Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dorm living room buzzed with the soft hum of the air conditioner. A 65-inch television filled the wall, the kind of oversized purchase they’d all laughed about when management approved it—“too much for a dorm,” Hoshi had said, yet here it was, swallowing the space with high-definition color.

The others had drifted into their rooms, some half-asleep, some scrolling through phones, leaving the living room quiet except for Wonwoo. He sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, remote balanced loosely in his hand.

His glasses slid lower as he scrolled through Netflix’s endless rows of thumbnails. The algorithm, confused by a household of thirteen very different tastes, offered him everything from romantic comedies to nature documentaries. He scrolled past all of it, his thumb steady, until he reached the “Horror” category.

He paused. For years, he’d brushed off horror movies with a casual shrug. At a fansign once, he’d even admitted, “They’re not that scary.” The fans had laughed, thinking it was bravado. But that wasn’t it. The truth was… fiction never quite matched the real thing.

Tonight, though, he was curious.

He wanted to test something.

Earlier that week, he had slipped his glasses off absentmindedly while working at his desk. When the world blurred around him, something odd had happened—the corners of the room didn’t blur the way they should have. Instead, they sharpened. Shapes stood out, faint but defined, clearer without the barrier of glass and frame. Figures that weren’t supposed to be there, watching.

And when he put his glasses back on—just like that, they vanished.

Now, sitting in front of the massive TV, his finger hovered over a poster of a film featuring a haunted hospital. He clicked. The television glowed, flickering through the opening credits that rolled, a dark hallway bathed in artificial shadows.

Wonwoo leaned back, letting his glasses slide down his nose again.

The screen blurred for a second, then… shifted. The way things always did. The world of the film sharpened in strange places, not in the clean way lenses corrected the real world, but the opposite: what was not meant to be seen grew clearer, more defined.

Dark hallway. Cheap string music. A girl holding a candle.

Wonwoo’s head tilted slightly, eyes reflecting the light. His expression never changed—calm, unbothered, almost blank.

The jump scare hit: a scream, a sudden flash of pale face lunging toward the camera. The speakers rattled.

Wonwoo blinked once. Then his eyes, however, narrowed.

Onscreen, the actress ran, shrieking down a corridor. The sound boomed through the speakers. The set walls shook, and the camera stuttered in jerks meant to unsettle. But Wonwoo’s gaze lingered not on her, but at the corner of the screen—at the way the shadow curled unnaturally, stretching too long for the room it was in. His lips pressed together, as if suppressing a thought.  It wasn’t in the script. It wasn’t part of the acting. It was attached to her, silent, watching. But the camera had caught it, recorded it, preserved it.

Something real had bled into the fiction.

For a moment, his reflection stared back from the glossy black of the TV frame. And next to it—if one looked closely enough—another outline, faint, taller than him, standing still.

Wonwoo didn’t turn. He didn’t flinch. His shoulders only dipped the slightest degree, like an invisible nod of acknowledgment.

His lips curved in the barest trace of a smile. For the first time, horror movies felt less like stories and more like… research.

“Not that scary,” he murmured again, softer this time. And he let the movie play, gaze fixed on the places the director hadn’t intended.

The movie screamed again. The apartment stayed quiet. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved into the faintest smile.

“This is… cool,” he said under his breath. “I wonder if anyone else notices.”

And just like that, for the first time, horror films stopped being entertainment. They became windows.

***

The dorm had long since gone silent. No footsteps in the hallway, no clatter from the kitchen—just the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint tick of the wall clock. Midnight pressed against the windows, heavy and unmoving.

On the television, the movie rolled into its climax. Screams ricocheted through the speakers, sharper now, oddly louder than before. Wonwoo frowned, tapping the remote to check the volume. It was still set to the same number he’d chosen earlier, nothing unusual. And yet, each sound bled into the room as if the walls themselves were carrying the echo.

He leaned back against the couch, glasses folded neatly and abandoned on the coffee table. The screen flickered, the hospital corridor bathed in manufactured shadows. And then—just at the edge of his sight—something stirred. His gaze was tracing the edges of the figure—not the one in the movie, but the one that had just slipped out of the wall.

The wallpaper behind the TV seemed to ripple, as if the plaster were as soft as fabric. A shape pressed forward, stretching out of the wall itself. It was taller than the actress on screen, its body undefined, its outline smudged like wet ink spreading through paper. The air grew cooler, brushing cold fingers across Wonwoo’s arms.

The thing moved, slipping closer, as though trying to insert itself into the narrative of the film. For a heartbeat, the actor’s scream and the entity’s silent advance overlapped, clashing in a surreal duet of fiction and intrusion.

Wonwoo smiled. Not wide, but enough to curve at the edges of his mouth, the kind of smile that shouldn’t exist in a room like this. His eyes, sharp without lenses, lifted to meet the figure’s face. His shoulders relaxed, not a trace of fear on his face. He tilted his head, studying the visitor like one might study a curious insect.

The shadow hesitated. Its faceless form turned as if realizing it had been seen—truly seen.

Wonwoo’s eyes met where its gaze should have been.           

“You’re new here?” he asked, voice low and casual, like greeting a neighbor in the elevator.

The thing froze. Whatever intention it had—startling him, testing him—crumbled under the simplicity of the question. Then, with a swift recoil, it stepped back, melting into the wall with frantic hast, and vanished into the darkness until nothing remained but a pale distortion that faded like smoke, as though embarrassed to be caught out of place.

Wonwoo leaned back against the sofa, blinking once before turning his gaze lazily to the film again.

The actress still writhed on screen, but now, it almost looked like she wasn’t acting alone. Wonwoo blinked once, calm as ever. He exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh, and turned his attention back to the movie.

“Figures,” he murmured. “Not here either.”

The space where the figure had been was empty now, just a patch of darker shadow against the wall. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered there for a moment, then dropped back to the screen. His lips pressed into a thin line—not in fear, but in quiet resignation.

It was always like this.

They never stayed.

Because that was always the case. The dorm, the practice rooms, the company building—they were almost sterile. Empty of the restless presences that crowded abandoned hospitals and forgotten train stations. Somehow, wherever Wonwoo lived and worked, they kept their distance. At the first sign of recognition—just a glance, a word—they slipped away, like startled animals vanishing into the underbrush.

As though afraid of him.

The movie crackled on, but Wonwoo wasn’t watching anymore. His chin rested in his palm, elbow balanced on the sofa’s armrest, eyes narrowing at the blur of shapes and sounds. The air was still colder than before, the kind of chill that clung to the skin, but he already knew: nothing else was going to show itself. Not for him.

He let out a soft breath through his nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.

“Always running,” he muttered, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

For a heartbeat, the room felt lonelier than it should have. A building full of people, yet in this strange corner of his vision, he was the only one left.

Wonwoo blinked, straightened, and reached for his glasses. The world snapped back into its blur, the chill receded, and the movie returned to being just a movie. His expression smoothed, unreadable again, but his fingers lingered on the frames as though weighing whether to put them on or leave them aside.

The question sat quietly in his mind, unvoiced but steady: Why do they avoid me?

***

The credits rolled, spilling white letters down a black screen. Wonwoo didn’t move. His hand dipped into the half-empty snack bag beside him, fingers brushing crumbs. The quiet after the film ended felt too thin, too hollow. He blinked once, then reached for the remote.

Another attempt, another horror title queued up, the kind Vernon had once insisted was “unwatchable.” Wonwoo’s thumb pressed play. The television flickered, throwing pale light across his face, his glasses still untouched on the table.

The dorm was hushed except for the low hum of the TV—until footsteps padded down the hallway.

“Hyung?” Mingyu’s voice was thick with sleep. He rubbed at his eyes, hair messy, and stopped dead at the doorway. “Why are you still up? It’s almost three.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. On screen, something shrieked in distorted sound; off screen, his expression didn’t flinch. Only the slow, steady chewing gave him away, his eyes trained on the blur of light and shadow like a man following a sermon.

Mingyu shivered. For a moment, it wasn’t the TV that unsettled him—it was the picture of Wonwoo, sitting motionless in the glow, spectacles set aside, eyes gleaming with a clarity they shouldn’t have without lenses.

“Hyung…” Mingyu stepped closer, voice lowered, “…are you even watching? You can’t see a thing without your glasses.”

Finally, Wonwoo turned his head, slow and deliberate. His eyes locked on Mingyu, darker and sharper than they had any right to be. His lips curved the faintest bit as he’d just heard an inside joke.

“I can see enough,” he murmured.

