girl from Class 1-1? She didn't come back."
"My mom said someone saw police outside the building last night…"
"I bet she just moved. Or got sick."
"Yeah, but what about that sound we all heard?"
A girl two rows ahead shivered visibly, hugging her arms. "It sounded like someone screaming, but not like a person. Like... like something else."
"Shh! You're gonna get us in trouble."
Taejun kept his face blank, but his stomach knotted.
A sharp clap snapped the room to attention. "Alright, class. Greetings!" Ms. Jang had entered, smiling with that same practiced warmth she'd worn yesterday, her dress patterned with little cartoon peaches. She clapped twice more as she walked to the front of the room, her shoes making soft taps across the floor.
"Stand up!" called the class captain, a boy with a voice too big for his size.
All the students stood in near-unison, the shuffle of chairs a wave of wood and rubber. "Good morning, teacher!"
"Good morning, everyone!" Ms. Jang sang back, folding her hands together. "Let's make today even better than yesterday, okay?"
"Yes, teacher!" the children chimed.
They all sat down again with another chorus of scraping chairs. Ms. Jang glanced around the room, pausing slightly when her eyes passed over the empty seat near the back— the one where the ribbon-haired girl had been. She didn't comment. Instead, she turned to the board and began to write the date in clean, looping strokes. "April 4th," she said aloud. "Let's see who can remember what special day is coming up this week!"
"Ooh! Children's Day!"
"My birthday!"
"Field trip!"
Ms. Jang laughed gently. "All good guesses! But no, I was thinking of something else…"
As the class buzzed with guesses and giggles, Taejun stared at the girl's empty chair. It hadn't been moved. Her name tag was still taped to the top, the corners slightly curled. He kept waiting for her to come in late. To slide the door open and say something loud and silly. But the longer it stayed closed, the worse the silence beneath the chatter felt.
He turned his head toward the window instead. Outside, the yard shimmered faintly in the sun. A janitor pushed a squeaky cart near the garden, whistling off-key. Everything looked ordinary. Happy, even. But the air felt too still, too thin, like the whole building was holding something in its chest.
Somewhere, deep down, Taejun knew something was off. That desk wouldn't stay empty for long. But maybe next time, it wouldn't be because someone left. Maybe it'd be because someone else had come.
One by one, the parents began to drift out of the classroom. Some waved with cheerful smiles, their voices soft with lingering affection. Others hesitated at the threshold, glancing back one last time, reluctant to let go. There was something about the air in the room— a tension too subtle to name, like a quiet pressure behind the eyes. The last mother, standing awkwardly near the doorway, lingered a moment too long. Ms. Jang caught her gaze and held it, her smile calm and unwavering. The woman blinked, nodded faintly, and disappeared into the hallway. The door slid shut behind her with a quick, dry snap.
Silence fell like dust. Ms. Jang walked slowly to the chalkboard, her heels barely making a sound against the smooth floor. The hem of her long skirt whispered along the tiles, and her hands moved with practiced ease as she picked up a fresh stick of chalk. Scrape. The white line etched across the green surface with a high, brittle squeal that made a few students wince.
She didn't turn as she spoke. "Let's go over our classroom rules again. Who remembers the first one?"
A few hands floated hesitantly upward.
"Yes, Seoyoon?" she asked without looking.
The small girl in the front row straightened in her seat. "Be kind to everyone," she said, voice bright and clear.
"Very good," Ms. Jang replied and drew a careful checkmark beneath the line. "And another?"
A boy raised his hand, not quite confidently. "Raise your hand before you talk?"
"Exactly. Thank you." She smiled and drew a smiley face in the corner of the board, its eyes too round, too wide.
"And what about the most important rule?"
This time, no hands went up. The room stiffened, breath held in tiny lungs.
She turned slowly, her chalk hand still raised. Her smile hadn't changed, but her eyes were far too still. "Never leave the classroom without permission. Ever. And if someone does, they don't come back until we decide they're ready. Understand?"
The children nodded, unsure why their stomachs had gone tight. Taejun sat frozen, the hairs prickling on his arms. The way she said it— calm, like she was reading a recipe. But there was weight beneath the words, like a trapdoor waiting to swing open.
