Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.
(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)
It was a clerical error.
Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were.
You were a mistake.
The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence.
You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room.
Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either.
Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome.
The only issue was the music.
It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am.
A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had.
You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–
“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.
He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up.
“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.”
He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth.
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience.
You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily.
“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.
Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth.
“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.
A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous.
“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit.
Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went.
⌂
Two things change today.
First, Gojo is up this morning.
He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules.
Second, he was naked.
Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.
Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.
You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you.
You aren’t that lucky.
Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles.
“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps.
You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it.
This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants.
Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something.
You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.
Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets.
“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”
One second.
Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter.
“Gojo–”
“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks.
For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful.
Delighted, even.
“No,” you say, “it was fine.”
He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again.
“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?”
Temporary roommates, you correct in your head.
“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.”
Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave.
He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.”
It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke.
“Satoru,” you obey.
He smiles.
“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.”
⌂
After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence.
It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties.
You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option.
Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world.
A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again.
And then, Satoru invites you into his room.
It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script.
He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow.
“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.”
You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away.
There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo.
“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen.
There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape.
Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh.
He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin.
He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again.
He shifts. His hand slips even closer.
When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again.
It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room.
“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?”
You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice.
But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie.
“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think.
Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion.
“Like what?” He asks.
Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t.
“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.”
He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door.
Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent.
Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well.
Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off.
You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.
But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door.
To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick.
You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home.
And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate.
“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.”
He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone.
More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor.
A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible.
By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room.
“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed.
You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss.
“You good?” He asks.
No.
“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.”
“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.”
You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled.
No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it.
Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…
…it was a dark red piece of fabric.
⌂
You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him.
These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru.
Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here.
He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t.
Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote.
“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.”
He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it.
Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you.
“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.”
You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in.
Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor.
“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit.
You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would.
“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.”
“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute.
“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.”
Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception.
You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone.
“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.”
You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen.
“I haven’t played this before,” you respond.
“I can tell.”
He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets.
“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.”
You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes.
“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.”
He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away.
“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.”
“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs.
“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments.
But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes.
Maybe that’s why they got along so well.
“Shut up.” Satoru snaps.
“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?”
You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too.
“I will.” You say instead.
Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body.
“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.”
⌂
Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around.
The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air.
Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment.
The only person in your line of sight was Satoru.
Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’.
Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly.
It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–
So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing.
Someone clears his throat.
You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back.
The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh.
“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks.
“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo.
He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did.
At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks:
“Can I get you a drink?”
You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home.
You open your mouth for a polite rejection.
Satoru does it for you.
He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner.
Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly.
“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?”
He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily.
Unlike you.
He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall.
“We’re going.” He finally says.
You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him.
“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes.
Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain.
You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him.
You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place.
You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest.
And Satoru?
Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone.
“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight.
“I don’t–”
“Who the fuck was he?” He demands.
You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway.
“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.”
He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic.
“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?”
“I–”
“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.”
It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs.
No one has ever said such horrible things to you before.
“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–”
“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.”
The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car.
“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away.
You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home.
The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.
But it’s even worse.
There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock.
He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down.
Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on.
Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.
You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you.
“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”,
You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands.
You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up.
You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact.
You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you.
Even if someone was around…what could you say?
“Can we go home, please?”
There’s a sharp inhale.
“Sure.” The affection in his tone makes you nauseous.
You close your eyes.
“Anything for you, pretty girl.”
⌂
Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room.
Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office.
They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment.
He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—
A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office.
It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking.
It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer.
“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks.
You eagerly nod, straightening your posture.
“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“
“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.”
You swallow.
“What?”
He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy.
“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.”
You struggle to find the words.
“I don’t—“
“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin.
“Are you and your roommate having issues?”
You think about the truth.
“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.”
You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face.
You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh.
You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate.
Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that.
Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further.
But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun.
You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place.
He is everything. He has everything.
You are nothing. You have nothing.
When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch.
He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side.
“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two.
Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention.
“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say.
He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again.
“Satoru?” You ask.
There’s a distant hum of an answer.
“Did you tell Housing I was staying?”
For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh.
“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.”
Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you.
“Unless you have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement.
Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house.
Or maybe it was always going to end up this way.
“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing.
Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it.
⌂
You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key.
This is his apartment, after all.
The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again.
He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you.
You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
One minute.
Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing.
The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders.
He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales.
Fingers play with the ends of your shirt.
He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–
“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile.
His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining.
“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.”
He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek.
Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin.
“Please stop.”
He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean.
“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.
“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–”
He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic.
Your eyes sting.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. His teeth gleam.
“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?”
It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you.
By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.
He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed.
He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you.
“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.”
You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses.
“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.”
Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties.
There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper.
You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you.
“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?”
You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits.
You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position.
The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes.
It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust.
He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you.
“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.”
To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb.
“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder.
“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.”
There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises.
It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock.
There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth.
“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy.
“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.”
Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru.
“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear.
He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock.
“It’s all you’ll ever be.”
You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body.
There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole.
He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat.
The anger comes too late to do anything about.
“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”
“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh.
creep!gojo spiking ur drink... noncon. not proofread!!!!!!!!!
Gojo has picked up the bad habit rather recently.
It started for no good reason, he has no justification for why he does what he does. He has never had trouble picking up women or having sex. He's tall and rich and his breath always smells like fresh mint. Women have never been an issue for a man like him. But he picked up the bad habit, for a reason he doesn't even understand himself. At first it was just a little prank, because he liked seeing how a girl he has been eyeing for a while starts to faint in her friend's arms and then has to leave. Its not even about the sex for him, its about the power he holds over the people he makes most vulnerable.
And then he sees you.
You don't even seem to mind him. You don't even seem to care. And that sends him on a furious rage. Not letting him close, almost dancing in circles around him, avoiding somehow falling victim to his charms. Long fingers that ache to graze your exposed skin, ache to come in contact with the one thing he can't possess. Gojo doesn't deal well with rejection, he doesn't deal with rejection at all. He's confused, his brain producing chemicals that have him feeling he's about to have a stroke.
And so he does it.
The pill dissolves in your drink when you less realize. He's fast and has enough practice to do it before you can avoid him again. You try and run off, one last time, his vibe is rancid and the only thing you want is for him to get away from you. And then, you stumble, and fall limp in his arms. And Gojo is sickeningly sweet, tucking away strands of hair that stick to your forehead from the heat of the bar. He licks his teeth, smiling at you like he's about to devour you alive,
The back of the bar is barely lit, lonely. The sound and reverberation of the music and speakers is enough to silence your moans as Gojo carries you like you're weightless, using you like a doll as you use your last strenght to cling to his neck. His cock goes in and out, out and in as he bounces you up and down his dick. Your velvety walls flutter against him, trying to milk him with your drowsy little cunt. Gojo grins when he feels you drooling against his shoulder. Pressing you against the wall, thrusting deeper and harder. Your cervix being used as a punching bag for the tip of his shaft. He's punishing you, punishing you for not desiring him in the same way he desires you, punishing you for having the nerve to reject him. Anger makes him lose control, thrusting so hard you are able to feel a stinging pain despite the drug and the alcohol.
Once he fills you up, he places the plan B on his tongue and presses it against yours. Helping you swallow as he kisses you, sloppily. He carries you like you're precious, like you're breakable, even when there's a glimmer of hatred in his blue eyes.
"What if I just keep you to myself?" he asks, fervorous with rage, with desire to possess. "I need you. I need you to want me. Will you ever have me like this without the drug?"
for two anons - a combination of plug friend!sohee and daddy!sohee x fem!reader
long extended backstory at the beginning :)
this one’s lengthy so grab a drink and buckle up. you and your plug friend!sohee go over to his house for the first time, and he teaches you how to smoke. the high leaves you buzzing, ready to do things you wouldn’t typically do…and you meet a new version of him you’ve never seen before. daddy!sohee.
“I said no, Sohee,” you said into your phone. “I don’t wanna go if your car smells like weed- which I know it does. My parents would kill me if I came home smelling like that.”
Sohee sighed on the other end. “I cleaned my car!” he said, tone frustrated, yet playful. It was impossible to get that boy to take anything serious. “It doesn’t smell like anything. Actually, it smells like Black Ice, but that’s not the point.” He paused. “They can’t kill you if you don’t actually smoke anything, y/n.”
“That’s not the point, you idiot. They get triggered over everything, dude. And I’m not in the mood to deal with their shit today.”
“C’mon,” he said, stretching the word dramatically. “I swear it smells good in here. I’ll even leave the windows down, get a nice breeze flowing through the car, ya know?”
You sighed. You really did want to hang out with him. You were only in town for a couple of days visiting your family, but they were already driving you crazy- just typical family drama and antics that you wanted no part of. You desperately needed to escape them for at least a few hours. Besides, you hadn’t seen Sohee since you moved away for college, which was about three months ago, and you couldn’t deny how much you missed his stupid self.
You two had been friends since junior year of high school. An unlikely pairing, you two were. A goody-two-shoes who always listened to her parents and made straight A’s, and the school’s plug. You never thought you’d see the day where you’d become friends with Sohee, but it all just kind of happened.
all just kind of happened aka the backstory
You had just signed up to become a tutor at your school. Your classes were too easy for you- your homework was always done before the end of the school day, you’d always finished your reading assignments during lunch. You needed something new to do; something that played on your strengths and looked good on a resume. So, you became a tutor, coming in after school every day to work with small groups of peers who were struggling.
It was around your third week of tutoring. You had gotten a nice groove of things- coming in every day after classes, grabbing your assignment sheet, finding your new group of the day, and spending a couple hours helping them with their work. It was all going nicely- you enjoyed all the groups you had worked with so far, and everyone seemed eager to get better at their struggle subject.
That is, until you walked in one fateful day. You grabbed your assignment sheet, scanning the room for the table you were assigned to for the afternoon. Once your eyes locked in on table fifteen, you, for the first time, were filled with dread at who you were about to tutor.
There he was, all nonchalant and uninterested, head resting in his arms on the table, taking a nap. Sohee. The pothead that everyone bought their weed from.
You had nothing against him. Not at all, actually. You didn’t care what anyone else did with their free time- even if it was selling drugs on the low. Your biggest issue with him, really, was that you found him cute- like, really cute. You’d never let yourself think about it too much, though- he was who he was, and you were who you were. It was never going to happen, so you kept your distance. Until now, apparently.
༝༚༝༚
Sohee being cute didn’t matter right now. You had bigger things to worry about. He was the only person at table fifteen. Were you really expected to sit with him, alone, for two hours? You didn’t really know much about him- other than the fact that he was cute and a plug. What you did know, though, was that he was close to flunking junior year. Your school was small enough for rumors to float around quickly, and everyone knew he was about to repeat the year if he didn’t change something- soon.
You walked up to your the advisor, assignment sheet firmly gripped in your hand. “Mr. Walsh,” you said quietly, as if you were conducting top-secret business.
He slowly lifted his head from his work, eyes lingering on his computer as he did. “Ah, y/n,” he said with a gentle smile. Mr. Walsh loved you, and all the work you did for the tutoring room. You were the best tutor there, and he always made that abundantly clear through the way he treated you. “What’s up, kiddo?”
“I was just wondering,” you started, lifting the assignment sheet in the air for him to see, “is this assignment…correct?”
His face twisted in confusion. “What do you mean?”
You looked around, making sure no one was in ear-shot of what you were about to say. “Well, I just mean,” you paused. “The only person at table fifteen is Sohee. Shouldn’t there be other students with him?”
“Mm, I see. Yeah, that’s correct. Just Sohee for you today,” he said with a confirming nod.
“But, Mr. Walsh, surely you can assign a few more students to the table. Can’t you?” Your tone was a bit nervous now, earning you a concerned look from your advisor.
“Is there a problem?”
You shook your head, almost frantically. “No, not at all.”
“Great, then.” He paused, taking a quick glance over the room. He looked back at you, motioning you to come closer with two raised fingers. “Listen,” he started, voice barely a whisper, “Sohee’s really struggling right now. If he doesn’t pass his next few assignments, he’s going to fail the grade.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re my best tutor, kiddo. I need you to help him stay on track these next few weeks. Think you can do that?”
Well, of course you could do that. You could help the most helpless person in this school pass a class if you needed to- and, technically, that’s exactly what you were about to go do.
You sighed, giving Mr. Walsh a knowing nod, feeling defeated but also optimistic. Defeated because you knew it would be hard to get Sohee to care, but optimistic because you had enough fight in you to care for the both of you combined.
༝༚༝༚
You walked over to table fifteen, sitting down across from your newest project, watching his back rise and fall softly as he slept. You smiled, raising your brows in amusement at the fact that he was even asleep right now. You shrugged your backpack off your shoulders, swinging it around and placing it on the table with a hard thud. Sohee jumped awake, looking around sleepily, eyes barely open in a squint.
“Fuck, it’s so bright in here,” he said, voice hoarse and tired. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the backs of his fingers, gaze locking in on you once he adjusted to the fluorescent lights. “And who might you be?” he said, tone mischievous.
“I,” you started, unzipping your backpack to grab your things, “am your tutor.”
“They let pretty girls like you into these back hallways?”
You blushed for an instant, not having anticipated him to be such a flirt. You snapped out of his little trance instantly, though, remembering who and what he was. “Yeah, they do,” you responded confidently, smile tight.
He leaned into the table, letting his elbows rest in front of him. His eyes burned holes into you as he examined you, trying to get a read. “What’s your name, tutor?”
“Does it matter?”
“Oh yeah, it really, really matters.” He squinted, lips forming into a smirk.
You weren’t entirely sure what his angle was, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to stay focused on getting this idiot to pass the grade. Besides, how good would it look on your end to say you got the biggest dingus in the school to care about passing? “My name is y/n,” you said, leaning into the table, mirroring his position. “And before we get started, know that I’m not interested in you or anything you’re selling. I’m only interested in helping you understand your assignments, and getting you into senior year. Sound good?” You smiled innocently, watching as his face contorted into something more serious.
“Fine,” he said, flirtatious tone long gone. “Let’s see what you got.”
༝༚༝༚
From there, you fought everyday for a week to get him to pay attention to anything you said. He was wholly uninterested in learning, for one, and was always on his phone, responding to people placing their orders. It was like talking to a brick wall- nothing got through to him. He simply did not care.
You were determined, though. If there was one thing you knew you had inside of you, it was grit. You had helped dozens and dozens of other students pass their classes- you even got them to a place in which they were thriving. Sohee wasn’t going to be your first failure. You just needed to find a way to get him to pay attention, was all.
༝༚༝༚
It was the start of your second week tutoring Sohee. You walked in, bright-eyed and ready to achieve something- anything. You walked to table fifteen where he sat leaned back in his chair, hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling. “Get up,” you said, all business.
He lifted his head, finding you standing there right in front of him, arms squared and head high. “Get up to go,” he paused, “where exactly?”
“Anywhere. We’re going anywhere. You pick.”
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked as he stood up. “Do you have a fever, tutor?” He lifted a hand, pressing the back of it to your forehead. “I think you have a fever.”
You ignored his antics. “I want you to pick a place- somewhere you’ll actually focus.”
He stared down at you, waiting for you to say you weren’t serious. You didn’t, though. You just stood there firmly, staring back in anticipation.
“Fine,” he finally said. “Let’s go.”
༝༚༝༚
“Really? A boba shop?” you asked, neck craning to look up at the sign through the windshield.
He looked over at you, chuckling softly. “Where exactly did you want me to take you? An alleyway? Plugs drink boba, too, ya know.”
“Fair enough,” you said, clicking off your seatbelt and opening the car door, wasting no time.
Once inside, you both ordered a drink and sat down at a booth in the corner. “Let’s get started,” you said, grabbing a binder from your backpack.
“Let’s.”
༝༚༝༚
To your absolute shock, he actually focused. Not just for two hours, but for four. You didn’t comment on his newfound ability to do math, you just accepted it and kept pushing forward, running through practice sheets like there was no tomorrow.
Once you and Sohee had flown through all your prepared practice sheets, you looked up at him, confusion flashing across your face.
“Did you really think I couldn’t do math?” he said casually, chewing on his boba obnoxiously, shaking the cup of ice trying to find another pearl to suck through the straw.
“I never said you couldn’t do math,” you said defensively.
He set his cup down. “But you were thinking it.” You took in a sharp breath, ready to defend yourself again, before he stopped you, placing a hand in the air between you. “Don’t even pretend like you don’t think I’m an idiot. It won’t work. I already know everyone thinks that. I’m about to fail the year, for fuck’s sake.” He shook the cup of ice again, toying at the straw, unable to maintain eye contact with you. “I hate school. That’s all it is. I hate sitting in those stupid fucking classrooms, I hate the bright lights and the germs and the- everything.” He sighed. “I hate everything about it. So, I don’t try. It’s not that I can’t do it, it’s that I don’t want to do it. I run a business selling,” he stopped himself, letting the missing word float in the air like a feather, releasing a long breath. “Of course I can do math.”
“But if it comes this easy to you, why not just do the assignments and pass? You don’t have to pay attention in school. Shit, just by the way you performed here, you don’t even need to show up to school,” you said, meaning every word.
“I guess it’s just easier to do it when you’re in good company.”
You scoffed, feeling flustered at his genuine compliment. “Yeah, well, it’s obviously also easier for you when you’ve got a large milk tea with extra boba, it seems.”
He laughed then. Not a giggle or a chuckle or a sigh- a genuine, soft laugh that made your stomach flutter with butterflies. “Listen,” he started, placing his cup down, “I’ll do the assignments and pass these classes if we can come here everyday. Just promise me we don’t have to meet in that awful classroom anymore. It smells like…I don’t even know what the smell is, actually. That school is a dump.”
You blew a few short breaths out your nose, amused by his genuine disgust. “Deal.”