The words landed heavier than the screams echoing from the television. Mingyu swallowed hard, suddenly more awake than he wanted to be, and wondered—not for the first time—if his hyung was scarier than the ghosts on screen.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV. Shadows stretched across the walls while Wonwoo lounged back into the sofa, arms folded loosely, his long frame relaxed. His expression barely shifted, eyes steady on the screen as if he were watching a nature documentary instead of a horror movie.

***

Mingyu returned from the kitchen with a glass in hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, finally sinking down beside Wonwoo. The living room was the same as he had left it: Wonwoo leaning into the sofa, posture loose but strangely deliberate, eyes fixed on the huge TV screen where the horror film flickered.

The movie was at its peak now—doors slamming, a woman screaming in the distance. Mingyu winced at the sudden bang, shoulders jumping, but when he glanced sideways,

Wonwoo hadn’t flinched. His lashes lowered once, slow, calm, like nothing had happened. He sat perfectly still, expression unreadable, as if the scene on the screen were no more than a weather forecast.

That difference made him seem… strange. Almost uncanny. Too calm.

“You really don’t scare easy, huh,” Mingyu muttered, trying to sound casual.

Wonwoo tilted his head, just enough to let the corner of his lips lift.

“Watch closely. Right side of the frame. The door.” His tone was steady, quiet. “Someone’s opening and closing it. Dressed in black. A woman, maybe. Can’t see her face clearly.”

Mingyu’s head snapped toward the TV, eyes wide. The screen was empty. Just the scene as it should be.

“Wonie-ah…” Mingyu tried to sound steady, but his voice betrayed him. “There’s nothing there. Don’t mess with me. And anyway—that’s not in the film. I’ve seen this before.”

“I’m serious.” Wonwoo’s tone didn’t shift at all. His eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Yeah, right.” Mingyu forced out a laugh, louder than necessary. “Not funny.”

With a quiet sigh, Wonwoo tilted his head toward him, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“You’re no fun.” Wonwoo’s smile widened—yet it didn’t reach his eyes. For a second, it almost felt like he was talking to someone else.

“You’re the one being no fun, hyung,” Mingyu shot back, frowning, irritation masking unease. Mingyu shoved his shoulder, muttering, “You’re impossible,” and tried to focus back on the film.

That was when Wonwoo laughed—low, unguarded, and completely satisfied. Not sinister, yet something about it sent a prickle down Mingyu’s spine, as if he had just walked into the punchline of a joke only Wonwoo understood.

“Ah, your face when you panic—it’s priceless.”

Mingyu turned away, cheeks warming, half annoyed, half unsettled

Wonwoo shifted forward, picking up the remote with one long hand. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Click.

The screen went dark.

For the briefest heartbeat, just before the TV shut off completely, Mingyu saw it—something dark, something standing in the corner of the frame exactly where Wonwoo had said. A flicker, less than a second. Wonwoo stretched, calm as ever, setting the remote down with the kind of ease someone had only after finishing a casual sitcom binge.

Then nothing.

Just his own reflection in the dead screen. Mingyu, though, couldn’t shake it. That flash. That something. He rubbed his eyes, hard, like maybe exhaustion was playing tricks on him. His heart still hadn’t slowed down.

“I must be imagining things,” Mingyu muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“See you tomorrow,” Wonwoo said simply.

Mingyu sat there a little longer, the weight of the silence pressing down. When he finally got up and dragged himself to bed, he pulled the blanket up high over his shoulders, almost defensive, though he told himself he wasn’t scared. Just tired.

Then the image returned uninvited. A dark dress. A faceless figure. The slight sway of fabric. Standing in the corner. A door moving that shouldn’t have moved.

It hadn’t been in the film. Mingyu knew that with absolute certainty—he had seen that movie before. He could almost recall every beat of the story, every shadow carefully placed by the director, every fake scare.

So why had it looked so… organic? Like something unscripted, caught only by accident.

The more he replayed it in his head, the fuzzier it became. Was it really there, or had Wonwoo planted the idea so firmly that his brain filled in the blanks?

His chest tightened.

Had he really imagined it?

Mingyu pressed a palm against his chest, trying to calm the tightness there.

It’s nothing.

It’s just Wonwoo messing around again. He’s good at that—deadpan, unreadable, knowing exactly when to laugh.

Mingyu squeezed his eyes shut, restless. But the image wouldn’t leave him. A single thought lingered, sharp enough to keep him from sleep:

What if Wonwoo wasn’t joking?

***

The dorm grew quiet again, the silence settling heavily after Mingyu’s footsteps faded into his room. Wonwoo stayed in the living room, remote still in his hand, the faint afterimage of the TV screen glowing in his eyes.

He didn’t bother turning on another show. The darkness was better—cleaner. Without the false light, the room’s corners were easier to read.

Wonwoo leaned back into the sofa, eyelids lowering, listening.

There it was: the soft drag of something brushing against the wall, too faint for anyone else to notice. A draft that wasn’t from the air conditioner. The lingering weight in the air where the figure had appeared beside the film.

His gaze followed it out of habit. When the shape shifted, trying to gather itself near the edge of the room, Wonwoo only tilted his head. The same outcome as always—the moment its formless face turned toward him, it recoiled, scattering like smoke under the wind.

He didn’t smile this time.

“Every time,” he murmured, not sure who he was speaking to. His voice was barely more than breath.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. That tiny bend of his posture was the only acknowledgment he ever gave. A habit carved deep into him—older than the dorm, older than debut. A bow so slight no one would notice, paired with words he never spoke aloud.

Peace be upon you, those who dwell in this place.

The air shifted once more, lighter now. Wonwoo exhaled and pressed the heel of his palm over his left eye, tired but not unnerved.

Behind the door, Mingyu was probably already drifting off. He hadn’t seen enough to be frightened—not really. That was the point.

Wonwoo leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t interested in chasing. He had never been. Watching was enough. Letting them know he’d noticed, and then sending them away before they got close to the others—that was enough.

He closed his eyes. By the time he finally moved to his room, the living room felt ordinary again, like nothing had ever disturbed it.

***

The memory came uninvited, as it always did when he found himself whispering the words.

The old courtyard smelled of damp earth, the kind that clung to shoes and sleeves. Wonwoo was small then. He had been small enough that his hand disappeared entirely inside his grandmother’s when she led him through the family burial ground or followed the slow steps of his grandmother as she pressed her palms together before the family’s stone markers in a funeral hall.

The air was sharp with incense, heavy with murmurs from grown-ups dressed in black. Wonwoo had been restless, curious—his eyes darting to every corner, the framed photo, the strangers bowing, the offerings lined on low tables.

She had bent down, her voice warm and steady against his ear.

“Always greet them first,” she said, tilting down to him with a smile. “They were here before us.”

Then she lowered her head, lips moving in a whisper, Wonwoo didn’t catch. He copied the gesture anyway, clumsy and unsure.

And so he did. Always. At the threshold of quiet houses, forgotten gardens, stairwells that smelled of dust and time. The words reshaped themselves as he grew older, until they settled into a simple greeting.

A secret handshake, offered to whatever lingered unseen.

Years later, the house was different—walls repainted, windows replaced—but his mother’s silhouette by the doorway felt the same. She paused before stepping inside, fingertips brushing the frame, her lips moving in a quiet rhythm that only he could catch because he stood close.

His mother had leaned down, voice hushed yet certain.

“Before you walk in, you should greet them,” she said, smoothing his hair back.

Wonwoo frowned. “Them?”

“It’s polite. They were once people, too. We show respect.”

Wonwoo blinked up at her, confused. “But… they can’t hear me, right?”

She smiled in that patient way only mothers could. “Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you mean it.”

Then she bent her head slightly, lips moving in a whisper.

Wonwoo mimicked her—head lowered, voice small, stumbling on the words. His mother squeezed his hand in approval.

And just like that, it became a habit. At the next funeral. The next visit to a quiet graveyard. Even at the gate of a friend’s old house. His mother never corrected him, never asked him to stop. It stayed with him until the motion of lowering his head and the shape of those words became as automatic as breathing whenever he entered somewhere new.

Wonwoo didn’t ask. He only mirrored her, the way children do, whispering something of his own. A half-formed string of words, not quite a prayer, not quite a greeting.

By the time he was old enough to notice it was the same gesture both women carried, he was already packing for the trainee dorm. He thought of asking once, maybe twice. But schedules and practice swallowed the question, and the habit stayed behind with him—quiet, reflexive.

Even now, when he crossed an unfamiliar threshold, his lips shaped the same murmur. Like a secret handshake, passed down through hands that never let go.

The words shifted over the years until they became his own:

Peace be upon you, those who dwell in this place.