Then his hand, almost on its own, went up. Ms. Jang blinked. "Yes, Taejun?"
"Um… the girl from yesterday. Where did she go? Isn't she coming to school?" The air turned thin.
For a moment, Ms. Jang just stared at Taejun. Not cold, not warm— just too long. Her expression didn't shift, didn't scold, didn't smile. It was the kind of look that made time feel slower, like she was waiting for something to crawl out of him.
Then, without warning, she tilted her head— just a little— toward the window. The branches outside were still. The sky hung dull and low. Nothing moved. But she stood there listening anyway, as if something just beyond the glass was whispering only to her.
"She's not here today," she said finally. Her voice was soft, syrupy. Like someone reading a bedtime story they didn't believe in. "Her father said they'd be… taking some time."
Taejun frowned. "But— "
"Sometimes," she interrupted, still gentle, "people go away. And when they do, it's best not to ask too many questions about things we can't see. Don't you think?"
Her lips curled into a smile. Wider this time. Too wide. Not friendly— just too many teeth.
She turned back to the chalkboard and picked up a stick of white chalk. The room was silent but for the tap and scrape as she began writing a new rule beneath the others. Her handwriting was careful, rounded. The chalk snapped halfway through a letter with a dry, brittle crack. She didn't flinch. Just picked up the broken piece and kept writing, like nothing had happened.
Taejun's gaze dropped to the rule as it formed.
"Ask only what you're ready to hear."
He didn't understand it— but something in his chest tightened, like a warning. And the smile still hovered on Ms. Jang's face, even though she wasn't facing them anymore.
The room remained still, save for the occasional shifting of tiny legs and the nervous creak of a chair. Taejun didn't raise his hand again. His question hung in the air like steam from a bowl of soup left out too long— cooling, souring, ignored. And outside the windows, beyond the cherry blossoms and the blue sky, something watched without blinking.
Ms. Jang walked to the far side of the chalkboard, her heels tapping softly like a second hand on a clock. Her fingers, dusted with chalk, moved in slow, deliberate arcs as she drew thick lines— first vertical, then horizontal— forming a square. She shaded the corners meticulously, darkening them as if something inside needed to be sealed. "This," she said with a strange warmth, "is the quiet box. Do you remember what it's for?"
No one answered. The room had gone unnaturally still, like even the dust in the air knew not to move.
She turned around, her smile gentle, eyes too bright. "It's where we go when we forget how to behave. Just for a while. Just long enough to remember the rules. Long enough to listen."
Taejun felt his eyes being pulled, against his will, to the corner of the classroom. Tucked against the wall where the shadows pooled was a cardboard box he hadn't noticed before. It was large— big enough for a child to sit inside without crouching. Someone had drawn crude black lines across its surface in thick waxy strokes, like jail bars, some smudged as if rubbed by frantic hands. The top flaps were folded inward, curling slightly at the tips like lips drawn back from teeth.
And then Ms. Jang said, too sweetly, "Minji… would you like to help me demonstrate?"
The silence broke like glass.
Minji's head jerked up. She blinked at her teacher, then at the box, her tiny face draining of color. "I… I don't want to," she whispered, barely audible.
Ms. Jang's smile didn't fade. It stretched.
"Oh, come now. It's not punishment if no one's done anything wrong. It's just a demonstration," she said, her voice sliding along the edge of something too sharp to be kind.
Minji stood. Her chair scraped loudly across the floor, too loud, the kind of sound that made skin crawl. She walked toward the box as if the air itself had thickened around her legs. Every step looked heavier than the last. When she reached it, she glanced back once— eyes wide, almost pleading.
No one moved.
Ms. Jang crouched beside her and lifted the top. The box yawned open with a low crinkle. "Inside," she said gently.
Minji hesitated. Then, slowly, she crawled in. The flap folded closed behind her with a hollow sound that reminded Taejun of a coffin lid.
Ms. Jang pressed her palm flat on the top. "Just for a moment," she whispered, more to herself than the class. "Just until the room feels normal again."