“And I want you as my tutor- or, just as my company, I guess. I don’t really require your services.”
You rolled your eyes, knowing he was right, and embarrassingly flattered that he wanted you to be the person to keep him focused.
༝༚༝༚
The next couple weeks were a breeze. You two went to that same boba shop everyday, running through homework and different assignments like it was nothing. Every now and again, Sohee really would require your services, needing help with something he was getting caught up on- but it was far and few between.
You two became more comfortable in each other’s company- sharing random stories and jokes between assignments, laughing at nothing and everything. You started to see the real him- not the indifferent, nonchalant version of him that everyone knew, but the real him. He was silly and obnoxious and fun. He seemed to really have a good heart, and an even better head on his shoulders. Yeah, he was technically a drug dealer, but he was just a good guy, above all else. You were able to look past the odd pairing- able to build a relationship with someone you never thought you’d even speak to.
He felt the same way- texting you outside of school and tutoring hours, asking to hang out. You were always a bit hesitant, afraid to be seen by other people from school, afraid someone would think you were requiring his services. No one ever said anything, though. No one seemed to care. From then on, you two were almost inseparable. It never got weird. He stopped flirting. Partially because he knew it would never happen between you two, and partially because he really, truly saw you as his best friend. His equal.
He passed all his classes with flying colors junior year, and senior year came and went before you both knew it. It all came so easy to him then- the classwork, the homework, the random assignments. Having someone there to guide him was all he ever needed, and you both graduated at the end of that year.
You moved a couple cities away to your state’s college. Sohee stayed in your hometown to get more serious about his…business. It was hard not being around him everyday, but you were focused on school and your future, the same as you always were. He loved that about you, and always made it known how proud he was of you.
ghost town aka the first scene, just completed
You sighed. You really did want to hang out with him. You were only in town for a couple of days visiting your family, but they were already driving you crazy- just typical family drama and antics that you wanted no part of. You desperately needed to escape them for at least a few hours. Besides, you hadn’t seen Sohee since you moved away for college, which was about three months ago, and you couldn’t deny how much you missed his stupid self.
“Fine,” you said, finally. “But Sohee, I swear to God, if my clothes end up smelling lik-”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The line went dead.
He made it there in fifteen, likely driving way too high over the speed limit, as always. You were sitting on the front porch of your parents house when his car pulled up with a screech on the street. “Tutor!” he yelled, stretching the last syllable as he raced out of his car.
“Idiot!” you mocked back, grabbing your things to make way for his car. You barely had your cross-body bag around you before you were being wrapped into a big hug. His body was warm against yours, and you sunk into his embrace like it was the easiest thing you’d ever done. He smelled fresh- like laundry and cologne, with the faintest hint of something a bit musky and familiar.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, burying his face into the top of your head.
You backed out of the hug, examining him theatrically. “Where’s Sohee?” you said, feigning confusion. You grabbed him by the arms, not being able to contain your smile, ready to laugh at your own joke. “Who’s this softie pretending to be my best friend?”
He pushed your shoulder gently, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Let’s go.”
༝༚༝༚
You two drove around for a while, just catching up and telling random stories and laughing. Sohee was the type of friend that you could be away from for years and it would still never get awkward. It was always so easy with him. You’d say something, he’d respond. He’d say something, you’d respond. You were always both so curious about one another; you never ran out of anything to talk about.
Once the sun started setting, and you two had driven around every empty street of your hometown, he parked the car in a random lot and looked over at you. “I don’t wanna take you home yet,” he frowned. “I’m having too much fun just talking.”
You smiled, loving the fact that he was enjoying your company the same way he always had. You loved his company, too, and desperately wanted to spend a little more time with him before returning to your irritating parents. “Maybe we can go somewhere?”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air dramatically, waving them around. “Where exactly is there to go in this ghost town?”
You sighed, feeling defeated knowing there was definitely, absolutely, nowhere to go. You thought for a second, scanning your cognitive map of your hometown, searching for something to do.
You sat up straight then, eyes wide with an idea. “Maybe we can go to your place?”
He shook his head, blinking fast, trying to take in your idea. “What? Since when do you wanna go to my place?”
༝༚༝༚
His confusion was valid, as you’ve always turned down his offers to hang out at his house. Even in high school when he lived with his parents, you still said no. You always told him it was because your parents didn’t want you going over, but that was never true. In fact, your parents loved Sohee. They trusted him. They had no idea about his little business. They only saw him for what he was- a sweet kid that had their daughter’s best interest at heart.
It was you. You always loved Sohee as a friend, but, sometimes, it felt like maybe you could love him…in different ways. You two were so close- he knew all of your deepest secrets, all of your fears and dreams. He always listened. He always cared.
Sometimes, when you’d look at him, you’d imagine you two were more than just best friends. You’d imagine a relationship- something deep and comfortable and familiar. Other times, you’d look at him and, embarrassingly, imagine what it would be like to have sex with him. What his moans sounded like or what his face looked like when he was feeling nothing but pleasure. You felt perverted for the way you thought about him sometimes, but you couldn’t help it. You could never stop the thoughts from flooding in.
So, you never went to his house. You never gave yourself the chance to get that close to him- to be in such an inclosed space with him, knowing if he said just the right thing, you’d give into him immediately. You were terrified to lose your only best friend in that way. You were terrified to ruin things.
Tonight, though, looking at him after not seeing him for a while- you felt brave. It was torture being away from him for only three months, you couldn’t even fathom what a year would feel like. You thought to yourself, maybe you could try it out- go to his place and let whatever would happen, to happen. If you two had sex, fine. If it ruined things, fine. Hell, maybe you guys really would just hang out and that would be that, but you couldn’t put it off any longer.
༝༚༝༚
“Since right now,” you responded sarcastically.
He stared at you, eyes in a squint, suspicious at your request. “Hmm. That’s new.”
“I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want t-”
“I want to,” he interrupted. He shrugged, pulling the car into drive. “Let’s go.”
want a hit? aka where you smoke for the first time
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the driveway of his house. It was a small, nothing too fancy, clean and well-kept out front. It was just enough for a young guy living alone.
He shifted the car into park, turning the key. The above-head lights in the car turned on, and you hesitated to get out, suddenly filled with nerves and something akin to excitement. “Well, c’mon,” he said casually.
You trailed behind him to the front door, hands clammy and heart racing. He unlocked the door, opening it widely and waving a hand out in front of you to let you walk in first.
You stepped inside. The house was perfectly clean. Seriously, you couldn’t find a single thing that was out of place. Everything looked like it had been dusted just the day before, the tile flooring looked freshly mopped, the house smelled of something woodsy and fresh. “Wow,” you said as you inhaled through your nose. “It’s,” you paused. “Clean.”
He shut the door, giggling as he placed his keys down on a little table near the entryway. “Did you expect it to be dirty?”
“No, no. Not at all, I guess I didn’t really know what to expect, is all. I don’t think you’re dirty, ya know, I was jus-”
He placed his pointer finger over your lips. “Shh.” He smiled, removing his finger. “It’s okay. Easy to assume a pothead would be a bit messy.”
You sighed, shoulders sagging with remorse. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, tutor,” he said with another giggle as he kicked his shoes off, neatly tucking them away on a mat. “Take your’s off too.” He motioned towards your feet.
“Shit, right,” you said, kicking your own shoes off now and setting them next to his.
“Okay, c’mon. My room’s over here.”
༝༚༝༚
Once inside his room, you began looking around, noticing how tidy everything was, suddenly appreciating that he wasn’t some loser who lived in squalor just because he could.
Sohee sat down on the bed, stretching his legs before saying, “I think I’m gonna smoke a little bit, if that’s okay. I can go outside if you want.”
You shook your head quickly. “No, feel free. This is your house. Do whatever you want.” Fuck your parents. If you came home smelling like weed, what were they going to do about it, anyway? You were an adult, and it was legal in your state now.
“Cool. I’ll be right back,” he said, getting up off the bed and walking out of the room.
You walked around, looking at all the photos he had displayed on the wall- some from when he was a kid, a couple baby photos, some family photos, and, oddly, one of you and Sohee. It was you and him right after graduation, caps and gowns on, diplomas in had, smiles wide and cheesy. You had a copy of the same photo somewhere, but you never thought to hang it up the way he had. You felt your body tingle with something warm then- something fuzzy and sweet and new.
The sound of the door clicking shut startled you from your thoughts. “I love that one,” he said, smiling softly. “We look so,” he paused, “accomplished.”
All the days you spent helping him get his work done suddenly flashed through your mind. You looked at him, heart full of love and body still fuzzy. “Yeah, we do,” you responded, glancing back at the photo.
He sat down on the bed, placing a joint between his lips, cupping his hand out, eyes squinting as he lit the other end. He puffed it once, twice, then took a deep inhale in. Without exhaling, he said with a strained voice, “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
You blushed, knowing he was being genuine. “Well, there was no better idiot to save,” you teased.
He coughed, choking on his laugh and the smoke all at once. He waved his hand around, trying to swat the cloud away. He stood up, walking over to the window and cracking it open. Once done coughing, he laughed again. “So, why the sudden interest in coming to my place?” he asked, taking another hit from his joint and leaning against the wall.
You sat on the bed. “I dunno, just cause, I guess.”
He blew out a cloud of smoke, lips parted to the side to direct the stream towards the window. “I see.”
You sat there silently, not knowing what to say. You’d never felt awkward with him, but, right now, you were a nervous wreck. He looked so hot, his backwards cap falling on his head perfectly, black shirt tight against his body. The way his eyes squinted when he took a hit, the way he licked his lips every few seconds attempting to relieve his dry mouth- it was all too much. You couldn’t help but imagine his eyes all red and half-lidded, looking down at you while you sucked his dick. You couldn’t help but imagine his tongue licking across your lip, warm and wet and slick.
“Wanna hit?” he asked, breaking you from your perverted thoughts.
You looked up at him from where you sat on the bed, mind racing at his offer. You had never smoked before, and you had never really thought about whether or not you actually wanted to. You weren’t necessarily opposed to the idea, you were always just too good to ever do it. Really, though, if you were going to do it, who better than to smoke for the first time with than a guy who literally sold weed?
“No pressure,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender.
“Sure,” you responded softly, a bit hesitant.
He motioned his head to call you over. “C’mere.”
You stood up off the bed, walking over to where he was next to the window. “Here,” he said, placing the joint in between your fingers.
“I,” you paused, looking at the joint as if it were an ancient artifact. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
He chuckled- not at you, but at himself. He knew you had never smoked before, and should’ve assumed you’d be lost without his guidance. “I guess I get to be your tutor now, huh?” he said, grabbing the joint from your fingers. “Here, like this,” he said, puckering his lips as if he were about to whistle. “Do this.”
You mirrored him, pulling your lips in tightly. He placed the joint in between your lips, his fingers grazing your them softly. “Okay, now inhale just a tiny bit,” he said. “Slowly.”
You obliged, pulling a small drag from the joint. You felt your throat burn instantly, sending you into a coughing fit. Once you were able to catch your breath, you laughed at yourself. “Fuck. I don’t think I did it right.”
He laughed with you, stopping after a few seconds to say, “No, you did great. This shit still catches me in the back of my throat sometimes. Wanna try again?” You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, readying yourself. “Okay, just like we practiced, hm?”
He placed the joint between your lips again, fingers stabilized against your lips. His skin was warm against yours, and that fuzziness from before started to sink down to in between your thighs. “Inhale,” he commanded. “Slowly.”
You obeyed, inhaling slowly, steadily. Once he thought you’d inhaled enough, he moved the joint from your lips and took a step back to watch you. You inhaled deeply, letting the smoke coat your mouth and throat and lungs as it went down. You held it for a second, then exhaled slowly.
You felt it instantly- your body loosening and relaxing with each passing second. You felt your head get spacey, but in a good way. You felt so…zen.
“Feel okay?” he asked, lifting a hand to rest on your elbow as he watched the effects soak into you.
You just nodded, giggling for no reason at all.
“Alright, lightweight, that’s all you get,” he said playfully, putting out the joint on an ashtray sat on the windowsill. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”
pick a movie aka where you start to come undone
You followed him to the bed, sitting on the edge, body tingling and warm.
Sohee fluffed a pillow behind you. You turned to watch him. Fuck, he looked so good. You should’ve never taken that hit. If you already thought you couldn’t control yourself around him in an inclosed, private space, you definitely wouldn’t be able to control yourself now.
“You can come sit over here,” he said, inviting you to relax on the bed. Shit.
“Yeah, sure,” you responded, searching your mind for any sense of control. Damn it, you were such a lightweight.
You got comfortable on his bed, sinking into the pillows at your back, pulling the blanket over you. “Wanna watch a movie?” he asked, picking up the remote.
“Uh, yeah. I’d love to. Sure.”
“Cool,” he said, throwing you the remote. “I’m gonna go change real quick. Pick a movie. Anything.”
He walked into the en suite bathroom, leaving the door cracked just enough for you to see the mirror. You watched, like the perv you were, as he pulled his shirt off. His skin was flushed and looked so smooth, his stomach was lean but toned, his arms flexed in places you’d never noticed before. He tugged on a new shirt- still black, just looser.
You picked up the remote, trying to focus on something- anything- else. You clicked the TV on and started up Netflix, scrolling through the movies in an attempt to calm yourself down. You couldn’t help it, though. His reflection moving in the mirror caught your attention, and you simply just had to look.
He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, thumbing them off in one swift motion, leaving him in just his boxers and shirt. You gawked, eyes catching on his bulge. Was he…hard? His boner poked through his boxers, and it took everything in you not to let out a moan. You squeezed your legs together tightly, chasing friction that wasn’t there. You watched as he slid on some pajama shorts, your eyes darting back to the TV when he made way to come back into the room.
“Find anything?” he said, completely oblivious to your perversions.
“Uh,” you drew out. “Yeah, how about this?” you asked, clicking on the first movie you saw.
“Good Will Hunting?” he giggled. “I’ve seen it before, but, sure. I love that movie.”
He plopped onto the bed beside you, the warmth from his body making you hot and clammy instantly. He snaked his feet underneath the blanket, grabbing the remote from your hand. “Okay, let’s see,” he said as he pressed the play button and turned the volume up. “Ah, one sec.” He stood up, racing for the light switch and flipping it off, leaving the room dark besides the light from the TV. He laid back down, getting comfortable under the covers. “That’s better.”
You chuckled, not having a single normal thing to say in that moment. You had no control over how you were starting to feel- and you were afraid, if given the chance, you’d rip him to shreds.
The opening sequence of the movie started playing, and you made an attempt to get comfortable. It wasn’t working, though. Your body was full of energy- you were too horny and high to find the right position. You shuffled around for a bit before Sohee giggled and asked, “Wanna cuddle?”
You looked at him, eyes wide, brows furrowed. You two had never been this close physically before, besides hugging, and he was asking to cuddle? “Uh,” you stammered.
“Oh, c’mon, y/n, we’re best friends. It’s not weird,” he said as he motioned his hand in the air, inviting you in.
You didn’t respond- you just scooted closer, resting your head on his chest, placing a hand on his stomach.
“There ya go,” he said, voice breathy and warm. “How’s that?” He wrapped his arm around you.
“Perfect,” was all you could say.
just curious, i guess aka where the smut begins
You two laid like that for a bit, perfectly still, just watching the movie. You couldn’t focus on Matt Damon, though. All you could think about was Sohee’s hand on your shoulder, the way his chest was rising and falling softly underneath you, the way you could almost feel the warm skin of his stomach beneath the worn fabric of his shirt.
You started twisting the fabric between your fingers, playing with it innocently-but-not-so-innocently. You could hear the way his heart began to beat faster, the way his breathing changed. You bit down on your lip- it was all you could do to stop yourself from saying something stupid.
It didn’t work, though, because your high, horny mind suddenly forced out, “Have you ever thought about me,” you paused, “in a…sexual way?”
He lifted his head, turning to look down at you where you laid on his chest. “What?”
Your body flushed red hot, sobering up for a moment, filling you with regret and embarrassment. “Nothing.”
He pulled away a bit, forcing you to lift your head. “No, what? What’d you say?”
You swallowed hard. “What do you think I said?”
“I think you asked me if I’ve ever thought about you sexually,” he said, tone unreadable.
“Correct,” you said confidently now, knowing you were too far in to back down.
“Why did you ask me that?”
“I don’t know. Just curious, I guess,” you mumbled, still playing with the fabric of his shirt.
“Wha- well-” he stammered. “I mean, yes. Yeah, I have, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh,” you said, stomach flipping. You felt the pressure between your thighs build rapidly, your clit pulsing hard in perfect rhythm with your heart. You laid back down on his chest, not knowing how to follow up.
It was silent for a moment before Sohee asked, “Have you?”
You stayed rested on his chest, too afraid to answer the question you knew he was asking. “Have I what?” you asked softly, feigning confusion.
“Ya know. Have you ever thought about me,” he paused, “like that.”
You took in a quiet, deep breath, attempting to muster up all the courage in your body to be honest. You realized it worked a little too well when you said, “Many times.”
You could feel him go stiff, his breathing stopping for a moment. It was silent for a heartbeat, then he said, “Yeah? What’d you think about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you definitely know. Just tell me.”
You simultaneously felt mortified yet completely turned on by the prospect of telling Sohee some of your wildest fantasies of him. You took in a deep breath, accepting that whatever you said next would either land really well, or go down in bursting flames. “I dunno, just, making out with you, I guess.”
“Okay,” he drew out, tone expectant of more information. “What else?”
You continued to play with his shirt, twisting it in your fingers absentmindedly. “And,” you started, hesitating. “Sitting on your lap, maybe playing with your hair.”
The world went still for a moment.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Come here, then,” he said, pulling away, forcing you to sit up.
“What?”