A reflex. A small bow of the head, like saying “excuse me” to the air.

Chapter Text

The dorm was dark, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound.

Wonwoo should’ve been asleep.

Today had been ridiculous—back-to-back schedules stacked like poorly designed Jenga blocks, cameras shoved too close, recordings, three rehearsals that melted his spine, an interview that drained his social battery, choreography repetitions that made his ribs complain and where he seriously considered lying down on the floor and not getting up, and a meeting that went on an hour longer than anyone wanted, dragged on until everyone looked slightly dead inside.

He had gained so much from this life—comfort, success, recognition—but somewhere along the way, parts of him had been shaved off so thinly he barely noticed until they were gone.

Today should’ve knocked him out for twelve hours straight. He should’ve been unconscious.

Or at least too tired to think.

He remembered laughing at something Hoshi said, remembered Mingyu shoving snacks at him, remembered… noise. A lot of noise.

His body felt wrung out, the kind of exhaustion that usually knocked him out the moment his head hit the pillow.

But he was awake.

Annoyingly awake.

A hollow kind of alertness buzzed behind his eyes, the wrong kind for someone who’d spent the entire day being overworked by several different departments at once.

He stared at the ceiling, at the faint shape of the smoke detector, thinking vaguely that he should not be conscious right now, trying to figure out which part of him refused to shut down. It wasn’t hunger—he could’ve raided the kitchen. It wasn’t thirst—he could’ve boiled water. It wasn’t loneliness—ten people in this building would answer if he knocked.

Then why am I awake?

He should be snoring. Or eating anything left in the fridge, the sad leftovers someone shoved into the fridge. Or texting the manager to drop off food so he didn’t starve.

He could even order delivery. Seoul at 2 AM still fried chicken for people with better judgment; someone was still frying something somewhere.

His brain listed every reasonable option, helpfully.

His body rejected all of them.

He lay there instead, irritation simmering under his ribs. Not anger. Not sadness. Something more shapeless. A restlessness that didn’t match the exhaustion in his bones.

His mind drifted—unhelpfully—toward the strange, quiet memories he never talked about.

Back then, the ghosts didn’t run from him. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t care he could see them. They played basketball long after the lights shut off, the ball echoing on concrete no one else could hear. They sprinted through school hallways with impossible stamina.

They dove into rivers without air, swam until their outlines blurred. They raced along the streets faster than cars, laughing with faces no one living could read.

Living without consequences. Or at least seeming to.

Wonwoo used to watch them from a distance, thinking he understood something about freedom. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Somewhere along the way, the fear flipped. They started avoiding him. Started shrinking away when his eyes landed on them. Started acting like he was the thing to run from.

He didn’t know when that shift happened.

He didn’t know why he remembered it now.

Wonwoo lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His throat burned dry—annoyingly dry. Not painful. Just irritating—like his body was making a request he didn’t feel like granting. But not enough to justify getting up. A bad idea dressed as a craving.

He could drink from the tap. He could boil water. He could ignore it. His brain listed those options calmly, automatically, like flipping through a menu he didn’t want. Rational solutions to irrational annoyance.

That would be the rational thing. All reasonable options.

Something was wrong. Not dangerous. Just… off. A tiny, unwelcome thought whispered in the back of his mind: This isn’t normal. You know that, right?

He ignored it.

Because for some reason —a reason he didn’t feel like examining— Wonwoo got out of bed anyway. He sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed before he stopped halfway, elbows on his knees, then sat there motionless.

This is stupid.

He knew it. The whole situation was stupid. A grown man, awake at 2 AM, debating hydration.

Why go outside?

For soda? For chips?

Wonwoo almost lay back down. Almost.

But his gaze slid toward the window—where the night pressed in, thick and inviting. Empty streets. No people. No questions. No noise. Just air that didn’t demand anything of him.

Better than lying awake. Better than thinking. Better than nothing.

Okay. Fuck sleep.

What even was sleep at this point? A suggestion. A rumor. A luxury he apparently didn’t qualify for tonight. And what was his next schedule in six hours supposed to do to him—kill him?

Too late. Being an idol had already done half the job.

He dragged a hand down his face, annoyed at everything and nothing.

And… there was the other thing. That store. The one the members joked about. Haunted, allegedly. He’d heard the stories, rolled his eyes, and ignored them.

He had never actually gone. Not once. Never bothered.

Tonight, though… His mind nudged him.

Fine. If his brain refused to shut up, then he might as well use it. A stupid, restless thought nudged him: Investigate.

Investigate what? Himself? The insomnia? The way his life felt like someone had wrung out all the warmth and left him on “air-dry” mode? No. Something easier. Something his mind kept circling back to, whether he liked it or not.

Ghosts.

He hadn’t tried talking to one in years. Not properly. Not since they started bolting whenever he looked their way—as if he was the anomaly, not them.

He still didn’t know when that shift happened. Or what it meant.

But tonight— tonight felt like the thin slice of time where his exhaustion and his curiosity intersected in the worst way possible.

Alright then. If sleep wanted to fight him, he’d fight back.

Wonwoo stood, grabbed his hoodie, and muttered to no one:

“Fine. Let’s find one that’ll actually talk to me.”

He exhaled through his nose, pushed himself to his feet, and reached for a hoodie.

The disguise came next: plain black mask tugged snug, a baseball cap, and his glasses—frames only, lenses removed months ago. A quiet trick. No barrier between his eyes and the things that might be waiting. It wasn’t a ritual. It was practicality.

To the world, he looked like any other idol cautious of cameras. To him, the absence of glass meant no filter between his eyes and what might be waiting.

Fine.

He shoved his glasses (empty frames) onto his face.

Communication. Investigation. Whatever.

“Fuck it.”

Wonwoo genuinely did not give a fuck. Not about sleep. Not about schedules. Not about being sensible.

He was going out.

By the time he stepped out the front door, his annoyance had settled into something quieter, a kind of resigned curiosity humming beneath his ribs.

By the time he stepped outside, Seoul was holding its breath, quieter than usual, streets washed in that pale, fatigued glow of a city that hadn’t slept but was pretending to. Damp air curled against his face, streetlamps buzzing like they were alive. His sneakers echoed against the pavement as he walked away from the dorm.

***

Wonwoo chose to walk.

Partly for the quiet. Partly because he didn’t want to sit still with his thoughts. Partly because he needed air.

The air at this hour brushed against his skin like something only half-awake—cool, slow, and holding onto the last remnants of the night. The street outside the dorm was nearly empty, painted in weak yellow light from lamps that flickered as if trying to stay conscious. His footsteps sounded soft on the pavement, almost polite.

He didn’t mind the quiet. Quiet didn’t ask anything of him.

A cat emerged from beneath a parked car, its tail twitching. It froze when it saw him—then its gaze slid past his shoulder, pupils sharpening into thin slits. A low hiss rattled out of its throat before it bolted into the nearest alley, claws scraping the concrete.

Wonwoo’s mind flicked through the usual possibilities:

1. Rat?

2. Trash movement?

3. Something from my side of the world?

The cat hissed violently.

Ah. Option 3.

Wonwoo didn’t turn around. He only exhaled once, steady and unbothered.

“Not now.”

The words weren’t for the cat.

Nothing followed, but the air behind him thinned, like something took a step back. Reluctant. Like something reminded itself who it was dealing with.

He kept walking.

He reached the crosswalk just as a nearly empty bus rumbled past. Its interior lights were far too bright for two in the morning—sterile, pale, like a room where people forgot to breathe. Every window reflected his silhouette normally… except one. The third window from the back held a faint smear of light, shaped almost like someone leaning close, watching him through the glass.

Wonwoo’s brain processed it the same way he processed everything odd: Okay. That one’s new. Slightly bold. No direct intent. Ignore.

When he blinked, it was gone. Good. He wasn’t in the mood.

Wonwoo slipped his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets and kept walking. The night pressed in softly, not threatening, just present in a way that made the world feel slightly tilted.

A wooden telephone pole clicked twice—perfect, even beats. Not the wind. Wind was never that disciplined.

Signal? Attention-seeking? Or just the city creaking?

Something pale moved between the poles, fast and fluid, keeping pace several feet away. It never drew closer, never fell behind, just hovered in the periphery like a reflection refusing to stay in the mirror.

Wonwoo didn’t look at it. Didn’t speed up. Didn’t need to. Movement flickered between poles — pale, fast, keeping pace with him. He didn’t feel threatened. Just mildly inconvenienced

“You’re persistent tonight,” he said quietly, almost like greeting an acquaintance he didn’t particularly want to see.