The light flickered overhead, once, then again— slowly, like a dying breath. The shadows in the room deepened. Something about the air changed. It was colder, but not just temperature— it was as if the room had turned its attention inward, holding something in.
Taejun's heart thudded against his ribs. He looked down at his desk, trying to ground himself. Yesterday, carved into the wood, he'd seen something. A name. A warning. Scribbled in with dull pencil. It was gone now. Vanished. As if scrubbed out. But not like a child had done it. No, it was too clean. Too perfect. Like someone had erased not just the marks but the memory of them. And then he heard it.
From inside the box— barely audible— a shuffle. A whisper. Or maybe breathing. But it didn't sound like Minji. It didn't sound like a child at all.
He swallowed hard and turned to Ms. Jang. She was still crouched, hand resting lightly on the top of the box, her eyes closed. As if listening.
Seconds passed. Long and swollen. Finally, she stood. "See?" she said brightly. "Nothing to be afraid of. Minji, you can come out now."
She opened the box. Minji didn't move.
"Minji?" Ms. Jang's voice was light, but there was a faint twitch in her brow now. "Come on out."
Still no response. She reached in and gently pulled the flap back wider.
The box was empty.
Every child in the room went silent, frozen. No one blinked. No one even breathed.
Taejun's stomach dropped. The air in the room had changed again, and not for the better. The shadows at the edges of the room felt thicker, more alive, like they were waiting for something. Watching.
Ms. Jang closed the box again slowly, her face unreadable.
And then, as if nothing had happened, she turned back to the board and picked up the chalk.
"Now, who remembers how to count to twenty?"
Out of nowhere, a small voice chirped, "Boo!"
Ms. Jang flinched, her shoulders jerking up as a pair of tiny arms wrapped tightly around her legs from behind. Laughter bubbled up from the girl pressed against her— Minji. The very same Minji who had vanished earlier into the quiet box. Her cheeks were flushed with mischief, her arms clinging tight as she looked up at her teacher with a wide, innocent smile.
Ms. Jang let out a shaky breath, placing a hand to her chest as if to still her startled heart. "Don't do that again, Minji," she said with a nervous chuckle, her tone half-scolding but fond. "I nearly lost ten years of my life just now."
Minji just hummed and nodded, the way children do when they aren't really listening. The class burst into soft, giggly laughter, the tension from earlier unraveling like thread. Even Taejun cracked a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.
Ms. Jang rapped the chalkboard twice with her knuckles, regaining the room's attention. "Alright then! Who still remembers how to count to twenty?"
Dozens of little hands shot up like flowers reaching for sunlight.
What followed was a blur of song and chant, numbers recited in singsong rhythm, voices overlapping with the energy only six-year-olds could summon. Ms. Jang led them through a counting game, weaving through rows of desks with exaggerated expressions, playfully pretending to lose count and feigning horror when someone caught her mistake. Laughter erupted each time.
Then came Korean class. The board filled quickly under Ms. Jang's quick strokes, her writing neat and looping, dotted with hearts beside important words. She spoke in a voice both lilting and clear, pausing often to ask questions, to share a joke, or to kneel beside a student who looked lost.
Some kids groaned as the lesson wore on, heads propped on hands, eyes drifting toward the window where sunlight warmed the glass. A few surrendered to sleep, slumping over their desks with gentle snores. Ms. Jang didn't scold them harshly— she simply tiptoed over and tapped them lightly on the back. "Not nap time yet," she whispered playfully, then sat beside them, walking them through the lesson in soft, patient tones. The class teased the sleepers, grinning and nudging each other, their laughter light as windchimes.
Taejun watched it all with a strange ache in his chest. There was something beautiful in it, something whole. The way Minji grinned at nothing while drawing shapes on her desk with her finger. The way the twins across the room always leaned together when they read aloud. The smell of pencil shavings, the squeak of a desk leg on the tile floor, the flutter of paper as workbooks turned.
Time passed in a strange blur— slow but soft, like drifting in a warm stream.
And then, too soon, the school bell rang.