“Come sit on my lap, then,” he said, head high, eyebrows arched.
“No, it’s really okay. I was only ask-”
“Come here.”
You obliged, sitting up on your knees, bracing yourself on his chest to straddle him. You threw a leg over him, sinking onto his lap, letting the warmth of his body seep into you. You could feel his boner poking into you, sending electricity all throughout your body.
“Is this what you imagined?” he asked, voice deeper than you’d ever heard it, eyes still glossy and red from smoking earlier.
You nodded, not able to form words anymore.
“Yeah? And is this what you were imagining?” he asked, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek, pulling you in to place a wet kiss on your lips. You melted into it, kissing back just hard enough to let him know you wanted it.
You pulled away after a few seconds, a trail of spit floating between you two as you looked at him, eyes needy and desperate. He must’ve read your expression perfectly, because his lips were on yours again in no time- tongue slipping into your mouth, grazing yours in a sweet, soft rhythm.
He snaked his hands up your back, stopping at your head to grip your hair tightly. You let out a whimper, the sound being swallowed whole by his mouth. He moaned back, the vibrations against your teeth making your legs weak. He pulled away for a single second, and whispered breathlessly, “What else did you imagine?”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose, so turned on by his voice and his hands on you and the way he was reciprocating. Between kisses, you said, “Your fingers.”
“My fingers?” he asked, also between kisses, breath warm against your face.
You nodded, lips still on his.
“What about them?”
You didn’t respond, too caught up in making out with him to even form words. He pulled away, breaking the kiss completely. “What about them?” he repeated himself, breaths coming in short gasps.
You stared at him for a heartbeat. “Playing with me,” was all you could say, but it was honest.
His eyes darkened then, into something you’d never seen before. You could’ve sworn he stopped breathing.
In one swift motion, he had you lying on your back, bracing himself on an arm next to you. His hands trailed up your shirt as he placed hot, wet kisses all over your face and neck. He grabbed your tit, squeezing it and moaning into your skin. Once he felt satisfied, he snaked his hand down your torso, his touch so light on the skin of your stomach it gave you goosebumps all over.
“Is this what you imagined?” he asked, fingers slipping underneath your panties. The contact of his skin against your clit sent your head falling deeper into the pillow, gripping at his arm and gasping sharply. You nodded quickly, ready to beg him to just please keep going.
He started rubbing circles on your clit, still planting kisses on your neck, leaving small trails of spit on your skin as he licked you. Your spine shivered at all the new stimulation, and you were truly in a state of complete bliss.
“Tell daddy what else you’ve imagined him doing,” he whispered into your ear. You moaned, finding this new version of your best friend sexier than any fantasy you’ve ever had of him.
“Finger me. Please,” you begged, voice needy.
“Oh, she says please?” he purred as he slipped two fingers inside of you.
Your hips bucked at the sudden pressure, smashing your lips onto his to suppress a whine.
“I like hearing you beg, y/n.” His pace quickened, fingers thrusting into you faster and harder, curling just right. You clawed at his back, not able to handle how sensitive you felt at his touch.
He kept his pace as he placed his thumb on your clit, rubbing messy circles with every thrust. You moaned, something loud and desperate. “Mmm, that’s right. Show daddy how good he makes you feel.”
You opened your eyes, half-lidded, brows raised in pleasure. Your mouth hung open, gasping for air as you started to grind into his hand. He was looking down at you, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he watched you with dark eyes. “You think daddy can make you cum?” he asked, never breaking eye contact.
You nodded. “Yes, sir.”
His lips parted into a satisfied smile, something mischievous and playful tugging at his laugh. “Yeah? That’s so good. You’re so fucking good,” he said into your skin, burying his face in your neck. “Cum on my fingers, pretty girl.”
You nodded, knowing you were close to cumming. You started grinding on his fingers harder, faster, chasing your finish with so much need.
Sohee sat up for a moment- the absence of his warm breath on your neck leaving you feeling cold. With his free hand, he lifted your shirt, letting your tits spill out. “Fuck,” he melted. He rested back down on his arm, sinking his face into your tit before wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. His tongue was wet and smooth, painting messy circles on your nipple.
You raked a hand through his hair, pulling gently. He sucked your nipple softly, sending sparks all throughout your body. The stimulation that he was creating on every sensitive point of your body was just all too much. You squeezed your eyes shut, mouth hanging open, heart racing. Your legs began to shake slightly, your knees felt weak, head dizzied.
“Just like that, my girl. Cum for me,” he said before continuing to work on your nipple.
With that, your body seized and bucked and shook beneath him- the feeling of cumming for him so satisfying and whole.
He slid his fingers out of you slowly, making you twitch- your body still sensitive and responsive to every move he made. He rested his sticky hand on your stomach, being mindful not to make contact with your skin. He watched you for a moment as you caught your breath, admiring the glow you were emanating, how pretty you looked when you were under his control.
He planted reassuring kisses to your skin- on your chest, your neck, and your cheeks, before making his way to your lips. He tongue slid into your mouth, a promise that he wasn’t done with you just yet.
He broke away for a moment, face so close to yours you could feel the breath coming out his nose. “Now let daddy tell you what he’s imagined.”
IN WHICH , You thought everything was fine. You thought you were fine. You thought the other students were, too. But then one missing student became two, and two became three. Soon, eerie things began to unfold—chairs shifting when you were alone, whispers brushing past your ears, shadows moving where no one should be. And at the heart of it all was a single thing: ECHO, an app that appeared on your phone without ever being downloaded. INTRODUCING THE CAST WITH THIS ONE.
MORE ABOUT THE RULES + WORD COUNT , 20.1K+ mentions of disappearance, death, funeral, blood, eerie contents, light description of a murder, distressed parents, anxiety inducing situations, threat to life, mild sexual offence mentions and much more.
BLOODY NOTE , this is more of an introductory chapter, there are going to be four total & I haven't dug into the actual horror in this one. I HOPE Y'ALL WOULD LOVE THIS, especially since it was rushed towards the end—hopefully the next few chapters are way better.
“AND THEN HE CUT HER THROAT AND BLOOD SEEPED THROUGH HER.”
“Are you even listening?”
Hana’s voice slices through the noise of the crowded hallway, sharp enough to make you glance up from your phone. Her frown deepens when she notices your blank stare. Around you, the air buzzes with the chatter and footsteps of students, lockers slamming, laughter echoing off the dull, beige walls—an orchestra of sounds you’ve always despised. It’s like being trapped inside a hive of mosquitoes, their high-pitched droning clawing at your ears.
“Yeah, yeah. Go on,” you answer, barely lifting your head as you continue walking. The cold linoleum floor creaks faintly under your shoes, every step dragging you closer to the same classroom, the same faces, the same routine. Wake up. School. Homework. Sleep. Repeat. A cycle that feels more like a sentence than a schedule.
Hana clears her throat dramatically beside you, leaning in as if that’ll make you pay more attention. You can already tell she’s gearing up for another one of her conspiracy theories—her voice dripping with misplaced excitement while yours carries nothing but fatigue. At this point, you’re convinced you’d rather rot alone than listen to another one of her “dark discoveries.” The bitter taste of your daily rotten mango snack is still more bearable than her endless rambling.
“Well… our school has had missing students—” she starts, her voice lowering in a way that’s meant to sound mysterious.
You interrupt before she can finish, words spilling out automatically. “And the phone ringing at midnight has something to do with it?”
Her eyes widen, light flickering inside them like she’s been waiting for you to say that. The corners of her lips curl upward, and she nods with that too-eager grin that tells you she’s convinced this rumor is the most thrilling thing to ever happen within these suffocating walls.
You, on the other hand, can’t decide what’s worse—the possibility that she believes it, or the fact that you’re starting to wonder what would happen if it turned out to be true.
“Aren’t you scared?” Hana’s voice hovers over you, low and teasing, her bangs brushing just above her eyes. You can’t help but glance down at your phone, the guilt of leaving your rotten mango episode unfinished gnawing at you. You just want this pointless conversation to vanish into thin air.
“Why would I be?” you respond sharply, eyes glued to the screen. You’ve spent weeks studying relentlessly, clawing at every grade, and it still feels like it’s never enough. The unfairness of it all weighs heavy in your chest, making her obsession with ghost stories feel painfully trivial.
“Because… what if your phone rings next?” Her brow arches as she leans a little closer, eyes sparkling with anticipation, and you grit your teeth to stop from snapping. Worse, her shoelaces are undone, her feet bare inside her sneakers, wobbling carelessly with every step as if she’s daring gravity to take her down.
“Are you the caller?” The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and sudden.
“No…” Hana’s voice trembles slightly with confusion, and you shake your head, frustration tightening your chest.
“Then shut the fuck up,” you shoot back, voice low but biting. It’s rudeness you didn’t intend at first, but the constant stream of her gossip and nonsensical theories is fraying your patience.
Hana flinches instantly, eyes darting around to see if anyone else caught your outburst. For a fleeting second, a twinge of guilt prickles your conscience, almost pushing you toward an apology. Almost. That thought evaporates the moment her lips move again.
“But why would you ask that?” she presses, voice soft but insistent.
You grit your teeth, forcing your tone into the calmest, most controlled version of irritation you can manage. “Well… if you’re not the caller, then how’d you know they’d call me?”
Her brow furrows as if the concept is scraping against the edges of her mind. The wheels turn painfully slow, and you can’t help the flare of annoyance. You keep her around mostly out of habit, because she clings to you, and some part of you thinks you’d rather trade her in for someone who lets you breathe.
“Got it!!” she suddenly chirps, skipping her way beside you. The motion is as light as a spring breeze, careless and energetic, but it sets off an odd sense of dissonance in your chest. You’ve known this about her for years—it’s just who she is—but it never fails to make you feel slightly unsettled. Even as the two of you are known as the ‘cute’ bestie duo in class, moments like this remind you of how starkly different you are.
You sigh, dragging your gaze one last time over your phone, mourning the stolen minutes because of this idiot. The hallways are chaos—students sprinting to their classrooms, lockers slamming, voices clashing—but you walk, long-legged and deliberate, like it’s some sort of slow-motion marathon. Running isn’t elegant for girls like you, and even if it were, you wouldn’t risk it.
“And…” Hana’s voice cuts through, hesitant for a second as she hurries to match your steps since skipping steps wasn't working. You curse quietly under your breath, bracing for another one of her stupid urban legends. But this time, it’s worse. Something so mundane it makes your heart stumble.
“You did the homework, right?”
You freeze, ten steps from the classroom door, and the bell shrills behind you, announcing the start of school. A flicker of panic scratches across your face, and you mutter under your breath, “Which one?”
“The… botany one?” Hana hesitates, eyes wide, watching you go blank in horror.
You can feel the blood draining from your face. Without another word, you push past her, sprinting into the classroom like a storm, cussing, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” over and over.
The other students are already seated, heads buried in notebooks, earbuds in, oblivious to your meltdown. Normally, homework wouldn’t faze you, but this assignment is a landmine. The botany teacher holds grudges the size of mountains and has zero patience for anyone not keeping up. One wrong answer in front of the class, and humiliation will rain down like acid.
Fingers crossed, you dart your eyes across the room, scanning for anyone who might have finished the homework and be merciful enough to let you peek. The seconds tick by like slow bullets; the teacher could appear at any moment, and you’re not ready.
Hana, of course, did the homework. But she’s always wrong. Her answers are a dangerous gamble, like stepping into quicksand hoping it’ll hold your weight. Borrowing her homework would be like signing your own public humiliation certificate.
The clock’s hands crawl, the silence in the classroom pressing against you, and your chest tightens. Every second drags. Every tick is a countdown to confrontation. You grit your teeth, scanning once more, hoping for a savior, any savior.
Your eyes lock onto him immediately—the guy who always sits alone, no matter the class, no matter the day. Lunch? Alone. Group projects? Alone. Friends? You doubt he even has one. There’s something almost mythical about how invisible he manages to be.
The catch? He’s sharp. Scarily sharp. Grades always top-notch, answers precise, the kind of guy teachers like to parade around as a “model student.” Relief floods you, sharp and bitter, as you march toward his desk, ignoring the soft, almost pleading glance Hana shoots you, silently mouthing “stop.” But you don’t care. Not right now. Your mind is entirely occupied with the looming threat of the botany teacher, already rehearsing the stinging insult you’ll have to swallow if you don’t act fast.
“Hey, smarty pants.” Your fist lands on his desk, the force rattling his notebook, pages sliding like leaves caught in a gust.
His head lifts slowly, eyes rimmed with dark circles that speak of endless late nights and relentless studying. Glasses balanced precariously on his nose, giving him this fragile, almost otherworldly precision. And yet none of that matters. Not a flicker of hesitation crosses your mind.
“What?” His voice is quiet, hesitant, almost drowned in the general noise of the classroom. You don’t answer. Instead, you lean closer, one hand hovering over the notebook, eyes flicking back toward the door, scanning for the botany teacher. Not yet. Good.
“I’m taking your homework for now.”
No explanation, no apology. You snatch the notebook in a swift motion, the edges pressing against your fingers like a promise of safety. Without a backward glance, you stride to your seat beside Hana, notebook clutched tightly to your chest. The guy stares after you, confusion written across his features, but you’re already sinking into your chair, heart hammering, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing as you settle into the temporary security of someone else’s work.
The classroom hums around you, oblivious, but every tick of the clock reminds you of the fragile line you’re walking—between survival and disaster, between humiliation and escape. And for now, stealing the homework feels like the only weapon you have.
“I have a name…” His voice is barely a whisper, almost swallowed by the hum of the classroom. He quickly pulls out another notebook, busying his hands so it doesn’t look like he’s been idle, flipping the first page with meticulous care. The neat print reads: EOM SEONGHYEON, CLASS 11.
His gaze drifts toward you, sharp and observant, following the frantic way your fingers flip through the pages, scanning for the exact homework that could prevent disaster. Every stroke of your pen, every bend of the paper, seems amplified in his awareness, and he can’t help the slight tension in his chest.
“She could at least try to be nice…” The words slip quietly under his breath, a low, almost defeated sigh. But it’s as if the universe is cruelly aligned against him, because your eyes snap up immediately, landing on him with a glare so piercing it silences him instantly.
He jerks his head down, pretending to examine his own work, fingers clutching his pen as if it could anchor him from the storm of your attention. All he can do is pray—pray that your copying finishes before the teacher sweeps in.
“What the actual shit has he written…?” You can feel sweat prickling at your temples, fingers hovering over the page. His handwriting might as well be some ancient script, looping and precise in ways that almost make comprehension impossible. Every word looks like a code, every equation a trap.
“I’m telling you to copy from mine!” Hana whines sharply, like the betrayal of her ‘best friend’ is a personal affront. You roll your eyes, barely registering her complaint, and continue mimicking the quiet kid’s meticulous notes. Understanding? Zero percent. Mimicking? A solid hundred. Your pen scratches along your paper, reproducing each curve, each letter with mechanical precision, hoping it counts for something.
“Hana, just shut up. All your answers are always wrong.” The words slip out despite your focus, sharp and precise, even as your eyes flick between his notebook and your own empty page.
“Not always—” she begins, but the sentence dies in her throat as a sudden hush sweeps the classroom. Heads lift. The air snaps taut. Hana freezes mid-gesture, and so do you, pen suspended in midair.
The room shifts. The devil of your personal nightmare slides through the door.
“Good morning… Miss Choi.”
You nearly choke. Every other teacher in the school looks like someone who might’ve stepped out of an office meeting, suits buttoned, ties straight. But Miss Choi? She’s in a tailored suit that screams power, elegance, and way too much confidence for a classroom. And she looks… impossibly young. Almost like she barely passed her twenties. Your brain momentarily rebels at the thought. One of your classmates once swore she was 22, and for a second, you almost believed it.
Fifty-five years. Three decades of teaching at three different schools. Zero wrinkles. No back pain. Still rocking a fashion sense that could headline a magazine cover. And somehow, some of the guys in class had developed crushes on her. You can’t deny it—she is undeniably pretty, smart, and effortlessly commanding.
The problem? She’s a bitch. A walking, talking nightmare. Randomly, she’ll single students out, like she flips a coin to decide who’s doomed today. More than once, the coin has landed on you. You can’t even figure out why—was it your whispered gossip with Hana during her lessons? Your abysmal grades? Or that ‘accidental’ juice glass incident during a dare? Somewhere deep in your brain, you know you deserve it. But that doesn’t stop the bitter coil in your stomach from tightening every single time she locks her gaze on you.
You swallow, gripping your pen like it’s a lifeline, hoping today won’t be the day her wrath decides to land squarely on your head. The classroom holds its breath with you, a silent stage set for the disaster that always seems to follow Miss Choi—and by extension, you.
Your hands tremble as they hover over the half-filled page, the pen suddenly feeling like a weapon in your grip. You glance up at him—the quiet kid—his eyes wide and pleading, silently begging for his notebook back. His fingers twitch on the desk, the faintest tremor running through him, and your chest tightens.
“You should really give him his homework back.” Hana’s whisper cuts through the haze of panic, eyes darting between Miss Choi and the boy. He’s practically shaking now, tense as if he’s about to shatter. Because if there’s one thing Miss Choi enforces with merciless precision, it’s this: Never. Ever. Let anyone copy your homework.
This isn’t some casual rumor passed around to scare the new students. She made sure the rule was carved into every student’s memory. He still remembers the sharp sting of the cruel slap delivered to a boy’s cheek, all because he lent his notebook to a friend. Miss Choi isn’t just strict—she’s a nightmare in heels, a storm wrapped in tailored suits, the kind of beauty that makes her cruelty feel almost… disorienting. A nightmare, yes. But a disturbingly pretty one.
You glance down at your copied notes, heart hammering. Every second you keep them in your hands feels like stepping further into a trap, and yet your pen still hovers over the page.