The nearest streetlamp dimmed for a heartbeat before flickering back to life in reply.

Dramatic, he thought.

The presence trailing him eventually slipped away. Cowardly or respectful — hard to tell.

He crossed another block, passing shuttered stores with metal grates pulled down like defensive armor. A sign swung gently from a loose hinge, though there was no wind. The sound—soft, repetitive—echoed down the empty street, stretching the silence thinner.

The humidity shifted.

Whatever shadow had been pacing him faded, dissolving sideways into the dark like it lost interest—or courage.

By the time the convenience store’s neon sign came into view, buzzing weakly against the night, Wonwoo knew something else was waiting. The kind of waiting that didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t hide.

A stillness anchored itself just ahead.

Different from the one behind him.

Sharper.

He adjusted his hood, lifted his chin, and kept walking.

Whatever the night was holding back, it would be in the store.

And he was already thirsty.

***

The street was almost empty, save for the glowing rectangle of the convenience store sign. Three different groups had their own reasons to be there. Each loud in their own way.

A trio of high schoolers whispered loudly into a phone camera, livestreaming, chasing a viral clip, jumping at nothing.

A varsity boy got shoved through the automatic doors repeatedly by his friends. Groaning because he lost a stupid bet, loser of a dare.

Two locals leaned on a bench, watching for fun entertainment.

“Why pay for horror cafés when this one’s free?” one of them muttered.

Across the street, Wonwoo lingered near the vending machine, hood pulled low, mask snug, glasses with only frames clinging to his nose. He had been standing there for a while, arms crossed, shifting weight from one foot to another. He’d been there a while, long enough for the kids to cycle through several takes for their video.

It wasn’t about soda anymore. He could’ve boiled water to drink. He knew it.

But the shadow by the noodle shelf had been there since he arrived, unmoving, half-shaped, still, and too steady for an illusion, like it was waiting. Still there. Not fading. Not hiding.

Wonwoo pressed his lips together, watching.

“…Strange,” he muttered behind his mask. “Usually, they scatter if too many eyes are around. But you’re… staying put.”

His gaze flicked toward the groups. Kids laughing nervously, someone streaming, locals smirking. Yet the figure inside didn’t move, didn’t fade. Almost as if it wanted to be seen.

Wonwoo tilted his head.

“A friendly one? Or just stubborn?” His tone carried no fear, only a thin layer of curiosity. A little testy, like someone poking at a puzzle that refused to solve itself.

Neither option particularly concerned him.

He sighed, finally tugging his hood tighter before crossing the road.

***

The minimart glowed weakly at the corner, neon sign trembling in the wind. A group of college kids clustered outside, tripods already set, voices pitched with performative fear. Their livestream ran steadily, chat scrolling fast on one of their phones.

The convenience store hummed like a broken lightbulb. One of the fridges clicked too loudly, then stayed silent too long. The cashier kept glancing at the back door that sometimes rattled by itself, as if a draft had learned to knock.

Customers usually came in and out quickly. Not tonight.

It was close to two in the morning when Wonwoo tugged a hoodie over his head and stepped into the convenience store. The automatic doors slid open with a chime.

Inside, the hum of refrigerators and the flicker of neon strips filled the space instead. The air smelled faintly of instant noodles and disinfectant. Harsh white lights cast everything flat.

Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The shadow was still there. Not fully human, not fully absent—edges hazy, body outlined by a faint glow only he could notice.

Wonwoo reached for a basket, as if nothing was unusual.

“…Alright then,” he said lightly. “Let’s see what you’re about.”

But when he took off his hood, tugged down his mask, and blinked without the barrier of glass—

There it was.

Shapes. Not whole, not human. One drifted along the far aisle, blurred and incomplete, like a reflection on water, its outline flickering like a bad reception. Another crouched by the fridge door, its outline nearly human but haloed faintly, as if backlit by a light source that didn’t exist, swaying in a rhythm not meant for living bodies.

Their faces were indistinct, like someone had erased them halfway through sketching. Edges smudged. Movements are too smooth.

They didn’t look at him. They never did.

There were only two other customers—a tipsy college kid leaning on the instant ramen aisle, trying not to sway too much. And a woman hesitating by the register, whispering something to the cashier. The air felt strained, like everyone was holding their breath.

Wonwoo didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care. His steps were quiet, almost lazy.

Wonwoo paused in front of the ramen aisle, tilting his head at the rows of instant noodles, to examine brands he didn’t intend to buy. His eyes skimmed casually, though his attention was angled toward the figure reflected in the freezer door.

The drunk college kid next to him shivered, eyes locked on something behind Wonwoo—something tall and bent, moving wrong in the reflection of the freezer glass.

Then Wonwoo walked past the ramen, past the freezer doors.

Wonwoo bowed slightly, lips moving around a phrase too soft to catch. “Peace be upon you, those who dwell in this place.”

A faint recoil. The closest figure flinched. It retreated fast enough that its outline tore into static, slipped back into the shadow of the fridge until nothing remained but the faintest shimmer.

Wonwoo wiped a circle on the glass door with his sleeve, squinting.

“Mm. Too foggy. Can’t see the label.”

He leaned in closer, completely blocking the drunk college kid’s view. The shadow vanished entirely.

He reached out without hesitation, pulling open one of the glass doors. A sudden hiss of cold air rolled out—and the tipsy college kid jumped like he’d seen something move in the reflection and brushed past him.

Wonwoo only frowned at the condensation on the glass and wiped it with his sleeve.

“Cold enough,” he murmured, almost pleased.

He picked out a soda, tapped the bottle cap twice against his palm like it was part of the ritual, and wandered to the counter.

Behind him, the cashier jumped when the overhead lights flickered. Wonwoo didn’t look up. He just muttered, almost to himself, “Don’t mess with me when I’m thirsty.”

The air stilled instantly, like even the building itself flinched.

Behind him, the automatic door hissed open, making the livestream kids outside scream. One stumbled in—loser of a dare, forced to enter. He froze when he saw Wonwoo calmly browsing, bottle in hand, head tilted like he was considering company only he could see.

Wonwoo glanced back, eyes tracing the shimmer still clinging to the fridge door. “You’re new here?” he asked, tone gentle.

The kid choked. “H-hyung… who—who are you talking to?”

Behind him, the cashier froze when the store’s back door rattled faintly, as if nudged by unseen hands. The woman at the register let out a nervous laugh, clutching her bag tighter. The atmosphere twisted tighter and tighter, like the start of a ghost story—except the tall man in the hoodie moved as if walking through any ordinary evening.

Snack. Drink. Checkout. Done. A nod. The cashier’s trembling “thank you.”

He slid coins across the counter, his expression unreadable behind the hood’s shadow. The cashier accepted them quickly, glancing nervously at the darkened aisles over Wonwoo’s shoulder.

Outside, the livestream caught him in frame—tall, faceless behind his cap and mask, glasses empty of glass, smile too soft for the hour. The chat exploded:

WHO IS THAT GUY??

Why do his eyes look like he's smiling so strangely?

DID YOU SEE THE SHELF BEHIND HIM???

Wonwoo stepped out of the store, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him with a tired sigh—as if relieved he was gone. The air outside felt different than when he arrived. Lighter. Warmer. Like whatever had been gathering inside the minimarket finally retreated the moment he crossed the threshold. He entirely unaware—or perhaps perfectly aware—that every shadow had already fled the moment he walked in.

He twisted the cap off his soda with a muted click. Steam curled upward. He took a sip. And walked off into the night.

The livestreamers outside quieted instantly, cameras forgotten, eyes tracking him like he was part of the horror they came to film. Not the ghost. Him.

One of them whispered, “Bro… he didn’t even look scared.”

Wonwoo didn’t hear it. Or maybe he did. It didn’t matter.

What clung faintly to him wasn’t fear—it was annoyance, the lingering kind he carried whenever something tried too hard to be seen.

Wonwoo adjusted his hoodie, the faint neon glow catching on the empty frames of his glasses. In the glass reflection of the vending machine beside him, a thin outline rippled behind his shoulder—curious, hesitant, almost sulking.

“Arogant,” he murmured under his breath, tone flat. As if calling out a bad habit.

Not angry.

Just factual.

The reflection stuttered—then vanished with a soft distortion, as if embarrassed.

He took another bite of his snack, chewing slowly. The city stretched ahead of him in quiet corridors of half-lit streets and uneven shadows. Somewhere behind him, inside the store, a shelf creaked like something settling into itself again.

Inside, the store was quiet again. The woman who had been at the register let out a shaky breath and muttered to the cashier, “Weird… isn’t this the store everyone says is haunted? Nothing happened… right?”