The sound jolted Ms. Jang mid-sentence. She blinked, checking the clock above the board with faint surprise. "Already?" she murmured, a bead of sweat at her temple. "Time really does fly…"
She shook off the surprise and clapped her hands together. "Alright, class. That's all for today!"
A collective cheer burst from the students, a joyous "Yay!" that echoed off the walls. They scrambled to pack up their things, laughter and chatter swelling like a summer breeze. Backpacks zipped, pencil cases clattered, shoes squeaked on the floor as small feet hurried to the door.
But just as the first child reached for the handle, Ms. Jang called out sharply, "Wait!"
They froze, all heads turning.
"Did you forget something?" she asked, smiling patiently.
The room fell quiet, puzzled glances bouncing around. Then one voice spoke up—"We forgot to greet!"
Recognition bloomed across their faces. The entire class stood in near unison, straightening their backs and raising their voices together: "Goodbye, teacher!"
Ms. Jang beamed, hands clasped together at her waist. "Very good. I'll see you all tomorrow. Be safe and be kind."
One by one, the children trickled out into the waiting afternoon. Parents crouched down to embrace them, to fix hats, to ask about their day. Laughter echoed down the hall. Footsteps, squeals, the rustle of bags.
But not for Taejun.
He stood at the threshold, watching the others disappear into the golden light that spilled in from the open doorway. No one waited for him. No hand to take. No familiar voice calling his name. Just the soft hum of the emptying corridor and the faintest trace of that wrongness still clinging to the air.
Still, he didn't feel afraid just yet. For a moment, he watched Ms. Jang through the glass panel in the door. She stood alone at the front of the room, gently straightening a stack of papers, humming to herself— a lullaby that didn't belong in any textbook.
Then he stepped into the hall, his bag heavy on one shoulder, the echo of the goodbye chant still ringing faintly in his ears.
Taejun walked home slowly, his feet dragging along the uneven pavement, each step heavier than the last. The streets, which should have been filled with the noise of children playing, were eerily silent. The faint hum of distant traffic felt distant, like a dream he couldn't quite grasp. The air was thick, pressing in on him, and every footfall echoed louder than it should. It was as if the world around him had gone still, suspended in some unnatural quiet. His skin prickled with the kind of unease that settled deep in his bones, and for a moment, he wished he had never left school.
He tried to imagine something— anything— to distract himself from the creeping dread that had started gnawing at his insides since he left the classroom. Maybe a friend, he thought. A friend who would run with him in the playground, who would laugh and joke as they tried to outdo each other in meaningless games. Someone to share the weight of their homework and talk about the kind of things that filled the space between moments, the nothingness that made up childhood. It was a nice thought, but it was fleeting. The quiet inside him swallowed it whole. The hope it gave him was too small to break through the suffocating fear.
As he passed under the flickering streetlight, his pulse began to quicken. Something wasn't right. It was a subtle feeling at first, a tightening in his chest, a heaviness in the air, as though the world itself was holding its breath. The light above him buzzed and flickered erratically, casting strange, shifting shadows on the ground. He looked up briefly, but it wasn't the flickering light that made his skin crawl. No, it was the figure standing beneath it, just out of the reach of the light's glow.
A shadow. It was long, stretched unnaturally thin, like something too tall to fit into the small frame of the streetlight. The rest of its form seemed swallowed by the darkness, its edges blurring into the night, its presence wrong. The streetlight's glow barely touched it, and what it did touch only deepened the sense of unease.
Taejun's breath caught. His heart hammered in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. He stopped walking. His legs felt heavy, as if they'd been filled with lead. His eyes darted to the shadow, and in that split second, it didn't feel like the street anymore. It felt like an abyss had opened up in front of him, swallowing everything in its path, leaving only the shadow behind.
He blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the image. It had to be his imagination, right? His mind was playing tricks on him. But when his eyes opened again, the shadow was still there, unmoving, watching him with an intensity that made his stomach churn. Its outline was sharp, defined in the dimness, and though it stood perfectly still, Taejun could feel its gaze cutting through him.
The air around him felt colder, heavier, suffocating him. He could smell something— faint but unmistakable— a metallic tang, like blood or rust, clinging to the edges of the world. The world had slowed, and all that remained was the oppressive presence of that shadow. His throat tightened, and his legs refused to move. The weight of it, the stillness, pressed against him like a physical force.