He clears his throat, soft but insistent, trying to draw your attention.
“Ughh,” you groan, slumping back in your chair, fingers trembling as you scrawl furiously across your page, racing against the inevitable moment when Miss Choi’s sharp eyes would sweep across the class, hunting for incomplete homework.
“Just give Seonghyeon back his—” Hana begins, voice tight with worry.
“Who the hell is he to you?” You snap louder than intended, the words cutting through the tension. Miss Choi, who’s been rifling through her pristine, all-too-aesthetic bag for her attendance book, freezes mid-motion, glancing toward the middle-last seat where you’re both hunched over your desks.
“We’re doomed,” Hana whispers, voice barely audible as she buries her face in her notebook, as if hiding could somehow erase the fact that you’re about to be caught red-handed.
Your throat tightens, and you gulp, dropping your phone to the desk in a clumsy attempt to act casual. Your notebook hovers over his, shielding the evidence of your line-to-line theft—every word meticulously copied, every solution traced from his page to yours. Your pulse thrums in your ears.
“I’m scared—” Hana whispers again, small and trembling.
“Keep your mouth shut for a goddamn minute!” you hiss, leaning close to glare at her. The words are sharp, whispered but full of heat. Half your problems in this school start with this girl, and yet here you are, still playing this absurd “best friend” game, even as it drags you to the edge of Miss Choi’s wrath.
Every step Miss Choi takes is a countdown, every second stretching out, heavy with the threat of discovery. You can practically feel her eyes burning through you already, a predator circling, and Hana’s small, fearful breathing next to you only makes the moment worse.
“So, what do we have here today?” Miss Choi’s voice slices through the room, smooth but sharp, like a whip. Her palms land on your desk, weight pressing just enough to make your heart stutter. She leans closer, and you nearly flinch as her fingers brush perilously close to your notebook. Your brain locks, frozen in place, while one mantra repeats endlessly in your head: You’re doomed. You’re doomed. You’re doomed.
Your gaze snaps down to your desk. Lips tremble as your fingers clutch the pen like it’s a lifeline, tracing invisible lines on the page.
“Answer the question, sweetie.” Her tone softens, almost syrupy, but the underlying threat makes it lethal. Hana shuffles slightly away from your side, abandoning you like a ship in a storm, leaving you alone against the predator. No one dares cross Miss Choi. Nobody. “I want you to tell the entire class what this gossip was about.”
Your eyes flick up to her face. Red lipstick, perfume clinging like a warning. Every detail overwhelms your senses—the subtle swirl of her scent, the crisp line of her tailored suit, the faint glint of her watch. You feel consumed, vulnerable, like a mouse caught in a trap.
No one in the room looks at you. Every head remains buried in books, notebooks, phones—praying, silently pleading, hoping they won’t be next. They know better than to make eye contact with Miss Choi during one of her hunting moments. The air is thick, expectant, suffocating, because everyone knows the target is you, and she doesn’t miss. Not ever.
“Miss Choi… please don’t do this today… my dog died.” The words slip out before you can stop them, voice small, trembling, eyes brimming with tears. You look up at her, hoping for even the tiniest flicker of pity, some crack in that impossible facade.
Hana, who had been so certain about abandoning you, freezes, staring at you like she’s just seen a ghost.
“Your dog died?” Miss Choi repeats, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting, her tone dripping with skepticism.
“Yeah… so… please…” You tug at your sleeve, a single tear sliding down your cheek. Your eyes dart down to your lap, discreetly sliding the borrowed notebook out from under yours while Miss Choi’s attention drifts momentarily toward Hana. Hana just nods awkwardly, caught in the lie, unsure whether to act concerned or confused.
“It was… really tragic… haha…” Hana stammers, voice small and forced, adding more detail than necessary. You hadn’t even owned a pet, let alone a dog, but now she’s roped into this charade, compelled to play along.
“How so?” Miss Choi leans in slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Hana gulps, stiffening as if she’s just realized she’s about to be interrogated about your nonexistent dog. You sniffle, trying desperately to make your performance convincing, hoping the tremble in your voice reads as grief.
As Miss Choi glances away for just a fraction of a second, you pass the notebook to the nearest classmate with a subtle flick of your eyes, silently begging for help.
He hesitates, awkwardly flipping the page to check the name, then hands it back to the original owner. Seonghyeon. Relief floods your chest as you realize you remembered the name correctly. If you’d mixed it up… well, you’d probably need a crash course in memory improvement, maybe more almonds than you could ever eat.
Seonghyeon clutches the notebook to his chest, shoulders relaxing for the first time that morning. The burden of potential disaster lifts off him—he’s no longer a potential target in Miss Choi’s merciless crosshairs.
“Well… he came under a truck.” Hana adds, her voice trembling, hesitant, glancing at you like she’s silently begging for backup. Her head shakes, eyes wide with guilt at the lie she’d been roped into, realizing just how much trouble she could land in because of it.
“Is that so?” Miss Choi’s tone is flat, sharp, not a hint of amusement. She leans back slightly, scrutinizing you as you dab at your tears with the back of your palm, trying desperately to play the victim—a role so foreign it makes your chest tighten.
“Yeah…” You sniffle, tapping your foot lightly against the floor, a nervous habit you can’t control. Every second stretches, heavy with the weight of her attention.
“Did you do your homework?” she questions next, sharp, expectant.
Before she can press further, you tilt your notebook toward her. Every answer copied meticulously from Seonghyeon’s notes, line for line, word for word. Your chest heaves slightly, fingers gripping the edges of the notebook as you hope it’s enough.
“Did you do it yourself?” She lifts the notebook, flipping through the pages with her precise, deliberate movements. Most of the answers are written incorrectly because of the rush you were in, but she doesn’t scold—just eyes you suspiciously. You nod nervously, swallowing the lump in your throat, praying that today isn’t the day Miss Choi decides to dismantle you in front of the class.
“Fine. Good job.” She places the notebook back on your desk and turns, heading to the front of the classroom. The words feel surreal, like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
The entire class freezes, jaws slightly slack, eyes wide. Miss Choi, not immediately checking homework? And praising a student? That never happens. Whispers bubble just below the surface as everyone tries to process it.
“Miss Choi…?”
Your head snaps to the back of the classroom. AHN KEONHO. That smug brat who struts around like he’s better than everyone just because he’s friends with a senior. His voice drips with entitlement.
“Yes, Keonho?” Miss Choi adjusts her glasses, and somehow those glasses, which would look nerdy on anyone else, only add to her intimidating, almost kpop-star-like aura. She radiates sharp, controlled elegance that makes the air around her thrum.
“You’re not gonna check the homework?” he presses, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
You sink slightly into your own chair, chest still racing from the adrenaline of your ‘my dog died’ performance. Around you, classmates shift uneasily, those who skipped homework already plotting excuses or cursing under their breath. You even catch a few muttered swears aimed at Keonho, though he seems completely oblivious.
He carries himself like the main character of some story, untouchable, flawless. But if anyone could see it—the truth—he’s just another extra wandering through a zombie movie, blissfully unaware that the real action is happening around him.
“Not today. We still have to finish the last chapter before the semester ends.” Miss Choi’s voice cuts through the air, firm but calm, like a whip coiling tightly around the class. Keonho opens his mouth to protest, but she lifts her palm in that perfectly controlled gesture, the polite-but-lethal way of telling him to ‘shut the fuck up’ without raising her voice.
“Everybody open page number 208.”
You glance at Hana, fumbling through her bag to pull out the botany textbook, and let your gaze lazily drift over your own notebook—the only scrap of botany-related material you own. Your bag is filled with useless books, all weight and no purpose, a cruel reminder that carrying more doesn’t make you smarter.
Hana exhales quietly. “Why can’t you bring your own?” she whispers.
“Because you bring one for both of us,” you reply casually, sliding her textbook across the table so you can pretend to follow along. Reading about plants is not your thing. At all. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the fact that survival requires pretending.
“There are some groups of classification in biology—kingdom, phylum or division, class, order, family, genus, species.” Miss Choi writes deliberately on the blackboard, each word carved with precision. Your eyelids grow heavy, the letters blurring as they swim across the chalky surface. “You all need to remember all fifty organisms and their seven classifications.”
Your eyes snap wide open, heart racing. Fifty organisms. Seven classifications each. How is this fair? How is this even possible? You’re a teen. Your brain is revolting at the idea. Memorizing this feels like trying to juggle fire while balancing on a tight rope over a pit of math equations. Biology, you decide, clearly has a grudge.
You slump back in your chair, trying desperately to stay awake, eyelids fluttering like fragile curtains in a storm. Hana, ever the vigilant minion, nudges you when she notices your head dipping, shaking you back to some semblance of attention before Miss Choi can notice.
Your eyes ache. You close them for a fraction of a second, just long enough to feel the fatigue wrap around you like a heavy blanket. Every muscle in your body wants to surrender, but even as tiredness coils tight around your chest, you force yourself upright. Survival, as always, comes first.
“Be safe.” The words drift into your ear like a faint breeze, barely there, but impossibly distinct.
Your eyes snap open. You look around frantically, heart hammering, glancing at Hana—who’s buried in her textbook, oblivious—and then away, scanning the classroom. Someone just whispered in your ear, but it wasn’t Hana. No way. She had that annoying habit of blowing air whenever she whispered close, and this… this voice was deep, distorted, nothing like hers.
A cold shiver snakes down your spine. You glance up at Miss Choi, chalk in hand, writing equations and classifications on the board, oblivious to whatever just happened. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something human. Not in the slightest. And you’re not a gullible horror-movie protagonist—you’re not about to chalk this up to imagination or exhaustion. Call it paranoia, call it sixth sense, but you know you just experienced something… far beyond human. The thought curls tight in your chest, a silent terror you can’t fully process, even if your face betrays it in the tiniest way.
“Mosquitoes belong to the phylum Arthropoda,” Miss Choi drones, and you shove the thoughts aside, forcing yourself to focus on the board. Better to drown in entomology than confront whatever just brushed past your mind. “And then we have—”
The bell cuts her off, slicing through the words like a knife. She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line, knowing she’ll need another lecture to finish this small, cursed chapter.
Fortunately, these classes coincide with the school event season. Classes are shorter—only four hours today—an unusual reprieve in the otherwise suffocating routine.
“Class dismissed.” Miss Choi returns her textbook and attendance book to her bag, smooth as ever, and steps out of the classroom in those sharp heels. You watch her go, a mixture of relief and residual fear twisting in your stomach, the echo of that impossible voice still clinging faintly to the edges of your mind.
The classroom empties slowly around you, everyone murmuring and gathering their things, but the shadow of that whisper lingers. You hug your notebook to your chest, unsure whether to be grateful or terrified that the world outside hasn’t shifted—yet.
You turn to Hana, already shoving books into her bag, completely oblivious to the storm still swirling inside you.
“Are you gonna go first?” you murmur, hand resting lightly on her shoulder. The thought of going back alone through the dark streets, the shadows stretching like fingers, feels more terrifying than ever tonight.
“Obviously.” She doesn’t even glance at your face, finishing the last zipper on her bag before swinging it over her shoulder. She’s completely missing the terror etched across your features, that shaky, wide-eyed look she’s come to associate with your dramatic tendencies.
You hum, half-heartedly packing your own bag. Every motion feels heavy, like dragging lead through water. It sucks. It really sucks. Walking home alone should be simple, mundane—but tonight, it’s a different kind of anxiety twisting in your chest.
“You done?” Hana prompts, standing upright, her expression casual, expectant.
You nod, bag slumped over your back, exhaling in a shaky sigh.
Stepping out of the classroom, the hallway buzzes with chatter, students gossiping, laughing, the mundane noise now grating against your nerves. You shove your earbuds in, desperate to create a bubble of sound to drown out reality. The rotten mango episode you’d left on hold starts playing instantly, each familiar line a balm for your frayed nerves. Hana’s voice, the hall, the murmurs of other students, the school gate—all of it fades.
You glance at her as she veers off toward her home, bag bouncing slightly against her back. Your hand lifts automatically in a half-hearted wave, fingers stiff in the evening air. You take a deep breath, forcing your steps to match a steady rhythm. It’s still 7pm. Not too late. Not too late. You repeat it to yourself like a mantra, a fragile shield against the shadows creeping across the empty streets ahead.
“HE TRIED TO HOLD HER BY HER NECK, HIS KNIFE SHARPENED SINCE HE HAD BEEN PLANNING TO DO THIS SINCE FOREVER—”
“Fuck.” You curse under your breath, your voice trembling in the empty street. Out of all the episodes to autoplay, this had to come on—the gory, spine-chilling one, right when you’re walking home alone under dim streetlights that flicker like they’re debating whether to die out.
“AND THEN SHE SUDDENLY LOOKED BEHIND AND—”
You slam your thumb on the pause button, the audio cutting off mid-sentence. The silence that follows isn’t comforting—it’s heavy. Almost… listening.
“Hey.”
The voice isn’t from your phone. It comes from behind you—low, distant, and far too real. Goosebumps scatter across your arms. The sound of your pulse is louder than your footsteps now.
You don’t turn. You don’t dare. Instead, your fingers tighten around your phone as you lift it up, switching to the front camera and tilting it slightly to see what’s behind you through the screen.
Empty.
Nope. Not today. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know how this ends for people who stop to check.
Your legs move before your brain can fully register it—you sprint. That bag that usually drags you down like a rock suddenly weighs nothing, the straps bouncing against your shoulders as you bolt down the street. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, shoes pounding the asphalt, heart slamming in rhythm with every step.
You don’t look back. You refuse to. Because if you do—if you see something—you’ll freeze. And freezing means death.
The fear twists tighter the closer you get to home. Because now your brain decides to remind you: if it’s not a ghost—if it’s a person—then they know where you live basically.
You fly up the stairs, two steps at a time, chest heaving, panic filling your mouth. The bag nearly slips off your shoulder as you reach your floor and bang on the door, hard.
“OPEN THE DOOR!” you shout, voice cracking, hands trembling as you hit the wood again. “PLEASE OPEN THE DOOR!”
There’s a pause. The faint sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. Then hurried footsteps. The lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal your mom—her apron still tied, a wooden spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other, staring at you like you’ve just lost your mind.
Her hair is tied into a messy bun, a few strands falling near her temples, and her eyes look heavier than usual—the kind that flicker when someone’s been standing too long over a stove. You don’t even need to think twice to realize this isn’t the time to announce that you might’ve just escaped from being murdered on the street. Because between ghosts, killers, and your mom—your mom is still the scariest one of them all. And judging by the sharp line of her jaw, she’s already on edge.
“What? What’s wrong?” Her brow arches, her tone clipped, half-distracted by the faint hiss of oil from the kitchen. The sound of sizzling fills the small hallway as you slip past her, brushing the air thick with garlic and soy.
“Just tired.” The words tumble out flat, automatic, like a shield.
Her expression softens for a second—then fades. She doesn’t press further, too tired herself to untangle whatever’s written across your face. You drop your bag against the wall with a dull thud and lower yourself to the floor beside it. The tiles are cold through your skirt, but it’s grounding, in a way. You can still feel the pulse in your throat, the echo of your footsteps from earlier chasing you all the way here.
You keep your eyes fixed on the floorboards, knowing better than to sit on the couch. Outside clothes make the couch dirty, as your mom always said. It’s one of those family rules set in stone—one even your dad doesn’t argue with. Weird logic, sure, but rules are rules.
A voice breaks the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You glance up to see Dongmin leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, hair messy like he just woke up from another afternoon nap. At twenty, he’s still home, still studying, still living off mom’s cooking—and somehow still finds the energy to annoy you every single day. His tone is teasing, but not in the kind way; it’s the kind that pokes just to see you react.
You roll your eyes, choosing not to give him that satisfaction.
“You know what?” you breathe out, tugging the earbuds from your ears and tucking them neatly into their case. Your back meets the wall as you slump down again, exhaustion catching up now that the fear has dulled to something quieter. “I might’ve seen a ghost today,” you mutter, glancing up at him, “but you’re even scarier.”
Dongmin’s grin spreads instantly, the kind that makes you regret speaking the second it forms. “You shouldn’t say that,” he fires back, voice light and smug, “when you need makeup just to look pretty.”
Your eyes widen in disbelief, jaw falling open. That hits lower than expected. “Excuse me?” you snap, sitting up straighter. The sting of his words turns quickly into irritation as you hurl it right back. “At least I’m not twenty and still living off Dad’s money—”
“You brat!” he growls, stepping forward, but you’re already on your feet, darting past him toward the kitchen.
The second you cross the threshold, his voice dies out. He wouldn’t dare argue in front of Mom—no one would. The silence that follows makes you grin in triumph, a small victory pulsing through your chest. You turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your fingers as the sound mingles with the faint simmer of soup from the stove.
The smell of rice and tofu miso fills the air—warm, savory, comforting in a way that makes your stomach twist with sudden hunger. Steam curls lazily upward from a pot, fogging the air near your face as you reach for a boiled egg from the tray, still warm to touch.
Without waiting for permission, you crack the shell and take a bite. The yolk bursts soft and creamy against your tongue, its richness mixing with a sprinkle of salt from the counter.
Your mom glances up from the stove, still in her apron, chopsticks in hand. For a second, you brace for the scolding—the usual “Wait until it’s served”—but she only exhales, shaking her head in quiet resignation before turning back to the pan.
It’s unusual, her silence. But then again, nothing about tonight feels ordinary.
You chew slowly, the warmth of the food grounding you, but somewhere between the taste of the egg and the hum of the kitchen light above, a cold thought creeps back in.
If something had been following you… it would know exactly where you live now.
And as if the universe hadn’t done enough already, your phone began to ring—loud, sharp, slicing through the hum of the kitchen. The sound echoed against the tiled walls, too sudden, too piercing for comfort.