The cashier nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. But tonight… nothing happened. Maybe because of him?”

They didn’t dare look out the window again.

Wonwoo walked on, unhurried. His footsteps stayed steady, but the shadows along the walls pulled back as he passed—instinctively, almost respectfully, the way wild animals step aside when something older walks through. He didn’t smile, not fully. Just a tiny smile at the corner of his lips, like he’d heard a joke only the dead could tell.

Whatever haunted the store would not follow him. And whatever waited for him next—well, that was its choice.

The night breathed with him.

And for once, it breathed more quietly.

His lips were twitching as if amused by some private joke. He wasn’t the least bit scared. If anything, he looked bored.

Chapter Text

The night air pressed lightly against Wonwoo's skin, cool enough to keep him alert, not cold enough to send him home. When he stepped out of the convenience store, the city felt like it had slipped into a slower dimension—Seoul at 3:20 AM, where everything buzzed softer, breathed quieter, lived more faintly.

He didn’t check the time.

He didn’t check his route.

He just walked.

The plastic bag on his wrist swung like a lazy metronome, tapping against his leg with every step. Streetlights hummed in their tall cages, vending machines glowed like lighthouses abandoned by sailors, and shuttered storefronts blurred past him. Without lenses in his frames, the city looked painted in watercolor—a smudge of colors without edges.

But people—when they appeared—always came into focus.

A man was smoking by a bus stop, but the smoke curled backward, as if the air were reversing.

A girl skipping across a crosswalk with shoes that made no sound. A boy leaning under a lamppost, uniform sleeves too short for limbs that didn’t quite match his age.

Sharp. Defined. Wrong.

Wonwoo glanced at them out of habit. They didn’t look back.

He kept walking.

The night had a pattern to it: machines buzzing, lights twitching, strangers adjusting their paths the moment he entered their gravity. A delivery worker hurried past and angled his face away. A couple crossed the street just slightly too fast. Even the woman sweeping crumbs out of a café's back door stepped aside with the kind of politeness normally reserved for avoiding a wet paint sign.

He didn’t take it personally. If anything, he found it mildly funny.

People are weird tonight, he thought, with the detached interest of someone observing birds deciding on migration routes.

He slowed briefly, testing it. Stood near a shop window. Watched passersby.

Every single one drifted a step off their path as they approached him, eyes never meeting his, like an instinct older than thought.

He let out a small breath—half sigh, half chuckle.

So much avoidance in one night. Almost nostalgic, in a way.

A cluster of cats circled a vending machine. Their ears swiveled toward something he couldn’t see until it moved—an outline slipping along the metal side, thin as reflected breath. The cats hissed and scattered.

Wonwoo only murmured, “Persistent,” and kept walking.

He heard soft steps behind him—a rhythm not matching his own. When he paused to check a sticker-plastered lamppost, the steps paused too. The air shifted warm, carrying a faint sweetness, like sugar burned and forgotten in the pan.

That scent didn’t belong to the city. He catalogued it silently.

He turned a corner. The street narrowed. Shadows layered on top of each other. A cat on the curb bristled at a patch of empty air beside him, not at him. Wonwoo watched the empty space, not bothered, only curious.

“Shy tonight,” he whispered.

He kept moving, falling into the rhythm of the city’s half-sleep.

His thoughts flickered: the boys probably sprawled in the dorm, a schedule waiting to eat him alive in a few hours, the strange comfort of this blurry world where only the wrong things looked right. If he told them about this, half of them would laugh, the other half would demand exorcisms. Wonwoo, though—he found himself oddly comforted. He pocketed the idea. It wasn’t yet a story worth retelling.

The world was heavier when it was too normal.

He folded all those thoughts away.

Seoul shifted around him. Paths opened, then closed. The smudged world rearranged itself with every step.

A lamplight pooled on the pavement ahead. For a heartbeat, someone stood in it—slim, turned away—then slipped out of the glow as if rewinding into shadow.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Not tonight, then.”

And then—

He stopped.

A single stray cat sat at the curb, fur raised, staring at the space just behind him. Its growl vibrated low, rumbling against the quiet. This time, Wonwoo didn’t smile. He adjusted the empty frames on his nose.

“Ah,” he said softly. “So it’s not just me.”

He followed the cat’s gaze down the street.

There—just past the pool of lamplight— the faint outline of a bus stop. A figure sitting very still.

Too still.

A presence sharp as a pin pressed to paper.

A ghost that wasn’t avoiding him. A ghost that wasn’t leaving.

A ghost that couldn’t.

Wonwoo approached slowly, not because he was afraid, but because he didn’t want to startle whatever the cat had been growling at. The outline of the bus stop sharpened with each step—a metal bench, scratched acrylic panels, and an ad poster peeling at the corners. Normal things. Familiar things.

But the figure was wrong.

It sat on the far end of the bench, spine straight, hands folded neatly on its lap like someone waiting for an appointment they didn’t intend to miss. Its clothes were soft at the edges, the way pencil marks blur when a thumb brushes over them. The head was bowed, chin tilted toward the ground, hair falling forward like a curtain.

It didn’t look up.

Even when Wonwoo stepped into the lamplight.

He stopped two meters away.

Up close, the figure didn’t vibrate or flicker like some of the others he’d seen over the years. It was steady. Still. Almost too still.

He could feel the quiet around it—not silence, but the kind of hush that sinks into bones.

He tilted his head.

“Hey,” he said gently, as if speaking to someone half-asleep. “Are you… waiting for something?”

The figure didn’t answer. It didn’t even twitch.

Wonwoo stepped closer, one slow foot at a time, not wanting to break the fragile balance of the scene. When he reached the bus stop’s boundary—the faint line where the shadows overlapped—he felt it.

A pressure. Not physical, but present. Like walking into a memory that didn’t belong to him.

He exhaled through his nose.

Trap, he thought. It matched the feeling.

The stray cat had followed him, tail low. It sat outside the invisible line and pawed once at the ground, then hissed at nothing.

Wonwoo looked at the cat. The cat looked at him. They agreed on the assessment: something here wasn’t free to move.

He shifted his gaze back to the figure.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, voice quiet but steady.

This time, the ghost moved.

Not much—just the slightest tilt of the head, like a puppet whose strings had been nudged. The hair parted, revealing the faint shape of a face. Blurred, incomplete, as if emotion didn’t quite stick to it anymore.

Wonwoo relaxed a fraction.

“You can hear me,” he murmured, almost relieved. “Good.”

He took another step —and the air snapped.

A soundless snap.

A pressure drop.

The figure jerked, shoulders stiffening, and its body blurred at the edges as watercolor dragged through water.

Wonwoo froze.

He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t done anything. But the ghost reacted as if he had.

It lifted its head slowly. Too slow. As if defying gravity.

Its face was soft, unfinished. A faint mouth, a faint nose, the suggestion of eyes. But those eyes— those blurred hollows— were locked forward.

Not at Wonwoo.

At the road.

Waiting.

Wonwoo followed the direction of its gaze. Empty street. No buses. No headlights. Nothing. He exhaled softly.

“You’re stuck,” he whispered.

The ghost’s fingers twitched in its lap. A small, restrained movement. The kind that happens when someone wants to stand but already knows they can’t.

Wonwoo stepped back—not retreating, just giving space. He crouched slightly to meet its level, elbows on his knees.

“How long have you been waiting?”

No answer. But the ghost’s body leaned forward an inch, like someone listening for the rumble of an approaching engine.

Wonwoo studied it for a long moment, eyes quiet, mind ticking through the soft logic he’d built over years of seeing things no one else noticed.

Some ghosts moved freely. Some wandered. Some fled. Some lingered in familiar places. But this one—this one couldn’t leave the bench. Almost as if a string anchored it to the seat.

Wonwoo tried again.

“Can you stand?”

The ghost’s head jerked, the entire figure glitching sideways for a split second—like an image resisting motion. One foot slid forward mechanically… then snapped right back to the same spot.

Invisible boundary. Absolute. Unyielding.

Wonwoo inhaled once, deeply.

“Okay,” he murmured. “You really can’t.”

He reached out—not to touch, just to hover his hand in the air between them, as if offering a presence rather than contact.

The ghost twitched again. Not fear. No surprise. Recognition, maybe.

Wonwoo lowered his voice even more.

“Do you want help?”

For the first time, the ghost turned— slow, deliberate— and looked directly at him. And though its face was blurred, its expression wasn’t. Despair. Thin and small and exhausted.

Wonwoo’s breath caught. This one… wasn’t running from him. This one needed him.

Chapter Text

Wonwoo stepped closer.