With a tremor, Taejun forced himself to look away. His legs were stiff, but he willed them to move. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't let the shadow follow him. It was like something dark was reaching out for him, and if he stood still for even a moment longer, it would pull him in. His breath came in shallow gasps as he turned his head, focusing on the dim outline of the street ahead. He refused to look back.
The shadow was there, but he refused to acknowledge it. Every step felt like it took everything out of him. His heart pounded, his breath came in ragged bursts, but still, he didn't dare to glance behind him. Each step grew quicker, more desperate, until he was practically running down the street, his feet pounding against the pavement in a frantic rhythm.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the safety of his home. The door closed behind him with a soft click, the weight of the world lifting just a fraction. He leaned against it for a moment, his chest heaving, as he tried to calm his racing heart. Sweat clung to his skin, and his head throbbed with the pounding beat of his fear.
Taejun stumbled into his room, the familiar scent of his bed doing little to comfort him. He collapsed onto it, burying his face in the cool sheets, trying to push the image of the shadow from his mind. His eyes felt heavy, too heavy, and before he knew it, his body had taken over. The world around him began to blur as his vision darkened, his body giving in to exhaustion.
But even as he fell into the embrace of sleep, the shadow lingered in the corners of his mind, watching him from the edge of his dreams.
The morning came too suddenly, dragging Taejun from a restless sleep. Sunlight poured through his window, too harsh and unyielding, forcing his eyes open with an uncomfortable brightness. His body felt stiff and heavy from the restless night spent tossing and turning, his muscles aching as though he'd been running for hours. He blinked a few times, trying to shake the sleep from his head, but it clung to him like a fog, a persistent weight.
He pushed himself out of bed, his feet meeting the cold floor, and instinctively walked toward the kitchen, his mind still not quite awake. As he entered the room, the familiar scent of food hit him— sweet, spicy, a little sharp. There it was again, as it always was in the mornings. Tteokbokki. Steaming on the table, red sauce glistening in the soft light. It was as if it had always been there, waiting for him, as if his brother had placed it there the moment he'd woken up, just as he always did. But this time, something about it felt... wrong.
Taejun's stomach twisted violently at the sight of the dish. His throat constricted, and his mouth went dry, a strange unease settling in his chest. The memories from the day before crashed into him— too fast, too vividly. The blood. The man with the knife. The strange, horrifying details that wouldn't leave him. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he tried to force the images away. He looked at the plate, the rice cakes floating in thick, sticky red sauce, the way it shimmered like something that wasn't quite food at all.
"It's the usual, huh?" he murmured to himself, his voice faint and hollow in the stillness of the room, as if the words didn't belong to him at all. His brother's presence lingered in the air, an absence that felt more unsettling than anything. The silence of the house stretched too long. His brother wasn't there, but his absence felt louder than his presence ever could.
Taejun hesitated, staring at the dish. The red sauce glowed in the early morning light, too vivid, too thick. It reminded him too much of the blood from yesterday— the blood on his hands, the crimson streaks splattering the floor, the man's face twisted in pain. He could still taste it, a lingering, metallic aftertaste that clung to his tongue. His fingers trembled slightly, but he forced himself to pick up the spoon, his grip tight and trembling. He took a bite. The rice cake was soft and chewy in his mouth at first, but then the sharpness hit. The flavor wasn't right. It was thick and cloying, and the aftertaste burned like iron in his throat. It was almost as if the food was trying to choke him from the inside, a cruel reminder of everything he couldn't escape. Just like yesterday's.
Taejun set the spoon down slowly, his hands shaking. He felt the cold sweat on his neck, the nausea rising in his chest. His stomach churned, and he fought the bile that rose in his throat. His brother had always done this— made him breakfast every morning, no matter what. The food had always been an offering, an unspoken gesture that kept the house feeling like home, like there was still some semblance of normalcy in their strange world. But today, the plate in front of him seemed like nothing but a cruel joke.