“Should I pick it up?” Dongmin’s voice floated from the living room, playful and annoying in equal measure. You could practically hear the smirk in his tone.
Your heart lurched. “Don’t you dare—” you warned, but he was already leaning over the table where your phone buzzed violently against the wood.
You shoved the last bit of egg into your mouth and dashed out of the kitchen, nearly slipping on the polished floor as you skidded into the living room. He had just reached for it when you snatched it right out of his hand, glaring daggers at him as you pressed the screen to your ear.
“Hello?” Your voice came out breathless, a mix of irritation and leftover panic.
Dongmin leaned closer, clearly enjoying this. “Who is it, huh?” His grin widened like he already knew the answer he wanted to believe—boyfriend, secret, drama.
You turned away from him, focusing on the call, but there was… nothing. Just silence. Not even the faint hum of background noise—no breathing, no static, no distant shuffle that could hint at life on the other end.
“Hello?” you repeat, louder this time, trying to mask the flicker of unease crawling up your spine. Still nothing.
The call ends abruptly—just a sharp click, followed by your own reflection staring back at you from the darkened screen.
Dongmin raises a brow, still grinning. “Guess he hung up. Must’ve been shy.”
You don’t answer. You just stand there, phone still against your ear, eyes unfocused as the silence stretches. Because for a split second—before the call cut off—you could’ve sworn you heard a faint whisper. Right against your ear. Just like before.
“Your boyfriend?” Dongmin’s grin widened as he wiggled his eyebrows, the kind of teasing that could make anyone want to throw a pillow at his face. You simply shook your head, still staring at your phone screen that had now gone black.
“Not a boyfriend, obviously.” You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual—trying to convince yourself more than him. It had to be a prank. Or maybe someone just dialed the wrong number. Because no way in hell was your first thought going to be that thing again. Ghosts calling people back? Seriously? Sure, you’d seen those 3AM challenge videos where idiots dial random cursed numbers, but you’d never heard of a ghost being the one to initiate the call. What was this, some new paranormal trend?
Dongmin, thankfully, seemed to lose interest, his teasing quickly shifting gears as he shouted, “Mommmmm!”
You winced. “Oh, don’t—”
“WHAT?” Her voice bellowed from the kitchen before you could finish. It wasn’t just loud—it had that sharp authority that could rattle even the bravest of soldiers. You half expected the ceiling fan to stop spinning out of fear.
“When will dinner be ready?” Dongmin called again, softer this time, like he suddenly remembered the weight of living under the same roof as her. His voice carried just enough desperation to sound pathetic.
“Not so soon!” she replied, the clang of pans following her words. Her tone was still sharp, but not quite as explosive—probably remembering the neighbors downstairs. Living in a rented space meant one wrong move could get you judged for life, and your mom took that responsibility way too seriously.
“Aghhh,” Dongmin groaned dramatically, flopping back against the couch like he’d just been told the world was ending.
You gave him a side glance, unimpressed. “You could just help her, you know?”
As if on cue, your mother’s voice carried out again, firm and deliberate: “If you need it ready soon… just come here and help.”
That shut him up instantly. The living room fell silent except for the faint sizzling from the kitchen.
You tried—really tried—not to laugh, biting your lip and covering your mouth with your palm. But the sight of his face, frozen in defeat, was too good. A giggle slipped through your fingers anyway.
For a moment, it almost felt normal again—no whispers, no fear, no strange phone calls. Just another evening filled with your brother’s dumb antics and your mom’s sharp voice echoing from the kitchen. Almost.
You drag yourself toward your room, every step heavy from exhaustion, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight. The moment you step inside, you shut the door behind you with a quiet click, leaning against it for a second before exhaling. The phone is still in your grip—warm from your palm, screen faintly smudged. You collapse onto your bed, uniform still clinging to your skin, the scent of the day—sweat, chalk dust, and cheap cafeteria food—lingering around you.
“Pfft… she would’ve thrown me out if she saw me like this,” you whisper into your pillow, voice muffled against the cotton. The thought of your mom catching you in bed before changing makes you chuckle under your breath. You can almost hear her distant scolding in your head—dirty uniform, dirty sheets, dirty grades.
You flip over, hair tangled against the fabric, staring blankly at the ceiling fan that spins too lazily to be of any use. Your socks are still on, your bag dumped by the door, and even though you know you smell awful, this—this small pocket of solitude—is worth the mess.
TRING.
The sound jolts you out of your thoughts. The familiar notification chime. You glance at your phone, still in your hand, the glow reflecting faintly against your tired eyes. For a moment, you think it’s a message—maybe Hana, or one of your classmates complaining about homework.
You swipe the screen lazily, tracing the pattern you’ve repeated a thousand times before. The screen unlocks with a soft click. Nothing. No unread messages. No missed calls. No notifications. Just your home screen staring back at you.
You blink, frowning slightly, brushing it off as some random system glitch. Probably Instagram or Spotify acting up again. You turn your phone over on your chest, close your eyes.
TRING.
Your eyes snap open this time. That wasn’t just a glitch for sure.
You grab the phone again, thumb moving faster. Notification bar—empty. No app icons, no warning, no updates. Just the faint background hum from outside the room—the sizzling from the kitchen, the low hum of the fan—and your own pulse in your ears.
A strange stillness creeps in. The kind that feels alive. The kind that makes your skin tighten against itself.
Your mind flashes back—to the whisper that had brushed your ear in class, the voice that had called out to you on the street, the silent phone call that ended before you could hear a word. Each memory folds into the next, like pages pressed too tightly together. You sit up slowly, the weight of dread curling in your stomach as your gaze drops to the phone again. The screen stays black. But for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that something—someone—is staring back.
A shiver runs down your spine as you scroll through your phone, fingers swiping left, right, checking folders you meticulously arranged. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, each flick of your thumb a tiny attempt to convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, you were overthinking. That the notification had been nothing more than a glitch, a fleeting mistake in a world that was otherwise normal.
But then your eyes catch something odd—a strange app icon you don’t remember installing. A black cat, sleek, staring straight at you with glossy, unblinking eyes. Beneath it, the word ECHO. You freeze.
You can’t recall ever downloading it. Was it some weird kids’ game? A filter app? Some complimentary software your phone came with? None of it makes sense, but the icon… there’s something about it that makes your stomach twist, a mixture of curiosity and dread. Against better judgment, you tap it.
The moment your finger touches the screen, a soundtrack fills the room. The notes slither around your head, almost tangible. You recognize it instantly—Russian Roulette by Red Velvet. The eerie, tension-filled instrumental, the song where the girls spin and kill each other. The irony isn’t lost on you. Your chest tightens. The screen flashes, bold and stark.
PICK A ROLE.
Two options blink, almost breathing.
HUNT.
OR
HIDE.
You laugh nervously, fingers hovering over the options. Hide? You can’t even imagine waiting passively for some virtual doom to find you. You’re too restless, too alive to sit still and hope you don’t get caught. Hunt—now that feels more like you. Fast, impulsive, reckless. You press it without hesitation, heart hammering.
NOW, PLEASE CONTINUE THE GAME.
The words flash across the screen, a soft pulse lighting up your dark room. For a moment, you hesitate—then your thumb moves on its own. You press continue.
At this point, the unease sitting heavy in your chest is nothing more than background noise. You’ve already forgotten that you never downloaded this app, or that it somehow appeared out of nowhere. Curiosity wins. What could possibly go wrong? Worst case, you delete it. Simple. Easy.
Except, nothing about this feels simple anymore. A pop-up slides into view.
HINT ONE COMING UP.
You blink, tilting your head. “Hint one?” you whisper under your breath, your reflection flickering in the black screen. The words vanish just as quickly as they appeared, leaving you staring at the home screen of the game—except there’s nothing there. No characters. No map. No sign of what, or who, you’re supposed to be hunting. The sound hits next.
TRING. TRING. TRING.
Your phone vibrates violently in your hand, a call notification flashing on the screen. You squint at the name. Hana.
For a second, your nerves calm. Maybe she’s just bored, calling to rant about homework or the cafeteria food again. But then you notice something off—her profile photo isn’t hers. It’s the same sleek black cat from the ECHO app icon.
Your stomach drops.
That’s impossible. The call isn’t coming from your regular phone app. It’s coming from inside the game. “What the hell…”
Before you can even react, the call ends. The screen flickers once, the sound cutting off abruptly. You stare at it for a moment, unsure if you should laugh or throw your phone across the room.
Your hands move fast. Back button. Settings. Apps. You scroll through the list, heart pounding so loud it almost drowns out the faint ringing in your ears. The thought creeps in before you can stop it. That same voice in your head, the one that whispers late at night when you’re trying to sleep. What if the app isn’t there? What if it’s one of those ghost programs that hide deep in your phone and—“Phew.”
You exhale shakily when you finally see it listed there. ECHO. Real. Visible. A normal app—at least, it looks that way.
You let out a laugh. Weak. Uneasy. “See? I’m just overthinking.”
But then you notice it. The air.
The warmth that filled your room moments ago feels like it’s being drained away, inch by inch. You pull your legs closer to your chest, rubbing your arms as goosebumps rise across your skin.
It’s not just the temperature dropping—it’s the silence. Even the hum of the ceiling fan feels slower, the faint buzz of the city outside fading into a hollow quiet.
You look at your phone again. The screen lights up on its own.
HINT ONE: SHE ALREADY CALLED YOU.
And then it goes black.
“THE FOOD’S READY!” your mom calls from the kitchen, voice echoing down the hall.
You glance at the phone still glowing in your palm, thumb hovering over the screen. The air in your room feels wrong—like something unseen is breathing beside you. Your skin prickles. It isn’t the usual kind of chill that comes from leaving the fan on too long; it’s heavier, stranger, the kind that makes your instincts whisper that something is watching.
You stand up anyway. Staying here any longer makes your chest feel tight, and your thoughts begin to spiral into every horror story you’ve ever consumed at 3 a.m. You’ve seen this movie before—the room goes cold, the ghost wants attention. No, thank you.
The second your foot crosses the doorway, it’s like stepping out of a freezer and into sunlight. The air is warm again, so normal that you almost laugh. Almost.
“The actual fu—” you start under your breath, but your mom’s voice slices through before you can finish.
“Are you gonna come or not?”
“COMING!” you yell back quickly, because testing your mom’s patience right now is a horror story you actually don’t want to live through.
You set the phone down on the nearest table, trying to shake off the unease clawing at your stomach. The device just sits there—innocent, harmless, like it wasn’t the reason your room suddenly felt like a walk-in freezer.
Still, you can’t help but glance back once before heading to the kitchen. The black cat icon gleams faintly on the screen, as if it’s smirking.
⪩⪨
The phone in the shared locker room won’t stop ringing. Its sharp, metallic chime cuts through the morning chatter, bouncing off the tiled walls until it starts to feel alive—like the sound itself is crawling under everyone’s skin. No one moves to pick it up.
The air is thick with that strange tension schools get right before something bad happens—too still, too curious. A crowd gathers, shoes squeaking against the floor as students lean closer, eyes flicking between one another, all waiting for someone else to do something.
“Did someone forget their phone?” a voice finally whispers, but it doesn’t help. The question just floats there, unanswered, swallowed by another ring.
“Or maybe…” another voice says, lower this time, almost trembling, “this is one of the victims of the urban legend.”
That makes everyone’s heads turn.
“You mean the Midnight Caller?” someone breathes out, and just like that, the locker room becomes a stage for hushed excitement and nervous laughter. Some girls clutch their phones tighter. Some roll their eyes. But all of them keep glancing at the locker that won’t stop trembling.
The sound isn’t just ringing anymore—it’s vibrating, rattling the metal, humming like something trapped inside wants out.
A group of boys stands a little away from the chaos, the only one who seems completely unfazed being JUHOON.
“He’s so handsome, though,” one of the girls whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from him.
“Yeah,” another giggles, “Juhoon’s so…”
Juhoon shifts his gaze toward them, expression unreadable. The look he gives is sharp enough to cut the laughter in half. Then, slowly, his eyes return to the locker—the one that won’t stop shaking.
“Then whose locker is that?” someone whispers, their voice barely rising above the uneasy quiet.
“Minhee,” another replies too quickly, almost relieved to have an answer—until the girl herself snaps her head up.
“Not me, idiot.” Minhee’s tone is sharp, her disbelief echoing louder than she intends. “My phone’s right here—and my locker’s literally on the other side of the hall.” She holds it up for proof, glaring in the direction the accusation came from.
The laughter that follows is uneasy. A few people shift their weight, eyes darting to one another, realizing none of them actually know whose locker it is. Every name they try sounds wrong. Like there’s a hole in their memory—a space where someone should’ve been.
“That’s weird…” someone mutters, the words breaking the silence like a crack in glass. “How can no one remember?”
Juhoon exhales a small laugh—dry, humorless. “It’s funny,” he says under his breath, stepping closer. The faint scrape of his shoes on the tile sounds too loud in the silence.
Keonho flinches. “What is?” he manages, voice thin, because his skin’s already prickling with goosebumps. He’s the type who believes—who still remembers the old warnings about the Midnight Caller. The missing students. The unanswered phones.
“This.” Juhoon tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he crouches slightly, scanning the label on the front of the locker. The edges of the paper are worn, smudged like it’s been there for years.
“Everyone’s freaking out when all you had to do was look.” He traces the name with his gaze, then straightens up. “This belongs to Kim Junmi, y’all.”
For a second, nobody reacts. Then a few heads nod, a few mouths repeat the name softly, like testing it. But the longer they stare, the stranger it feels. Because no one can picture her face. No one can remember ever meeting her. And the name—Kim Junmi—rings no bells at all. Almost like she never existed.
But for a moment—everything stops. Not just the whispers. Not just the uneasy shifting of feet. Even the phone.
The shrill ringtone that had been echoing through the locker room for what felt like an eternity—thirty minutes straight of that same hollow chime—cuts off so suddenly that the silence almost hurts. It feels… deliberate.
No one breathes for a second. The air turns still, thick with the weight of something unseen.
Juhoon straightens, blinking at the locker like he’s waiting for it to start again. “Huh,” he mutters under his breath, trying to sound bored when his pulse is betraying him. “Guess the battery died.”
He shrugs, half to himself. It makes sense, right? The thing’s probably been going off since last night. Batteries don’t last forever. ,No connection to any of the so-called disappearances. Just another stupid coincidence. And yet, the unease lingers.
Keonho, on the other hand, looks like he’s one second away from bolting. “Does anyone… know her?” he blurts out, scanning the crowd. “Like—friends? Someone who can call her?”
His question meets only blank stares. The group of students glance at each other, half-interested, half-terrified, none of them willing to admit that they don’t know a single thing about Kim Junmi.
And the truth is—they don’t. They’re all just here for the gossip. For the legend. The Midnight Caller. Ugh. Typical. A bunch of high schoolers feeding off fear like it’s a group project.
Still, Keonho’s gut twists. A grade 11 student. A class of fifty people. And no one knows her? That’s not just strange—it’s wrong.
Then the bell rings.
The sudden clang cuts through the tension, snapping everyone back into motion. The noise fills the room again—the scraping of chairs, the slam of locker doors, the relief of pretending everything’s normal.
Within seconds, the students scatter, their conversations spilling into the hallway. Most of them are already whispering theories—connecting dots that shouldn’t exist. The Kim case. Five years ago. Another girl. Another locker. A phone that wouldn’t stop ringing. And when she didn’t come to class—she was found three days later. Dead. Covered up. Forgotten.
Now, the pattern feels too familiar. Too perfect.
By the time the last student leaves, the room is empty again. Silent. Except for one thing—the faint, mechanical click from inside the locker, like something inside just switched on.
Juhoon leans against one of the lockers, shoulders pressed back, hands locked behind his head like he owns the quiet space that’s left behind. The echo of students’ shoes fades down the hall, leaving a lingering dustiness that dances in the air whenever his foot shifts against the floor. Mud stains, faint but there, cling to the linoleum despite the dry season—he frowns, noticing the absurdity. How were these floors never clean? How did shoes track this much dirt when it hadn’t rained in days?
“I should leave too, hyung,” Keonho speaks up, eyes glued to the worn tiles, seemingly counting the streaks, trying to avoid eye contact with anything beyond the floor.
Juhoon exhales sharply, a low tch escaping him. He watches Keonho retreat, shoulders hunched, disappearing around the corner of the hallway, swallowed by the chatter and fluorescent lights. The faint clatter of lockers closing echoes behind him as the last few stragglers shuffle out, whispering among themselves.
One remark cuts through the thinning hum “I heard that Mr. Choi knows about those disappearances…”
Juhoon freezes for a heartbeat, letting the words settle. The rest of the conversation dies with the departing students, leaving him alone in the locker room. He leans more heavily against the lockers, unbothered by the faint metallic scent or the creaking hinges of the female-assigned lockers beside him.
His hand dips into his pocket, fingers brushing against the hard edges of his phone before he pulls it out, the screen cold against his palm. But the moment it’s in his grip, a notification chimes—sharp, jarring, impossible to ignore. The app name flashes across the screen: ECHO.
“When the hell did I even download this?” he mumbles under his breath, frowning. His first thought, obvious yet absurd, lands on his mom—maybe she had used his phone last night when hers died. But that didn’t explain the unsettling timing. The screen pulses for a second before the words appear, unnervingly bright.
YOU’LL GET THE ANSWERS. HAHA.
Juhoon jerks back, heart skipping a beat. The voice—synthetic, distorted, almost like it drags along the edges of his spine—hits him like a cold gust. His chest tightens as the smirk of casual curiosity fades, replaced by a flicker of raw unease. How could an app even know he had spoken?
His fingers move quickly, almost automatically, checking the permissions he had allowed. Access to media? Not allowed. Check. Access to camera? Not allowed. Check. Access to microphone? Not allowed. Check. Every box unchecked, every safeguard in place.