And the figure on the bench—finally—came into focus.

Not blurred. Not incomplete. Not shapeless.

A woman. Middle-aged. Korean-featured in a way that reminded him of the women who sold kimbap outside schools in the early 2000s—faces marked with real lines, real tiredness, real humanity. The kind of face you didn’t see often anymore, not in Seoul with its polished edges.

Her hair was cut into a bob he hadn’t seen in years. Not fashionable. Not modern. A slightly curled style that every ahjumma had around 2002–2005—thick at the sides, puffed a little at the roots, stiffened by hairspray you could almost smell.

Her clothes were even stranger.

A brown zip-up fleece jacket, the kind sold in markets before fast fashion took over. Loose black track pants with two thick white stripes down the side. Old sneakers—not retro, not vintage, just… old.

A look nobody wore anymore. A look straight out of Wonwoo’s childhood.

His stomach tightened. A small, faint click in his brain.

This is wrong. She doesn’t belong to this decade. She doesn’t even belong to the last one.

For the first time that night, he really looked.

Her posture was rigid, palms flat on her knees. Her back was too straight in that school-teacher way Korean women had before ergonomics existed. Her head bowed, chin tucked in a polite, humble angle.

Wonwoo knew this silhouette. He’d seen women like her lining up at bus stops on rainy mornings when he was eight. He’d seen them rushing to morning markets. He’d seen them carrying tote bags with cartoon mascots printed on them.

This woman didn’t look haunting. She looked familiar. Too familiar.

A thin thread of déjà vu curled through his chest.

He stepped closer. Under the lamplight, her jacket reflected the dull sheen of cheap fleece—exactly like the ones from old neighborhood shops that didn’t exist anymore. His throat felt tight—not fear, just an unsettling recognition.

She hadn’t moved.

And that’s when he noticed it. The bus schedule poster behind her was the old kind—paper, faded, with yellowed tape at the corners. Not the digital timetable used today.

Wonwoo blinked. This wasn’t nostalgia. This wasn’t memory. This was a temporal mismatch. She wasn’t from here. Not from now.

He took another breath, voice low and steady.

“You’re… from the early 2000s,” he murmured. Not a question. Just fact.

The woman didn’t look up. Her fingers twitched once. Her shoulders rose in a shallow, restrained inhale.

Wonwoo crouched slowly in front of her, elbows resting on his knees.

“Ahjumma,” he said softly, choosing the respectful word instinctively, “how long have you been waiting?”

The woman lifted her head—just slightly. Her face was clear. Too clear. Like a photograph printed sharply against a world that kept blurring around the edges. She had soft wrinkles, tired eyes, faint sunspots—everything living, everything human. Except for one thing: Her eyes didn’t focus on him. Not exactly. They looked through him. Past him. Toward the road. Waiting.

The realization settled low into Wonwoo’s chest.

She’s trapped. She hasn’t moved on. She hasn’t moved at all.

“Can you stand?” Wonwoo asked quietly.

For a second, she tried. The woman’s foot shifted— A tiny, hopeful motion, human movement. Then— snap.

A violent pull. Her body jerked back into place on the bench, spine straightening like it had been forced upright by invisible hands.

But this time, it wasn’t just her posture that snapped. For the briefest moment—less than a breath— her appearance fractured. Her neatly combed bob became soaked, clumped, plastered to the sides of her face. The fleece jacket darkened, heavy, like waterlogged fabric.

Her outline wavered, rippling as if she were being seen through waves. A cold scent hit him—metallic, sharp, almost like rain hitting warm concrete.

Then it was gone. All of it.

She sat exactly as before: hair dry, jacket neat, hands folded politely on her lap.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t speak at first.

His eyes softened, then sharpened— quiet recognition settling over him.

He’d seen this pattern. This flicker. Ghosts didn’t always show how they died. Many never did. Some flashed it only when pushed past the boundary of what held them in place.

He exhaled through his nose.

Drowned.

Or fell.

Or submerged.

Some kind of water. Some kind of sudden drop.

He wasn’t certain. He didn’t need to be— not yet.

The woman trembled, a tiny shiver running through her shoulders. She tried to smooth her pants—an old human habit—only for her hand to glitch halfway through the motion.

Wonwoo’s voice dropped softer, almost gentle.

“That’s why you can’t leave, hm?”

She didn’t nod. But she flinched— a small, pained ripple through her outline—and that was enough.

He sat down slowly again, folding himself onto the pavement in front of her. There was no fear in him, no recoil. Only that calm, clinical curiosity he carried like armor.

“They’re really not that scary,” he murmured to himself, echoing a thought from long ago. “And sometimes… not even trying to be.”

He studied her quietly, noting details others would miss:

The way her skin stayed intact— no wounds, no obvious trauma. Most ghosts didn’t show that unless the death was sudden enough to shock them out of their last moments.

The faint metallic scent still clinging to the air— barely there, fading already. Not all ghosts had scents. Not all ghosts had visual ruptures either.

But when they did— Wonwoo trusted those more than anything they could say.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“Alright,” he whispered, tone steady and grounding, “show me again. But slowly this time.”

The woman didn’t transform. Didn’t flicker.

But her eyes—dark, unfocused—lifted toward him for the first time, as if begging him to understand the rest for her.

And he did.

At least enough.

“At least now I know what kind of trap this is,” he murmured.

The street hummed around them. The city held its breath. The woman sat very still, almost painfully polite.

And Wonwoo, patient as ever, waited with her.

“…I see,” he whispered.

He waited.

The woman trembled once. A trembling that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with exhaustion.

Wonwoo’s tone softened further, deeper, a quiet empathy threading through it.

“You’re really stuck here, aren’t you?”

She didn’t nod. But her breathing—if it could be called breathing—shuddered once, a micro-expression of someone trying not to cry.

Wonwoo let out a slow exhale, sitting cross-legged on the pavement in front of her.

He studied every detail now. The old fleece jacket. The outdated bob haircut. The bus schedule behind her that no longer matched any current route. The worn sneakers that no Seoul commuter wore anymore. Everything about her was tethered to a time that no longer existed.

Wonwoo swallowed hard.

“…You’ve been waiting for a bus that stopped running years ago,” he murmured.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants — the smallest gesture, but the clearest answer.

Wonwoo’s voice lowered, almost tender.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s see if we can get you home.”

For the first time, the woman turned her face toward him.

Not fully. Not boldly. But enough to show something unmistakable: Hope. Fragile. Thin. Held together by habit more than belief.

Wonwoo held her gaze quietly, and for a second, he wasn’t alone on the street.

Not really.

Chapter Text

Wonwoo scooted a little closer, slow enough that even the night seemed to watch him do it.

The air near the woman was thicker, as if humidity had taken shape and sat between them. Not cold. Not warm. Just dense—like the heaviness of a room where someone cried hours ago and the walls were still remembering.

He lifted his hand toward the edge of the bench. Not touching. Just testing.

His palm pressed into nothing, and yet something pushed back. Not a wall—nothing that solid. It felt more like a rubber membrane stretched thin, a bubble with too much pressure behind it.

Wonwoo blinked once.

“…Okay,” he murmured. “So your boundary isn’t… rigid. More like elastic.”

The woman didn’t react, but her shoulders tightened in a small, almost polite flinch. Old habits. The kind older Korean women had—the instinct to shrink themselves even when no one asked them to.

“Relax,” Wonwoo said gently. “I’m not going to touch you.”

He tried again. This time moving his hand sideways, testing the perimeter. There—just there—the air pushed back harder, asserting the limit of her world. He let his fingers hover an inch away, fascinated.

The night was silent except for the quiet hum of the streetlamp above them.

“Why this?” he muttered. “Why a stretchy barrier around a bus stop bench? That’s… oddly specific.”

His mind catalogued it instinctively—like he was filing away supernatural data he never asked to collect but had somehow become responsible for anyway.

She didn’t move. But the tension in her body changed, subtle as a shift in weather. Her chin dipped half a centimeter, a reflexive surrender posture.

Wonwoo studied that. He’d seen that kind of movement on living people too—people who’d lived their lives quietly. People who apologized before speaking. People who never wanted to inconvenience anyone.

He swallowed.

“Did you die here?”

No response.

“Near here?”

Still nothing.

He blew out a small breath, not frustrated—just thinking.

“Right. Of course. Vague answers. Classic.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed faintly in concentration.

“And that flicker you showed me… the drowning? Why would a trapped bus-stop ghost show that?”

He wasn’t accusing her. He was honestly confused.

The woman’s hands twitched in her lap, fingers contracting like she’d felt cold water hit her palms again. Her outline rippled for half a second—like heat rising from asphalt.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. That. That’s weird,” he said flatly.