"I'll eat it later," he whispered to no one, pushing the plate aside, his voice hollow and distant. He couldn't bring himself to finish it, couldn't make himself swallow another bite.
Minutes passed, but the weight of the food still sat heavy in his stomach, as though it was still lodged there, refusing to be ignored. He went through the motions of preparing for school, pulling on his uniform, his hands numb, as though his body was moving without him. The whole house felt empty, more so than usual. It felt colder, as if something unseen had taken residence in the walls. When he passed the hallway, he paused by the coat hook where his brother's jacket usually hung, a habit he hadn't even noticed until now. The hook was empty.
A sinking feeling washed over him, a cold wave that spread through his chest, down to his fingertips. He stared at the empty hook, his throat tightening. His brother always hung his jacket there in the mornings, right after he made breakfast. But there was nothing there now.
"No... no, he's just out somewhere," Taejun muttered under his breath, trying to reassure himself, but the words tasted hollow. The empty hook was more than just an absence—it was a sign. An omen. A whisper of something wrong, something missing. He grabbed his bag and walked out the door, but the weight of the house— his brother's absence— followed him out into the cool morning air.
The street was quieter than usual. There was no one walking, no sounds of birds, no distant chatter. The silence was so thick, it seemed to press down on him from all sides. The pavement beneath his feet felt too solid, too unyielding, like a barrier that kept him from escaping the strange emptiness around him. The sound of his footsteps felt hollow, echoing into the emptiness.
Taejun glanced around. The shadow that had haunted him the night before was gone. There were no strange figures lurking in the distance, no eerie shapes shifting in the periphery of his vision. The street was empty. Still. Too still. It was as if the city had held its breath, allowing him a moment of peace. But that peace felt wrong, too. It was too quiet, too perfect, and it left a gnawing sense of dread behind.
He told himself it was just paranoia. That he was imagining things. That everything was fine. That he would be fine. But the feeling lingered like a shadow clinging to him. Something about this morning— the silence, the emptiness— felt wrong in a way he couldn't put into words. It was as if the world itself had subtly shifted overnight, leaving him in a place that no longer felt familiar. He could feel it in his bones, a cold, hollow sensation that settled deep in his chest. The air felt heavy, oppressive, wrapping around him like a suffocating fog, thick and impenetrable. Every breath seemed to drag him deeper into the quiet, into the weight of something unspoken, something watching.
Taejun looked up at the sky, searching for some sign of normalcy, some anchor to hold onto. But the sky was too pale, a sickly shade that made the world feel distant, unreal. The clouds were too thin, stretched out like tattered fabric, as though even nature was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The light was strange too— dull, muted, as if the sun itself was hiding behind a veil it couldn't lift. There was no warmth to it, only a cold emptiness that gnawed at him, amplifying the unease that churned in his gut.
He quickened his pace, unable to shake the gnawing feeling that something was off. The thought of school, of the familiar grounds ahead, should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like walking into a trap. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was waiting for him there. Something dark, something far beyond his understanding. Each step felt heavier, as if the earth beneath his feet was pulling him down with an unnatural force.
Despite the dread that clung to him, one thought kept pushing him forward, like a small, fragile flame in the darkness: Today is the day. He repeated it over and over in his mind, trying to push away the anxiety that threatened to swallow him whole. Today is the day I'll make a friend. The thought was like a small promise to himself, a fragile thread of hope that he clung to, hoping it would anchor him in the midst of the growing unease.
But even as he walked, even as he tried to hold onto that fleeting hope, a darker thought crept in, one he couldn't ignore. The feeling of something waiting— something wrong— hovered just at the edges of his mind. His hope, he realized with a sinking heart, might be nothing more than an illusion, fading as quickly as the light of the morning. The quiet around him felt too thick, too suffocating, and the closer he got to school, the more he could feel the weight of it pressing in on him. Every breath felt harder to take, the air too thin, too heavy.
Today is the day, he thought again, but the words felt like they were slipping away from him, dissolving into the oppressive silence around him. The darkness, the thing he couldn't name, was always there, just behind his thoughts, waiting for the moment when it would consume everything. He couldn't outrun it. He couldn't escape it.
But still, he walked on because what else was there to do?