Then, realization hits. His shoulders sag slightly, and he shakes his head, scolding himself internally. “How could you be this stupid?” he scolds, half amused, half frustrated, as his pulse begins to slow. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t spying. It was simpler, far less terrifying: a pre-programmed message, crafted to make the user jump. Nothing more. Nothing less.
His chest relaxes, his fingers tracing the edges of the phone. The terror ebbs, replaced with curiosity, sharper this time. What was this app really for? And why did it have such an unsettling sense of timing, like it was waiting… watching… just for him?
Juhoon blinks at the screen, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the lingering creepiness from before. Mom played games? The thought is ridiculous—he’s never pictured his mother as the type to download anything remotely like this, let alone something that looks like a thriller game.
But a flicker of paranoia flits through his mind. What if it wasn’t her? What if… He shakes his head sharply, scolding himself. “Stop it, Juhoon. This isn’t you. Stop being paranoid.”
The app pulses again, the music shifting seamlessly into something darker yet hypnotic—the instrumental for “Sweet Juice” by Purple Kiss. The melody is almost… magical, too captivating to ignore. His eyes narrow on the glowing buttons.
HUNT.
OR.
HIDE.
“Easy,” he says quietly under his breath, his finger hovering over the screen before slamming down on HUNT. There’s no way he’d pick hide; waiting in the shadows for something to happen isn’t his style. Hunting is proactive, exciting, thrilling. A small smirk forms as the game confirms his choice.
THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING.
For a moment, he leans back, the tension from earlier easing. Maybe this app was just an underrated game someone had hidden away for lucky discoverers like him.
THE FIRST HINT SHOULD DROP NOW.
The words flash across the screen in a deep red font that flickers like an old CRT monitor. Juhoon stares at it, brow furrowing. There’s no map. No visible players. No timer. Not even a leaderboard or tutorial. How the hell was he supposed to “hunt” anyone when there wasn’t even an arena?
He taps around, trying to swipe or open menus, but the screen stays stubbornly blank except for those same, pulsating words. What kind of low-budget indie crap is this?
Then his phone suddenly vibrates in his palm.
📞 MR. CHOI INCOMING CALL
Juhoon freezes, staring at the caller ID. Why the hell would that old man be calling him now? His finger twitches over the answer button, but something stops him—something colder than confusion.
Because right below Mr. Choi’s name… is the same black cat icon from the ECHO app.
He blinks, heart skipping. That can’t be right. No, that’s not possible. He quickly swipes out of the call screen, his pulse kicking up, and goes straight to his settings. He scrolls, fast. Contacts access: not given. Call permissions: denied.
“What the—” his voice catches halfway, hands slightly trembling as he double-checks. So how did it even pull a contact?
And that’s when it hits him.
He doesn’t have Mr. Choi’s number. He never saved it, never needed to. The teacher was creepy enough in person, always staring too long at his students and giving detention for the smallest things.
The phone buzzes again, and his eyes flick back to the screen.
MISSED CALL.
The ringing stops. Silence seeps in—heavy and deliberate, as if even the air is waiting for his next move.
Juhoon stares at the name on his screen for a few seconds longer than he means to, then exhales slowly. You’re just overthinking this. His thumb hovers, and before he can talk himself out of it, he hits dial.
The call connects for exactly two seconds. A distorted voice comes through the speaker—calm, almost playful.
GOOD LUCK.
Juhoon jerks the phone away from his ear, a chill crawling down his neck. “The hell is wrong with this app?” His tone sharp, he fumbles to find a settings option, searching for a way to turn off that robotic voice.
One ring. Then another. Juhoon stares at the phone, frozen, fingers hovering above the screen as the third ring cuts through the silence. Reluctantly, he swipes.
“Hello—” His voice is tentative, a fraction of confidence left after the morning’s weirdness, expecting Mr. Choi’s usual smug arrogance. But what hits him instead scrapes past anything he’s imagined.
A scream.
“AGHHHHHHH”
He yanks the phone away from his ear, a shiver crawling down his spine, nails digging into his palm. The scream is guttural, sharp, desperate—a female voice, ragged and strained, screaming like every ounce of her being is fighting for life. For a split second, Juhoon’s brain freezes: the missing girl. Kim Junmi. Could it really be her?
The sound of frantic movement follows—dishes crashing, footsteps pounding across a floor he can’t see. Then, a scream so raw it twists in his chest, twisting something tight and fragile. And then… silence.
He stares at the phone, breathing ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. Slowly, almost mechanically, he lifts it back to his ear, whispering through his terror, “Are you—”
But the answer doesn’t come in words. It comes in the voice from before, distorted but clear enough to make his stomach drop.
“WHY WOULD YOU CALL? WHY WOULD YOU CALL? DON’T CALL! WHY WOULD YOU CALL? WHY WOULD—”
It’s the same girl. The same screaming, panicked voice. Now pleading, warning, desperate. His hands shake violently, clutching the phone like it’s the only tether keeping him from running blind into the world outside. His body goes rigid, every nerve on edge. Whoever—or whatever—is behind this, is not human. Not normal.
Then, just as abruptly as it started, the call ends.
Juhoon stands still, unmoving, chest heaving, mind spinning. His phone screen flickers, almost alive, then a deep, metallic voice booms out of the silence, slicing through the quiet of his room.
ASSIGNED MAGIC.
The words hang in the air, pulsating. The faintest hum vibrates in his hands, like the phone itself is breathing. His eyes widen, scanning the walls, the ceiling, the empty room. It’s impossible, irrational, but… the game. The ECHO app. The call. The girl. It’s all connected.
“The hell is this hide and seek,” Juhoon spits out, tossing his phone onto the bench beside him. The locker room smells faintly of detergent and sweat—stale, heavy, the kind of air that makes you feel like something’s watching you. Half the class period is gone, wasted on this weird, creepy app that refuses to make sense.
He stares at the glowing screen again, frustration twisting in his gut. “It’s probably one of those scams,” he says under his breath, tapping through the settings like a man determined to prove the world logical. “Stealing data, sending fake calls… nothing supernatural about it.”
But the moment the words leave his mouth, his chest tightens. Because even as he tries to convince himself, a quieter voice deep down whispers the opposite—what if it isn’t fake? What if the rumors circling through the school halls were never rumors at all? What if the urban legend they joked about in whispers was finally real again?
He doesn’t want to be part of it. He doesn’t even want to think about it. Snatching up his phone, Juhoon presses the power button and slips it into his pocket, almost too quickly, as if hiding it could undo whatever he’s already done. Then he turns on his heel and walks out.
The locker door clatters shut behind him, metal echoing down the empty room. The sound fades, leaving nothing but the faint buzz of the flickering light overhead—and the faint trill of another phone buried inside one of the lockers. Kim Junmi’s phone. It’s screen glows in the darkness, vibrating against the metal again and again, an unknown number flashing across it.
INCOMING CALL 📞
The ringtone cuts through the air, shrill and persistent. But no one’s there to answer.
⪩⪨
Down the hall, chaos brews.
“Don’t ask me, I don’t know!” the homeroom teacher shouts, storming past a group of teachers huddled near the office door. His tie hangs crooked, his face pale and drawn, voice cracking under the weight of sheer exhaustion.
The corridors are filled with noise—students whispering, teachers on the verge of panic, the muffled static of announcements that never finish. Every classroom he passes is in disarray, students crowding near windows, phones out, eyes darting between each other like prey sensing danger.
He reaches his own room—CLASS 11—and pushes open the door with a sharp shove.
“Sir!!! Do you—” one of the students starts, half-standing from her chair.
“I DON’T KNOW! DON’T ASK ME!” His voice booms across the room, sharp enough to make them flinch. His hands run through his hair, trembling slightly. The fluorescent light above flickers once, twice, before stabilizing.
The class goes silent. No one greets him. No one even moves. The usual “good morning” is gone—swallowed by the thick unease that clings to the walls. And for the first time, even the teacher can feel it—something heavy, unseen, pressing against the air.
“Is everyone forgetting their manners—” the teacher starts, tone sharp but trembling at the edges, like he’s trying to convince himself that he still has control over this class.
“There are things way more important than manners right now, sir!” Keonho’s voice cuts through the tension, too bold, too raw. He doesn’t mean to sound disrespectful—but desperation makes people louder than they mean to be. The entire class goes still, every head turning toward him as the teacher’s expression hardens.
“What could possibly be more important than—”
“Kim Junmi didn’t come to school today.”
The teacher blinks, thrown off. Keonho’s hand is pointed toward the back of the classroom, at the second empty seat—Junmi’s. The chair is still perfectly tucked in, her books missing, her name tag taped unevenly to the desk’s edge.
The seat next to it belongs to Hana, who’d already texted early this morning about catching the flu. That absence made sense. But Junmi’s? No one had heard from her. No messages, no calls, nothing.
“Who’s Jun—” The teacher’s words trail off, shame burning across his face as he realizes what he’s about to admit. Who’s Junmi? The question sits on his tongue like poison. What kind of teacher doesn’t even know the name of his own student? He straightens, trying to recover, to fix his tone. “Let’s just start with the lesson—”
“NO!” The single shout ricochets through the room, and then it’s chaos.
“This is the second disappearance this year!” someone yells from the back.
“We want answers!” another student joins, voice breaking.
“We don’t wanna study and get brushed off like dust!”
Voices rise like a wave—desperation, fear, anger, all colliding. The teacher feels it building, a storm he can’t calm, his authority slipping like sand between his fingers.
“Calm down, kids!” he shouts, but no one listens. The sound of voices only grows louder, echoing off the walls. His patience snaps.
“I SAID STOP!”
The shout tears through the noise. And just like that—silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet fills the room, the kind that makes the air feel too thick to breathe.
Dozens of eyes stare at him. Not scared. Not even angry. Just staring. Cold, distant, unblinking. The kind of look that makes your stomach twist because you realize you’ve just crossed a line you can’t uncross.
He stands frozen, chest heaving, throat dry. The silence is worse than the shouting. Much worse.
And in that still moment, surrounded by the blank faces of his own students, the teacher feels it—regret. For taking this job. For staying in this school. For every year that had chained him to this suffocating place.
Twenty years ago, he chose to become a teacher. Right now, in this very room, he wishes he hadn’t. But it wasn’t like he couldn’t feel pity.
Even through the irritation building inside him, the teacher could see it—real fear in their eyes. The trembling hands clutching the sides of desks, the students who pressed their palms to their ears when the shouting got too loud. They weren’t being dramatic. They were scared. Every one of them.
Some of them yelled over each other, voices cracking. They wanted answers. They wanted assurance. But what they got instead was a man standing at the front of the room, yelling back at them—telling them to stop—as if that would fix the panic that had already taken hold.
“Why aren’t you telling us anything?” one student had screamed earlier. “If you don’t have answers, then why are you making us shut up?”
The question lingers in his head even now, burning like static. Because they were right. He should have been on their side. He should have fought for them, demanded the truth from the people above.
But instead—he stood where it was safer. Because the truth? The truth didn’t pay. Money did.
He would pick the school over those fifty confused, terrified faces without hesitation. Not because he wanted to—but because he had to. A job was a job, and this one kept his bills paid, his family fed, his life running. He had seen what happened to teachers who spoke too much, who poked their heads into things they weren’t supposed to. The system chewed them out, spit them aside, and replaced them within a week.
So yes, even after almost a full school year with these kids, he’d still choose the school’s reputation over their safety if it came to it. And maybe that made him a coward—but it also made him employed.
It was almost ironic. Teachers were supposed to be the ones shaping morals, teaching right from wrong, telling kids to stand for the truth. Yet here he was—doing the exact opposite.
He tells himself he has an excuse. He’s a history teacher, not a moral science instructor. His job isn’t to lecture about ethics. His job is to get through the syllabus, finish the term, and keep his head down.
Still, as he watches those frightened faces staring back at him, something inside him tightens.
He knows that when another student disappears—and deep down, he knows one will—he’ll be standing in the same spot, saying the same empty words, pretending he doesn’t hear the guilt clawing at the back of his throat.
Meanwhile, Keonho slouches deeper into his chair, his hoodie bunched up near his ears, earbuds plugged in tightly. The classroom is chaos—voices rising, desks scraping, students standing on tiptoe just to yell over each other. The homeroom teacher is barking something about calm down again, but it’s useless. The noise only grows.
He exhales, long and slow, letting the sound of Chase Atlantic drown out the shouting. Heaven and hell are words for the same thing, the lyrics echo in his head, and honestly—it fits. Because whatever this is, it sure as hell feels like a mix of both.
He’d much rather listen to music than hear everyone screaming about rumors they don’t even understand. Nobody seems to care about the girl who’s missing. No one even mentions her name anymore—just “that girl,” “the locker,” or “the legend.” They sound thrilled, like they’re waiting for the next horror chapter to unfold right in front of them. Not because they care. Because they’re bored.
He turns his head toward the front. The teacher stands planted in the middle of the room—hands on his hips, veins visible at his temple, face red from all the yelling. He’s trying to look authoritative, but to Keonho, he just looks tired. And the way he glares at the students—like their fear is an inconvenience—makes Keonho’s jaw tighten. Then.
TRING. TRING.
The vibration makes his heart skip. He pulls one earbud out, glancing down at his desk. A call? Now? Who the hell would call him during class?
He slides his hand under his book, subtle, the motion practiced. He props the book open like he’s reading, using it to shield the phone from view. The teacher might not care about missing students, but catching someone on their phone? That’s a capital offense in this hellhole.
He unlocks his phone quickly. The song stops mid-beat, silence slamming into his ears. He frowns and taps the earbud, trying to play it again. Nothing. Another tap—still nothing. Weird.
Then his eyes land on the notification at the top of the screen.
ECHO: YOU’VE BEEN CHOOSEN.
“…what?” he mouths under his breath. He’s sure he’s never downloaded anything like that. His thumb hovers before curiosity wins, and he taps it.
The screen flickers. A black cat silhouette appears first—its tail swaying lazily against a dark background. Then, for a split second, everything goes pitch-black except for words scrawled across the center in white—letters smeared with what looks like dried blood.
WELCOME TO THE GAME.
The voice that follows is sharp, robotic, and too close—like someone whispering directly into his ear through the earbuds. He jerks back, nearly dropping his phone. “eomma—” The word escapes him instinctively, breathless, small.
The guy sitting in front of him turns halfway, raising an eyebrow before rolling his eyes with a scoff. Keonho looks down immediately, heat crawling up his neck. Great. Now he looks insane.
He forces himself to breathe, screen still open on that eerie black screen. He doesn’t touch anything, just exits the app, trying to convince himself it’s nothing more than a glitch. Some spam game maybe.
His thumb moves fast through his settings, scrolling through Storage → Apps. The list loads slowly, every name familiar until.
His finger presses on the “More Info” option the moment the app name shows up, not even hesitating before he hits “Uninstall.” The loading wheel spins for a few seconds—slow, almost mocking—before finally flashing the words: “app uninstalled successfully.”
He exhales, relieved. Good. That’s done. Now he can get back to zoning out with his music. Except—when he presses the back arrow and the app list reloads, ECHO is still there. Same black cat icon. Same name. Same size.
“…what the hell?” He stares at it, frozen, a shiver crawling up the back of his neck. Maybe he hit cancel by accident? Maybe his phone glitched? But no—he clearly remembers seeing the message that it was deleted.
He tries again. Uninstall → Confirm → Wait. “uninstalled successfully.” Back to the menu—ECHO. Still sitting there like it never left.
His throat feels dry. The chatter of his classmates around him fades into white noise—students still bickering with the teacher, the faint screech of a chair, laughter echoing from somewhere down the hall—but all of it blurs. His focus stays glued to that one cursed icon. He presses it.
The screen opens instantly, no load time, as if the app was waiting for him to come back.
WELCOME BACK.
The words appear, glowing faintly. Then a sound follows—soft at first, then clearer. The slow, deliberate meow of a cat. But not the kind you’d hear from a pet—it’s deeper, distorted, layered with static like it’s being played through an old speaker.
His chest tightens. He immediately drags his thumb down, lowering the earbud volume until it’s barely audible. The meowing stops, replaced by that same eerie silence he’s started to hate.
His fingers tremble slightly as he types in his passcode, double-checking permissions again. No mic, no camera, no contacts. Nothing granted. So how the hell is it still reading his movements, still there after every uninstall?
Maybe it’s a system bug. Maybe it’s one of those pre-installed company apps that can’t actually be deleted. Yeah. Maybe that’s it. He tries to laugh under his breath, but it comes out weak—like he’s trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t believe. Before he can exit, new text flashes across the screen.
HOLD YOUR QUESTION UNTIL NEXT TIME.
His brows knit together. “Huh?”
It takes a second before the realization hits—his stomach dropping. Because he hadn’t even spoken. He hadn’t typed anything. He had thought the question. And the game had answered.
He leans closer to the screen, eyes darting between the glowing words. The faint cat silhouette flickers behind the text, tail twitching like it’s alive.
Maybe it’s some kind of AI-based app. Like those interactive kid shows from years ago—the kind that pretended to talk back. Like Dora the Explorer, he thinks. Ask a question, wait for an answer. Nothing creepy. Just some coded pattern.
But then, almost instantly, the cat’s eyes glint red for a moment. And new text fades in, letter by letter.
WE HEARD THAT.
And this time, Keonho’s hand actually slips, his phone almost crashing onto the floor if it wasn't for his grip on it.
YOUR FIRST HINT IS GONNA ARRIVE SOON.
And before he could even process what was going on, another notification popped up on his phone. His thumb hesitated for a second, hovering over the screen, because the sender… was Eunseo.
ALL THE BEST.
He froze. Eunseo. The same girl he had literally spoken to only once the entire school year. And that was only because he needed someone to turn on the fan near his desk. That was it. Nothing else. He had barely exchanged a full sentence with her, and that had been months ago.