But under the dryness, his voice softened.

“What happened to you?”

No answer.

“Fine. Let’s try something else.”

He inched even closer—crossing the boundary. He confirmed it with the gentle pull in his stomach, that quiet shift in air pressure he’d grown familiar with since childhood. Ghost spaces always felt like that—like stepping from one temperature into another without the air actually changing.

He crouched low, resting his elbows on his knees. He was inside her space now. Touching the rules that held her still.

Hmm.

“So I can enter,” he murmured. “But you can’t leave. That means this isn’t a structural trap—it’s a personal one.”

He thought briefly—dry, clinical.

Something tied to her. Something she’s reenacting. A loop? A rule? Or just… grief that hardened into a shape?

He wasn’t sure. He rarely was. That didn’t stop him from trying. He shifted his weight forward and spoke more seriously, voice dropping to a rumble.

“When you tried to stand earlier… you didn’t just snap back. You changed.”

He watched her carefully. Trying not to startle her. Trying not to rush her.

“You looked like someone who drowned. Or someone who… fell into something. Or someone hit by something that felt like water hitting too fast.”

He paused.

“And honestly, that makes no sense. We’re at a bus stop. Not a river. Not a bridge.”

He paused again, studying her face.

“So unless this bench magically teleported into a lake back then, that scene you showed me? It doesn’t fit.”

Her head jerked—tiny, sharp. Almost a wince.

Wonwoo softened.

“Hey. I’m not blaming you,” he said calmly. “I’m just trying to understand how your… imprint works.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then dragged his palm down his face.

“You know,” he muttered under his breath, “just because I can see you doesn’t mean I’m blessed with a guidebook. I don’t get answers. No subtitles. No instruction manual. All I have is trial and error. Mostly error.”

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But the night was soft, and honesty slipped out easier here. He leaned forward again, reaching out—not toward her, but toward the boundary. The air bent inward, resisting him like an invisible elastic sheet. He pushed gently, not enough to break anything—just enough to test flexibility.

The space trembled.

The woman jerked— her body shuddering as if the ground under her had dropped for a second.

Wonwoo startled and pulled his hand back immediately.

“Okay. Sorry. That was too much.” He raised his hands in surrender. “You’re not a science experiment. My bad.”

Her breathing—if breathing was the right word—hitched in a stutter.

Wonwoo adjusted his glasses frame, though there were no lenses to hide behind.

He stared at her for a moment, then shifted his posture. Stable. Grounded. A posture that said: I’m not leaving.

Finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he said, voice calm, resigned. “We’re here anyway. Let’s try this.”

And then he straightened his back, meeting the woman’s blurred, trembling eyes.

“Now what?” he asked quietly. He tilted his head slightly, the gesture both gentle and challenging.

“I’m giving you permission to speak.”

The streetlamps buzzed louder. The air held its breath. Even the cats that had been circling earlier froze at the edge of the curb, staring into nothing. The woman’s mouth opened—just barely.

At first, no sound came out. Just a broken vibration, like a cassette tape catching on a warped spool.

Wonwoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“You can,” he said. Soft. Certain. Not encouragement—authority.

She tried again.

Something fragile cracked open in her throat.

“…di—” a stuttering breath “…didn’t… make it…”

Her voice broke apart, thin as wet paper.

Wonwoo’s expression didn’t change much. But something in his eyes did— a small shift in focus, quiet and sharp. He leaned in.

“Didn’t make what?”

The woman’s lips trembled. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her old fleece jacket.

“…home…” barely audible “…didn’t… make it home…”

A gust of wind rolled past them— not cold but sudden. Like something else in the street had finally noticed their conversation.

Wonwoo’s heart thudded once— a small, controlled reaction.

“…Okay,” he whispered, almost tender. “Then let’s figure out what stopped you.”

Her breath—if it could be called breath—shivered in her throat. She kept her eyes lowered, like the act of speaking at all was already too much. But she tried again.

“I… didn’t… make it… home…” The words bent like they were passing through water.

Wonwoo nodded once—soft, not patronizing.

“Why?” he asked. “What stopped you?”

Her lips parted. A small sound escaped — the start of a word, not quite a syllable. “…bus…”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, waiting. He didn’t rush her.

“What about the bus?”

The woman’s fingers curled around her pants, knuckles whitening in that faint, ghostly way—like her body remembered tension even if it couldn't truly hold it.

“…didn’t… come,” she whispered.

Wonwoo exhaled slowly.

“Yeah. Still doesn’t,” he muttered, glancing at the empty street.

But she wasn’t done.

“…so… I waited…” Her voice wavered, but steadier now. “…I… waited… longer… but… then…” She broke off, shoulders trembling.

Wonwoo leaned his forearms on his knees.

“Then what?”

Her head lifted just slightly. Enough to reveal the wet shimmer in her eyes—like emotion trapped under glass.

“…someone… called…”

That startled him a little—not fear, but curiosity sharpening.

“Someone?” he echoed. “Who?”

Her breathing hitched.

“…a man…” She swallowed, voice cracking again. “…I think… I knew him…”

Wonwoo frowned. “You think? Not sure?”

Her eyes darted—up, then down—like memory wouldn’t settle.

“…friend… neighbor… someone… from work… I… don’t…” She shook her head helplessly. “…memory… is… messy…”

Wonwoo nodded. Ghost memories often were.

“And then?” he prompted gently.

The woman’s hands tightened, crumpling the fabric of her old fleece. A soft choking sound came from her throat—a trapped sob.

“…he said… he’d take me… home…”

Something cold slid down Wonwoo’s spine. Not fear. Recognition. He inhaled slowly.

“And did he?”

Her voice thinned.

“…no.”

Silence settled heavy between them. Wonwoo swallowed once, his gaze steady.

“Then what happened?”

She blinked—slow, mechanical. Her outline flickered at the edges.

“…road… dark…”

“…he… drove…”

“…too fast…”

Wonwoo’s brow furrowed.

“He drove you? Or he drove near you?”

She tried to form the words. Tried again. And again.

Finally, “…he… stopped… car… here…”

Wonwoo’s eyes widened a fraction. She didn’t notice.

“…he told me… get in…”

Her voice thickened with remembered fear.

“…I said… no… I… didn’t know him… not… really…”

Wonwoo felt his chest tighten — a very small ache, buried deep.

“What did he do?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, then lifted her hand. Not pointing. Not gesturing. Just lifting. As she raised it, her wrist flickered— Changing shape for a heartbeat— A bruise-like shadow blooming under the skin before vanishing.

Wonwoo froze. Not in fear. But because the detail was too human.

“…he grabbed me,” she whispered.

The night thickened around them.

Her voice cracked.

“I pulled away… I tried…” Another flicker, her shoulder jerking backward, her body thrown into a posture of recoil that didn’t match the bench. “…I fell—”

A glitch ripple coursed through her form: her hair blowing sideways, her jacket sagging like soaked fleece, her face blurring into panic, a splash sound somewhere deep in memory.

Then she snapped back into sitting position— hands folded. Back straight. Posture polite again.

Wonwoo stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, rational, painfully human.

“…I see.”

She looked at him with trembling hope. “…can you… help… me…?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, tired in all the ways that didn’t touch the body.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I really don’t.”

Her eyes widened with desperation.

Wonwoo held up a hand—not to silence, but to steady her.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I’m not sure what horrible thing happened to you that night. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

He glanced at the street, at the silent road stretching into nothing.

“But let’s be honest,” he continued, tone sober. “What exactly do you think I can do?”

The woman didn’t answer. She only trembled.

Wonwoo sighed.

“I’m just a person,” he said.

“An idol.” He arched an eyebrow, almost irritated by the absurdity of the whole situation.

“Not a cop. Not an exorcist. Not some supernatural detective.”

He tapped his chest with two fingers.

“I dance. I rap. I run on two hours of sleep. That’s it.”

He looked at her again — long, gentle, serious.

“You want justice? Closure? Revenge? I don’t know.” He shook his head.

“I don’t have the tools. Or the authority. Or the timeline.” His voice softened further.

“But I can sit here with you.”

“And we can talk.”

“And maybe—maybe—we can figure something out that doesn’t require me changing careers into forensic investigation.”

A slow, fragile breath left her. Almost like relief.

Wonwoo leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful.

“So,” he murmured, “why don’t you tell me what happened next?”

Her lips parted. And this time, her voice didn’t break. It flowed—still unsteady, still fractured—but words were returning to her.