And yet here she was. Or rather, something using her name was here.
Keonho blinked. He had to check. And maybe, just maybe, this was a coincidence. Maybe she somehow got his number and was texting him. But as soon as he opened the message, his stomach twisted, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight. The text was… nothing. Just a single full stop, perfectly centered, with extra spaces around it. “ . ”
That was it. That was the entire message.
And then his brain finally noticed the strangest thing of all—the app logo. Instead of showing Eunseo’s own profile picture, the notification showed the ECHO black cat icon.
He froze, staring at the screen. His thumb hovered uselessly above it. This shouldn’t be possible. This was messenger—messenger notifications always had the person’s real picture. And yet… here it was, this app’s icon, paired with her name.
Before he could even breathe properly, a second message slid onto the screen.
“i’m next.”
Keonho’s pulse jumped. Next? Next for what? His stomach turned to ice. He slowly lifted his head, scanning the classroom with wide, paranoid eyes. His gaze settled on Eunseo—three desks away. She was laughing and leaning into her friends, arguing with the teacher, completely unaware. Both of her hands were on the desk. There was no phone in sight.
He couldn’t comprehend it. He couldn’t even begin to understand it.
And then, almost immediately, another message appeared.
“Leave it as it is. Don’t think much.”
Followed by.
“you made a grave mistake.”
Keonho’s fingers tightened around the phone. His palms were slick with sweat. His ears were ringing slightly from the adrenaline spike. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. And worse… he could feel the eyes of the classroom on him. Not because anyone noticed the phone, but because… he felt watched.
A sharp, nervous exhale escaped him, and the tension in his chest coiled like a live wire. “How the hell is she even typing this?” he spoke under his breath, his voice just loud enough for the boy in front of him to click his tongue in disapproval. Keonho immediately lowered his head, pretending to scroll through his book, but he didn’t stop staring at Eunseo, hoping for some sign that she was just messing with him.
But she didn’t move. Her hands remained on her desk, one hand gripping a water bottle, the other holding the cap. Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a phone. Nothing. And then—another notification, as if mocking him.
Keonho’s breath hitched. He stared at the screen. His mind raced. How the hell did she know about the app? Or worse—how did the app even have her number?
“dare if you open this again.”
The rational part of his brain screamed: It’s just a data-stealing app. It’s probably mimicking your contacts. That’s it. Nothing more. Just a trick to scare you.
But the fear in his chest wouldn’t relent. Rationality wasn’t helping. It wasn’t even making sense.
His trembling fingers hovered above the keyboard. Then, against every instinct screaming at him to put the phone down, he typed:
“what do you mean.”
He hit send. Immediately, his eyes shot up to Eunseo again, scanning her for any sign that this was just a prank, just a coincidence. Any hint. But she remained calm, sipping water, laughing softly with her friends, completely unaware—or so it seemed.
Then, almost instantly, the phone vibrated again.
“wanna be next?”
And attached—an innocuous-looking GIF. A cartoonish smile, looping endlessly, innocent on the surface. But the way it glitched on the screen, with the corners slightly smeared in red… it was enough to make Keonho’s stomach plummet.
His hands shook violently. His legs felt weak. His throat tightened so much that swallowing became a conscious, painful effort.
He slammed the power button. The screen went black, but the feeling didn’t leave. The grin from the GIF—the text, the messages—they lingered in his mind, carved into his nerves.
And for the first time, Keonho didn’t feel like he was playing a game. He felt… hunted.
Like someone—or something—had already found him. And there was no escape.
Keonho stared down at his lap, a strange, heavy feeling lodged in his throat. It wasn’t just nerves or fear—it felt like the weight of everything that had happened pressed down on him physically. His hands trembled violently, and a dizzy haze made the edges of his vision blur.
“Keonho?”
The voice cut through the fog of his panic. He barely managed to lift his eyes toward the homeroom teacher, and his chest tightened as his vision cleared slightly. Something stung in his eyes, a burning sensation like chemicals had been poured into them, suffocating, relentless. He coughed violently, trying to clear it, but the heat in his eyes made it impossible to focus.
The teacher’s voice grew louder, more frantic. “KEONHO?”
Keonho’s fist came up instinctively to cover his mouth, feeling something wet against his skin. At first, he dismissed it as saliva, some result of coughing too hard—but then, as he pulled his fist away, horror gripped him.
Blood.
Dark, vivid, almost unnatural blood dripped down his fingers, pooling slightly in his palm. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at the crimson stain, then slowly at the teacher, whose face had drained of color, eyes wide in disbelief.
For a moment, everything froze. The chaos of the classroom—the yelling, the protests, the gossip—died down. The other students stared at him, some turning away, unable to look at the sight of blood. Others whispered under their breath, some with concern, some with morbid curiosity.
A few brave souls stepped forward, reaching out instinctively, but the panic in Keonho’s chest made him shrink back. Worse, some of the more cruel students had already started whispering, eyes wide with excitement.
“What if it’s because of the urban legend—”
“SHUT—” Keonho’s voice cracked, trembling, ready to snap at the gossiping classmates—but before he could finish, another rush of warm, metallic taste hit the back of his throat. He gagged violently, pressing a hand to his mouth to suppress the wave of nausea. The chatter died off temporarily, replaced with shocked silence.
“Hey! You!! Go take him to the boys’ washroom,” the teacher barked, pointing at someone without realizing the urgency that raced through Keonho’s body. He didn’t even look to see who had been assigned; his vision was already swimming with reds and shadows, every step a struggle to stay upright.
His palm rested on the edge of the table for balance, fingers digging into the smooth wood as he tried to steady himself. Some of the more empathetic students rushed forward, helping him walk. Others simply stared, frozen in fascination or whispering gossip about the latest urban legend, completely oblivious to the reality of the blood spilling from their classmate.
Keonho’s stomach churned. The dizziness, the nausea, the fear—all of it combined with the eerie timing: the strange app, the unnerving messages from Eunseo, the lingering fear of Junmi’s disappearance. Everything screamed at him that he had been dragged into something far beyond any normal school day.
Every step felt heavier than the last. Every breath burned.
“Do you need help—”
Keonho’s eyes flicked toward the voice, soft, hesitant, almost like a whisper that might get lost in the chaos of the classroom. Seonghyeon. Of course. The guy everyone called a nerd, always too careful, too… precise. For a second, Keonho wanted to roll his eyes so hard they might get stuck. Of all the people in the world, this was the one supposed to help him? Blood dripping down his chin, his jaw aching, and this guy thought asking was enough?
Seonghyeon shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, a mix of embarrassment and fear making him fidget. He hated the spotlight, and this situation was as glaring as any. Keonho didn’t even hide his disgust, shooting him a look that could curdle milk.
“So… you do…” Seonghyeon hesitated, almost too quietly to hear, wrapping one arm around Keonho’s shoulder. It was clumsy, awkward, but effective enough to guide him out of the classroom. Keonho didn’t want the help, but it wasn’t like he had a choice.
As they passed the homeroom teacher, the classroom felt frozen in a tableau of horror. Every pair of eyes fixed on them, every whispering thought imagining Keonho’s fate. Some students had already convinced themselves they were watching the start of another disappearance—another repeat of the old, gruesome pattern. The same phone ringing. The same student vanishing. The same chilling uncertainty that gripped the school every time someone went missing. It was like the first disappearance had only whetted some unspoken appetite.
“Are you—” Seonghyeon started, then froze mid-word. One glance from Keonho and he clamped his mouth shut. It was painfully clear: Keonho did not tolerate conversation, not now, not ever. Even wobbling from pain, even with blood streaked across his face, he maintained that egoistic, untouchable aura.
“Ugh, fine.” Seonghyeon cussed under his breath quietly, rolling his eyes. Every step toward the washroom felt like dragging leaden weights. One arm held Keonho steady, the other doing nothing except trying not to throw up at the sight of blood smeared across a friend—or acquaintance—he barely understood.
“Go use the washroom,” Seonghyeon said finally, giving Keonho a gentle push as he released his arm. The words carried both impatience and relief. Why should he coddle someone who had spent the past few minutes glaring daggers at him, acting untouchable while relying entirely on Seonghyeon to keep upright?
“You’re not gonna help me inside?” Keonho asked, disbelief lacing every word, a thin trickle of blood sliding down his lips as he spoke.
Seonghyeon turned away, stomach twisting at the sight. Blood was one thing on TV, one thing in the movies—but this was real, and it was up close. His voice came out awkward, guilty, almost stammering. “Do it yourself… the sink’s just a few steps away anyway.”
Keonho’s glare could have sliced through steel. Seonghyeon instinctively took a step back. For a second, it wasn’t just Keonho staring—it was something darker, something harder, something that seemed to reach past his body and into the air itself.
“Fine.” Keonho cut the interaction short, already regretting even considering help. Friends were a myth. Classmates were mostly gossipers, mostly scared, mostly cruel. Especially someone as nerdy as Seonghyeon. He didn’t need help. He never needed help.
Each step toward the sink was heavy with dread. Every reflection in the bathroom tiles made him flinch. Every drop of blood that dripped from his chin onto the floor sounded louder than a gunshot in his ears. And even as Seonghyeon watched silently from the doorway, his own unease growing with every passing second, Keonho silently vowed that he wouldn’t let anyone see him break—not now, not ever, not for anyone.
Seonghyeon leaned against the cold tile wall, arms crossed, trying to steady his racing thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about how the morning had unfolded, how every little moment had stacked into a crescendo of dread. The black cat had appeared out of nowhere, brushing past his leg, purring as if mocking him, eyes glinting with an intelligence far beyond any normal animal. It followed him all the way to school, vanishing only when he dared to glance away.
And then there was the disappearance of Kim Junmi. No warning, no note, just an empty seat that had been hers, a void that made every other noise in the classroom seem amplified. Fishy—that was the only word Seonghyeon could think of. His chest tightened at the thought, memories pressing against the present.
His mother had worked in this school years ago, long before he even thought about being here. He could still see her face from that day—the panic, the worry, the pale dread that hadn’t left her even after she came home. Eleven-year-old Seonghyeon had stood in the living room, staring at her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands, not understanding, too young to process the gravity of what she whispered to his father.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” he had asked innocently, tugging at her sleeve.
Her sobs had been raw, incomprehensible. His father’s embrace had been tight, desperate, a shield against the incomprehensible horror of the news.
“Did she…?” His father’s voice had cracked, unsteady.
The explanation came too late, the reality too gruesome: the student had been found dead later that night, discovered by a passerby, limbs splayed unnaturally, the body a canvas of violence that made headlines and haunted the school. That day had marked the end of his mother’s career there—she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t continue teaching in a place shadowed by such brutality.
Now, standing in the half-lit washroom, Seonghyeon could almost feel the past bleeding into the present. The eerie purr of the black cat in his mind, the missing student, the blood on Keonho’s chin—it all pressed together like a puzzle made of shadows. Every chill on his skin, every creak in the corridor outside, every faint drip from the faucets seemed to whisper that history was repeating itself.
He rubbed his temple, trying to push the memory back, trying to focus on the present: the boy in front of the sink, the warm blood on his hands, the phone that hadn’t stopped buzzing with that cursed app. But it wasn’t easy. The past had teeth, and it had already bitten once.
And now, the bite was coming again.
After the incident, his mother never returned to the school. The trauma had settled deep inside her, a weight that made every thought of classrooms and corridors unbearable. She became overprotective, hovering over Seonghyeon in a way that had once seemed suffocating, but now he understood. Every time he went to a friend’s house, hung out, or even lingered outside past curfew, she would call, insisting on checking in, her voice tight with worry. He had rolled his eyes as a kid, begrudging her interference, but now, sitting here in the shadowed washroom, he knew why.
The world was cruel. It hadn’t changed. And the school’s response had only confirmed that truth. He remembered overhearing it as a child, the cold, indifferent words from the administration echoing in his mind. “We do not take responsibility for what happened. Student Kim, who is now deceased, was off school grounds. We are not responsible for what happened.”
No empathy. No condolence. No “rest in peace.” Just a statement to save their own reputations. The same school remained open, the same low fees attracting more families who couldn’t afford alternatives, a brutal reminder that survival often outweighed humanity. Seonghyeon had never understood why education, a birthright, carried a price. He still didn’t.
TRING TRING.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the sound cutting through the muffled echoes of Keonho gagging in the washroom. He knew the boy was still trying to clear whatever remained of the blood from his throat, the metallic tang likely still coating his tongue.
Seonghyeon’s fingers hesitated over the device. His mother. Of course, it had to be her. Her calls were always relentless, her concern endless. She had a rule: always respond, always acknowledge, even if he was busy. He reached into his pocket, thumb hovering over the answer button.
He paused. What could he even say? Another student gone missing, history repeating itself—the same horror that had haunted their family years ago? He didn’t have the heart to trigger her anxiety, to reopen wounds that never fully healed.
Instead, he swiped, sending the one word she expected, the word that kept her panic at bay.
“Safe.”
Almost immediately, the reply came back.
“Okay.”
Seonghyeon felt it more than read it—her relief radiated through the simple text, a silent reassurance that, for now, the world had not claimed him yet.
Seonghyeon’s fingers hovered over the phone, hesitating before he almost shoved it back into his pocket. If it weren’t for the glowing notification blinking insistently at the top of his screen, he might have pretended it didn’t exist at all.
Echo downloaded successfully.
The words made his chest tighten. He didn’t remember downloading this app—hell, he didn’t even know it existed until this morning. A cold, crawling shiver ran down his spine.
He tugged his phone from his pocket, letting the screen light his face in the dim washroom, eyes narrowing as he tried to think rationally. Maybe the notification came from the Play Store, maybe it was a glitch. Either way, he could check. He could at least see what this app was supposed to be, read a few reviews, figure out why the hell it had appeared on his phone, and then finally get some answers.
ECHO.
He typed the name into the search bar, pressing enter with a mix of boredom and unease. His shoulders stiffened as he waited for the results.
Nothing. No exact matches, no app icon resembling the one on his screen. His spine tingled with unease, the small hairs on his arms rising.
“So… what if it’s not here?” he whispered, almost instinctively, as if speaking the thought aloud might help him make sense of it. His voice sounded too loud in the silent corridor outside the washroom. Another shiver ran through him, heavier this time, prickling the back of his neck. He wasn’t scared for himself—well, not exactly—but for his mother. If anything happened to him, the trauma she had carried for years would snap like brittle glass. He couldn’t let that happen.
Maybe it was an APK downloaded from some sketchy site, a pirated version of an app or some premium file. Maybe that explained why it wasn’t showing up anywhere else. He forced his fingers to type again, carefully, deliberately: Echo app APK.
The results made him pause. Nothing. No ghost app, no forum posts, no download links. Just a Google definition:
An “echo” is a repeated sound caused by the reflection of sound waves off a surface.
No relevance. Nothing. It was as if the app had no existence outside of his phone.
He tried one more time. Maybe Google had misread him. Echo app apk.
Again. Nothing. Only a suggestion, a faint, mocking idea. “Did you mean Love Echo APK?”—a completely unrelated app, some trend for couples. Definitely not what he was looking for.
Seonghyeon pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then removed them, pressing a handkerchief against the lenses and wiping away the smudges. His eyes flicked back to the search results, then to the notification bar, which glowed once again with that same impossible app: Echo.
It was everywhere, yet nowhere.
A ghost app. A phantom that existed only on his phone. And it wasn’t just in his mind—he knew that much.
A slow, creeping dread settled in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t normal.
Seonghyeon’s chest tightens, the phone almost burning in his trembling hands. The notification pulses again, red and alive, almost breathing.
PRESS TO START.
His fingers hover, mind screaming to throw the phone, to smash it against the tiled floor of the hallway. But his body refuses to listen. There’s a pull, something magnetic, hypnotic. Before he even realizes it, his thumb presses the screen.
The interface blinks into existence, shadows creeping across the display.
And then—the black cat.
He freezes. The black cat. The same one that had crossed his path that morning, following him, vanishing when he dared to look directly at it. His breath catches in his throat, glasses fogging as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. No. No. No. No.
PICK YOUR ROLE.
He slams the phone, presses every button he can see. Shut it down. Turn it off. Anything. But the lines of the app flicker, refusing to die. A low, eerie voice slithers from the speaker.
HUNT.
OR.
HIDE.
Seonghyeon’s hand shakes so violently his phone almost slips. “I don’t wanna play the hell—” His voice cracks, swallowed by the silence of the empty hallway, the absurd quiet after the chaos of the morning. Panic grips him. He presses, almost by accident, almost as if the phone itself guided his thumb… HUNT.
A chill runs down his spine, crawling along his back, making his muscles knot. His legs quiver; he sways slightly, gripping the phone like a lifeline, even as nausea rises in his stomach. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, fogging his glasses, slipping unchecked down his cheeks. He fights to blink them away, but it doesn’t help. Fear presses down on him like concrete. Something bad—something terrible—is coming.
FIRST HINT COMING UP.
The voice from the app speaks again, low, distorted, whispering straight into his chest. The hallway stretches out empty and silent, impossibly quiet for a school that had just erupted in chaos. Students’ voices, protests, screaming—gone, like the world had been swallowed whole. His gut twists. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong.
He whispers a prayer he doesn’t remember learning. Please, oh god, not something…
The phone vibrates violently in his hand, startling him so hard he almost drops it. The screen flashes—a call, from an unknown user. His finger instinctively moves to swipe away, to decline, to refuse the intrusion. But then—a force, or maybe something darker, seems to press his thumb down. The call is answered before he can react.
Seonghyeon’s vision is nothing but black, suffocating darkness that wraps around him like a thick shroud. His ears pick up a breathing that isn’t his own—slow, deliberate, heavy, close.