Wonwoo listened, quiet as the night. Then he stood up slowly, joints cracking from sitting on cold pavement too long. The ghost watched him like he was performing a ritual she didn’t understand. He dusted his palms off on his hoodie and looked at the woman.

“Alright,” he said, voice flat but undeniably decisive. “Let’s investigate.”

The word sounded almost ridiculous in the empty street—like a mockery of actual detective work—but Wonwoo didn’t seem bothered. The ghost blinked, confused, as though she wasn’t sure if he was serious.

Wonwoo nodded toward the empty street.

“Yeah. Investigate. That’s what people do when they don’t know what to do.”

He walked a few steps to the metal pole where the bus schedule was posted. It was the old kind—paper laminated under peeling plastic. The ink had faded into a soft brown-green, like it had been soaked in tea and left to dry. Most people passing by would think it was just old city infrastructure no one bothered removing.

Wonwoo leaned in, squinting. The letters wavered before snapping into clarity—ghosts got clear focus, but bus timetables still needed effort.

“Route 78,” he read aloud, tapping the line with one finger, “discontinued in… 2007?” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You died around then, right?”

The ghost didn’t answer verbally. But her hands tightened on her lap.

Wonwoo hummed softly.

“Yeah. Checks out.”

He traced the printed text, half-expecting his hand to phase through. It didn’t. His finger lingering on each year like he was trying to make a connection between paper and spirit. He tilted his head, studying the faded ink as though it might confess something.

He traced the printed text, half-expecting his hand to phase through. It didn’t. His finger lingering on each year like he was trying to make a connection between paper and spirit. He tilted his head, studying the faded ink as though it might confess something.

He wasn’t good at this. He knew that. And yet he kept going.

“Still physical,” he muttered. “It’s just old. Like… very old. Like my pre-debut shoes.”

He stepped back, squinting at the road.

“Bus probably doesn’t come here anymore.”

The ghost’s face fell— and that reaction was painfully human.

Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m telling the truth.”

He straightened and scanned the road, eyes moving lazily but with a strange alertness. He had a way of looking at his surroundings that seemed too calm for someone facing the supernatural. The asphalt was cracked here and there, worn by decades of rain and wheels and footsteps.

He checked the ground near the curb next, scanning for skid marks, broken pavement, anything. But time had long erased the night she died.

Nothing about it screamed tragedy or crime scene. Nothing was obvious.

The ghost watched him anxiously.

Wonwoo glanced at her.

“What? I’m looking. Calm down.”

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose.

“This is the part where real detectives crouch dramatically and notice something genius. Let’s see…”

He crouched again, staring at a faint crack along the asphalt.

Then immediately frowned.

“…Nope,” he muttered. “Just a crack. Probably from winter.”

He brushed his fingers over the pavement anyway, as if hoping some clue might magically present itself. It didn’t.

He stood again, dusting his hands off.

“That’s enough forensic work. I’m done.”

The ghost stared at him—bewildered, distressed, maybe a little betrayed.

“…done…?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo said simply. He pointed at himself. “I am an idol. Idol. I don’t get paid enough sleep to do this.”

Wonwoo raised a hand, gesturing at his face. “This is the face of someone who’s trying. I need you to appreciate that.”

It absolutely did not look like a face of someone trying.

He checked his watch, grimacing.

“Great. Three-thirty. I have to wake up in five hours. I’m going to look like death more than you, and that’s saying something.”

The ghost flinched, uncertain whether she’d been insulted or not. Wonwoo sighed, long and tired, like someone who had accepted that he wasn’t getting sleep tonight.

“So… now what?”

She stared at him, desperate. The woman’s lips parted. Her voice was fragile, thin as breath.

“…help… me…”

Wonwoo crossed his arms, thinking for a moment.

“I am helping. This is my helping posture.”

If ghosts could give side-eyes, she would have.

He took a slow breath, steady and practical, letting his thoughts settle. When he spoke next, his voice was softer, more human.

“Listen,” he said softly, “you’ve been stuck here for almost twenty years.”

The woman’s eyes flickered—sad, lost, tired.

“And you’re still waiting for the bus,” Wonwoo continued. “Still waiting to go home. Still scared of what happened that night.”

Her lips trembled. Her fingers dug into her skirt, fabric warping under an emotion she couldn’t contain.

“…I… didn’t… mean to… stay…”

“I know,” he said. Quiet. “That’s usually how it goes.”

He walked back toward the bench and sat on the armrest—not invading her space, just near enough.

“You’ve been replaying the same fear for two decades,” he said. “Every night. Every hour. That’s terrible.”

She looked at the ground.

“…I… didn’t know… what else… to do…”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That part… I get.”

Wonwoo looked at her gently, almost pitying.

“That’s the thing. You don’t have to do anything.”

Her head rose the slightest bit.

Wonwoo leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You’re scared,” he murmured. “And you’ve been scared for a very long time.”

She bowed her head, shoulders curling inward like a child bracing for thunder.

Wonwoo rubbed a thumb along the edge of his sleeve, thinking.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said. “There’s nothing left here for you except… the same fear on loop.”

She shook her head frantically.

“…bus… bus will… take… me… home…”

Wonwoo pointed at the old paper behind him.

“That bus is gone. It’s probably rusting in a junkyard somewhere. The route’s gone. Probably the driver too.”

Her breath hitched.

Wonwoo’s tone softened even further.

“How about…” He paused, picking his words with surprising care. “…going somewhere else?”

She stared at him, eyes wide, terrified of the idea.

“…go…?” It was almost a sob. “…where…?”

“Honestly?” Wonwoo shrugged. “No idea. I’ve never died before. Or… been dead. Or whatever you are.”

Her expression twitched.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, “maybe there’s something better waiting for you than this bus bench.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled with the faint hum of a distant streetlamp and the soft rustle of night wind.

“…but… but… my… home…”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know you miss it.”

Her breath shuddered.

“…my son…”

Wonwoo’s heart twinged—just a little, subtle enough he didn’t show it on his face. He nodded once.

“Yeah. That… that’s hard.” A beat. “But your son… he’s grown now. Older than you are. Probably has kids. A life.”

Her mouth opened in a tiny silent cry.

“And you,” Wonwoo said, “are still sitting here.”

He looked at her with something painfully human in his expression.

She froze.

Wonwoo continued, softer but still very honest.

“Look… instead of obsessing over the guy who hurt you, or the moment everything went wrong, wouldn’t it be better to… move on?”

Her lips parted, voice tiny.

“…move… on…?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo said. “Move on. Leave. Go to a nicer place. A better place. Or whatever it is ghosts have instead of long-term therapy. You deserve to move on.”

The ghost blinked, startled at his bluntness.

He shrugged.

“I’m not saying forget. But you’ve stayed here so long you’ve forgotten everything except that night.”

He pointed down the road.

“And maybe—just maybe—the next bus isn’t supposed to pick you up here.”

She looked at him with trembling hope—hope and fear tangled together.

“…can… I… go…?”

Wonwoo’s brows knit for a moment. No ghost had ever asked him that. Not like this. Not with permission. Not with trust. He swallowed once, quietly.

“Why are you asking me?” he murmured. “I don’t run the afterlife bus schedule.”

But she looked at him like he did. Like he was the only person who could open a door she’d been banging on for twenty years.

She swallowed.

“…please…”

Wonwoo exhaled slowly through his nose.

He hesitated then—just a bit. It struck him then: Despite everything he’d seen, despite the horrors and the fragments and the flickers— most ghosts didn’t ask him for permission. They ran from him. Avoided him. Feared him.

This one asked. Softly. Politely. Like someone requesting a small favor.

Wonwoo ran a hand over his face.

“…Alright,” he murmured, almost reluctantly. “I don’t know if this will work, but—”

He straightened, meeting her eyes gently. He took a breath.

“—you have my permission to go.”

The night air shifted.

A warm breeze passed through the bus stop, brushing their faces. The streetlamp above them flickered twice, three times, then steadied—glowing with a clarity it hadn’t had a moment before.

The woman lifted her head slowly— the first real motion she had made willingly.

And then— Far down the empty road, something began to glow. A shape. Moving. Steady. Like headlights. But silent. Wonwoo exhaled once.

A pair of headlights, soft and gold, approached slowly—no engine noise, no rumble of wheels. Just motion. Just arrival.

Wonwoo let out a tiny breath.

“See?” he said quietly. “Told you. Ten minutes.”

The ghost stared, stunned, hand rising to her mouth.

“…is… that… for… me…?”

Wonwoo didn’t smile, but a gentle warmth passed through his eyes.

“Probably,” he said. “And even if it’s not—just get on. It’s not like they can bill you.”