He stiffens, muscles locked, stomach twisting, and the terror crawling up his spine is almost physical. When he finally dares to lift his eyes, he sees the reflection of blood smeared across his face. It’s everywhere—streaked, splattered, like someone had taken a brush and painted him with crimson. His body shakes uncontrollably. Where could that much blood come from? The thought alone sends a cold jolt through him.
A presence looms behind him, almost leaning into his shoulder. Each exhale presses against his ear, a wet, rasping sound that would make anyone recoil.
“ARE YOU ALONE?” the voice cuts sharply into him, jagged and urgent. Seonghyeon flinches, his knees nearly giving out, and tears pour freely now, unchecked. The terror tightens around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. A warm, damp trickle spreads down his leg, a humiliation he can’t stop, but doesn’t care to. Just survive.
“PLEASE, GO AWAY! GO AWAY!” His own voice cracks, raw and desperate. He presses his palms to his face, smearing the blood further, trying to shield himself, trying to shut the world out. The phone falls from his hands, clattering onto the school’s hard tile, the sharp sound barely registering. Who cares if it’s cracked? Right now, life itself feels fragile, expendable.
A hand grabs him, firm but steady, shaking him slightly. “HEY?” Keonho’s voice cuts through the darkness, commanding yet calm, an anchor in the chaos.
Seonghyeon blinks, tries to focus, and slowly opens his eyes. Through the haze of tears and blood, he sees Keonho crouched in front of him, picking up the fallen phone and handing it back. Their eyes meet—blurry, wet, heavy with unspoken fear. Keonho doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t judge. There’s no ridicule, only a silent, shared understanding, a bridge between two people thrown into the same terrifying unknown.
They stand there together for a heartbeat too long in the emptiness of the hall, the fear still pressing in from every corner.
Seonghyeon wipes at his face, smearing the last traces of blood and tears across his sleeve, and his voice comes out small, barely above a whisper. “Can you… hug me?” The words hang in the air, awkward and desperate, as if saying them out loud might make the fear tangible enough to dissolve. This is the first time in his life that he’s felt so terrified he thought he might soil himself right then and there.
Keonho just shakes his head, a mixture of disgust and irritation flashing across his face. He’s about to turn and walk away when the bell rings. Too early. Too sudden. “Did the class just end?” he questions, frustration and disbelief lacing his tone.
“Yeah… because of the missing student—just like—” Seonghyeon begins, eyes tracking the stream of students from other classrooms passing the corner near the washroom. It’s the only way down to the hall, and their movement makes the world feel alive again, too alive.
“Just shut up,” Keonho groans, exasperation cutting through the tension. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to know the details of past disappearances or the urban legends everyone else obsesses over. None of it matters. All he wants is to get away from the fear, from the blood, from the eerie whispers that won’t leave his mind.
Seonghyeon nods quietly, pressing his sleeve against his eyes one last time. He still doesn’t understand why this is happening. Why the app downloaded itself. Why the world seems determined to make him a part of something cruel.
He knows he can’t even turn to his mom; she carries her own trauma, heavy enough that she can’t shoulder his fears.
For a long, tense moment, the two stand like shadows pressed against the wall, trying to disappear from the curious gazes of passing classmates. They are ghosts, unnoticed and untouchable.
But the second the two stepped inside, they froze.
After what feels like an eternity—ten minutes stretched thin by fear—they finally turn. Quietly, carefully, they begin to make their way back to the classroom. Their footsteps are the only sound in the silent hall, echoing faintly off the tiles.
You were there—alone in the classroom, zipping up your bag. The room felt eerily quiet, too still for this hour, sunlight bleeding through the half‑drawn curtains in slanted stripes.
Your eyes flicked up, meeting theirs. You didn’t say anything, but the look you gave them was sharp—judging, suspicious. And it only grew sharper when you noticed their hands. Intertwined.
Keonho immediately jerked back, snatching his hand away like it burned. “What the—” He looked mortified, wiping his palm on his pants as if contact itself was something dirty.
“You were literally the one who held it first,” Seonghyeon shot back, voice tired and dry. He glanced your way again, maybe to defend himself—but you were already done packing. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, pushed past Keonho blocking the doorframe, and stepped out the room without another word.
Before leaving, you threw them one last look over your shoulder. That single glare said it all—you didn’t trust them. Something about those two felt off, like they were hiding something. But maybe it was just your nerves—because after yesterday, you’d learned that trusting anyone was a mistake.
You dreaded the walk home. The long stretch between the school gates and the main road always felt too empty, too quiet.
But Hana wasn’t here today. She hadn’t shown up at all, though she’d texted last night saying she had a fever. You wanted to believe her. She lived alone, in a different country from her family, and she never skipped classes—so it made sense. Still, that strange weight in your chest wouldn’t go away.
Something felt wrong.
As you stepped out of the building, the cool air hit your face, and you instinctively reached for your phone. No headphones this time—you needed to hear everything. Every step. Every sound. You weren’t about to be caught off guard again.
And this time, you were prepared. Pepper spray tucked in your pocket, fingers brushing against the metal canister every few seconds for reassurance. You still didn’t know why you carried it—it wasn’t like it could stop a ghost, if that’s what was out there. But the small hiss of comfort came from the fact that if it wasn’t a ghost—if it was a person, a stalker, a stranger—you’d at least have a chance.
Because deep down, you weren’t sure which was worse.
You glance down—and freeze.
Your phone buzzes, the vibration cutting through the silence like a warning.
That same black cat icon. The same one from the cursed app. And when you lift your head, there it is again—the real black cat, padding across the pavement just a few feet ahead of you, tail flicking lazily before it disappears behind a trash bin.
You look back at your phone. A new message. The sender’s name: Hana.
Your chest tightens. No. No, No, No.
But what makes your stomach drop isn’t her name—it’s the small symbol beside it. The Echo icon.
You tap the message open with shaking fingers.
“HELP.”
Just that. One word. But it’s enough to make the blood drain from your face.
You don’t stop to think. You can’t.
“What the fuck…” you whisper, your breath hitching as you spin on your heel, bolting down the sidewalk. Your heart slams against your ribs, the air slicing through your throat as you run—past the gates, past the rows of shops, past students laughing in uniforms that suddenly feel too bright for how dark everything feels inside you.
Because Hana lives alone. Because she’s sick. Because she doesn’t have anyone nearby except you.
And if this—whatever this is—had found her first, then you were already too late.
The echo of your sneakers slapping the pavement grows louder, faster, syncing with the pounding in your ears. Every passing second feeds your panic. The thought of her being alone, hurt, taken—it makes your hands tremble around your phone.
You shove past a couple of students walking the same way, muttering apologies you don’t even register. This street is full of people your age, going home like it’s any other day—but somehow it feels like you’re the only one who knows that something awful is happening right now.
And that’s when you hear it.
By the time you reach the dorm building, your lungs burn. You take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator completely. Each step echoes sharply in the stairwell, hollow and metallic, like a countdown.
A faint tick… tick… tick…
At first, you think it’s in your head—a side effect of running too fast, breathing too hard. But then you glance at your phone screen.
A timer. Bright red.
00:10.
“What the hell—”
Your stomach twists.
You stare at the numbers as they begin to drop.
No message. No explanation.
00:09. 00:08. 00:07.
Just the ticking.
The second you reach Hana’s dorm room, your stomach sinks.
And that damn black cat still flickering faintly in the corner of your screen.
It’s empty. Completely empty.
No sound. No movement. Not even the faint hum of her air purifier that usually runs nonstop. Just silence. The kind that makes your ears ring.
Your pulse is pounding, your chest heaving as your mind scrambles for what to do. And then—like some terrible instinct—you remember every horror story, every warning whispered through trembling lips.
Always check the terrace.
Even though it’s a restricted area. Even though every cell in your body screams not to.
You take the stairs two at a time, your shoes slipping against the steps, the metal railing cold and slick against your palm. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you reach the last flight and gasp out her name, voice cracking.
“HANA!”
The sun is still out, spilling gold across the rooftop—but nothing about it feels warm. It feels wrong. Too still.
And there she is.
Standing right at the edge. Her back turned to you.
It’s the kind of sight that steals the air straight from your lungs—her hair swaying gently in the breeze, her arms hanging loose by her sides, her body frighteningly still.
“...Hana?”
Then, for a fraction of a second, you see it—a shape.
No answer. Not even a twitch.
A dark silhouette shifting behind her. The blur of hands reaching out from nothing, curling around her shoulders, ready to push.
Your whole body locks up in terror, but instinct kicks in faster than thought.
You run.
Your footsteps thunder against the concrete as you lunge forward, hand fisting in her collar just as she starts to lean. The force sends you both crashing down, your knee scraping open on the cement, the sting shooting up your leg—but she’s safe. She’s alive. That's enough.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” The words tear out of you, half a sob, half fury. You smack her arm weakly, more out of relief than anger. “ARE YOU STUPID? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU—”
You stop when you see her face.
She’s blinking at you, dazed, like she just woke up. Her lips part, voice trembling. “What are you talking about?”
She looks genuinely confused. Scared, even.
The notification sound.
And then—ding.
You yank your phone out instantly, heart hammering, expecting to see the cursed app lighting up your screen again—but there’s nothing.
No message. No timer. Just your own reflection staring back at you in the black glass.
Then another ding.
This time, it’s not your phone.
You can barely get the word out, your throat dry, voice cracking.
You turn your head, eyes locking on hers. Hana’s trembling hand is clutching her own phone, the familiar black cat icon glowing faintly at the top of her screen.
“...Hunt?”
You want her to nod. You need her to nod.
But she shakes her head. Slowly.
Your stomach drops again. Because that means—she’s not a hunter. She’s a hider.
And if both sides are suffering—if neither is safe—then what’s the point of the game at all?
The two of you stand there on the rooftop, the world too quiet, too bright, your phones heavy in your hands.
There’s nothing left to say.
Neither of you speak.
Just the sound of your shaky breaths—and the faint, distorted echo of a cat’s purr bleeding through both of your phones.
You end up lying to your parents that evening, the lie slipping out more easily than you expect.
“Mom… I’ll stay with Hana tonight. She’s really sick.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line—just her breathing, soft and uneven, the kind that comes when she’s thinking. You can almost hear her hesitating. But after a few seconds, her voice softens.
“Alright, sweetheart. Stay safe. Take care of her, okay?”
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask for proof, doesn’t insist you come home. Maybe because she trusts you. Or maybe because Hana has always been the one name she associates with safety—your childhood friend, the girl who used to walk you home when your mom worked late, the one who shared half her lunch with you in middle school.
A mother’s heart, even if it isn’t Hana’s own, would never let a sick child live alone in a foreign country.
So you get the leave.
Now, the two of you are in Hana’s small dorm room. The single lamp near the desk casts a dim, yellow glow, too warm for a night that feels this cold. The window’s cracked open, and the sound of the wind mixes with the faint hum of traffic below.
Hana barely eats the soup you made for her. She just curls into a ball on her bed, her hair splayed out like dark ink against the pillow, her breaths deep and steady. You sit on the chair beside her, arms wrapped around your knees.
You can’t sleep. Not after what happened.
Because this isn’t a game anymore.
This is cruel.
The thought keeps circling your mind. Whoever—or whatever—made this Echo app almost made you lose your best friend. And even if you never called her that before, even if you used to think she was dumb and too bright, none of that matters now. You feel a kind of pity for her that you can’t explain, one that feels heavier than guilt.
You’re staring at the lamp’s glow, half-lost in your thoughts, when a whisper cuts through the still air.
“Don’t text.”
You blink.
The voice came from the bed. From Hana.
You look up slowly. She’s still asleep—completely motionless except for the soft rise and fall of her chest. Her lips don’t move. Her eyes remain closed.
But you heard her. You’re sure of it.
Goosebumps crawl up your arms as you stare at her. The air suddenly feels thick, hard to breathe in. You try to reason with yourself—maybe she’s just talking in her sleep. That happens. Right?
Then another voice.
Closer.
Right next to your ear.
“Did you know there are many more?”
You whip your head around so fast your neck almost snaps, your pulse racing in your throat. This time it isn’t Hana’s voice—it’s lower, distorted, like a recording that’s been replayed too many times.
Your shaking hand grabs your phone off the desk, and before you even think, you throw it onto the bed, as far away from you as possible. The sound it makes as it hits the sheets is far too loud in the silence.
Your heart’s hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.
You keep staring at the floor, eyes wide open. You know it wasn’t Hana who whispered. Her breathing is still even and quiet. She hasn’t moved an inch.
You force yourself to take a breath, trying to calm your shaking. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe you’re imagining things. But even as you tell yourself that, your eyes feel heavy—your exhaustion finally catching up.
You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just blink a little too long, your head tipping against the back of the chair.
And then—soft footsteps.
Bare feet padding against the cold floor.
Someone’s moving.
But it’s not Hana. You can still hear her breathing right next to you.
The faint creak of the floorboards shifts, slow and deliberate, circling the room.
You don’t open your eyes. You can’t. You’re not sure if you’re dreaming, half-asleep, or if someone—or something—is actually standing there.
Out of the two people in this room…
In that moment, one thought digs its claws into your mind.
only one might be real.
And you’re no longer sure which one it is.
⪩⪨
The next morning, the school feels like it’s teetering between chaos and denial. Adults still insist on running classes, despite the disappearance yesterday, and the hallway outside your classroom is alive with screaming parents. You can hear the mother wailing, the father’s voice cracking with fury, threats of lawsuits thrown at the principal like daggers.
Inside the classroom, Hana is asleep, her head resting on the desk, the faint rise and fall of her chest almost hypnotic.
You shift in your seat, glancing around as students murmur in small groups. A few are nervously replaying yesterday’s events, others pretending not to care. You hesitate, then lean toward the only classmate you’ve ever spoken to meaningfully—Eunseo.
“Do you… echo?” The words escape awkwardly, almost too soft, like you’re afraid of being overheard.
Eunseo tilts her head, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Echo as in…?” She gestures vaguely at her notebook, open to the latest page of doodles—intricate patterns, spirals, something almost mesmerizing. You suppress an eye-roll. Now is not the time for art appreciation.
“Nothing,” you let out quickly, retreating back into your seat. This is the tenth person you’ve tried, and the tenth failure. No one seems to understand. No one seems to care. The lessons drag on, barely existing, and you leave the classroom frustrated, steps heavy.
But just as you step into the hall, you catch a sliver of conversation. Keonho and Seonghyeon are lingering by the doorway, heads close, murmuring in low tones. Hana’s just stretched, yawning, and walking past, ignoring everyone. Your curiosity overrides caution.
“Echo?” you blurt out, voice sharp enough to make both boys freeze mid-step.
“What?” Both of them turn to you, eyes wide, as if you’ve suddenly revealed a ghost in the room.
“I heard you two talking about echo,” you repeat, urgency bleeding into your tone. Your pulse hammers. The words feel heavier than you intended, like an accusation but also a plea.
“How do you—” Keonho cuts himself off, glancing at Seonghyeon with disbelief, jaw slack.
“Hunter. We need to find more hunters,” you state firmly, your brain racing even as it feels like there’s barely any logic to it. If Hana has the app, there must be others like her. Hunters, hiders… the balance is off. Something’s wrong, and it’s bigger than you thought.
“Shouldn’t it be seekers instead of hunters?” Keonho mutters, frowning, but he’s already nodding, following your lead, eyes wary. You can feel his unease, but he complies. You know as little as he does—but you have to act like you understand.
“Where do we find another hunter?” Seonghyeon interrupts, shiver running down his spine despite his attempt at calm. He’s leaning forward slightly, eyes darting to the hallway, alert to every sound.
“There it is. Standing outside. Listening to the conversation.” You point subtly, and both boys turn, blinking at the faint sound of shoes skimming across tiles. A figure hesitates in the doorway, cautious—Juhoon, the senior. He’s been there all along, observing. Somehow, your instinct knew.
COUNTDOWN BEGINS.
Before either Keonho or Seonghyeon can speak, your phone vibrates violently, almost knocking you off your chair. The screen glows ominously.
Yours Truly: Dear lovely readers, my name is Adri and this my first Kinktober! I am very excited to join the best time of the year. If you wish to be added to the tag list, you can either dm, comment, or ask with either specific days or all days.
p.s. I spun a wheel of kinks and a wheel I personally made with all my fandoms, so everything is basically at random. This list is kinda insane what?
Tag List: @regu1ar-huh @bellaciao0
*•.¸♡ Week 1 ♡¸.•*
October 1st: Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds) ☠ First Time
October 2nd: Min Yoongi/Suga (BTS) ☠ Biting kink
October 3rd: Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) ☠ Praise kink
October 4th: Ran Haitani (Tokyo Revengers) ☠ Face Sitting
October 5th: Izuku Midoriya/Deku (My Hero Acedemia) ☠ Rough sex
October 6th: Anthony Bridgerton (Bridgerton) ☠ Period sex
October 7th: Akaza (Demon Slayer) ☠ Dacryphilia
*•.¸♡ Week 2 ♡¸.•*
October 8th: Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen) ☠ Oral
October 9th: Dick Grayson/Nightwing (DC) ☠ Marathon sex
October 10th: Zoro (One Piece) ☠ Lactation kink
October 11th: Baki Hanma (Baki) ☠ Choking kink
October 12th: Mark Lee (NCT) ☠ Aphrodisiac
October 13th: Hoshina Soshiro (Kaiju No. 8) ☠ Mirror kink
October 14th: Levi Ackerman (Attack on Titan) ☠ Overstimulation
*•.¸♡ Week 3 ♡¸.•*
October 15th: Isack Hadjar (F1) ☠ Mutual Masturbation
October 16th: Inumaki Toge (Jujutsu Kaisen) ☠ Corruption kink
October 17th: Charles Leclerc (F1) ☠ Edging
October 18th: Hayato Suo (Windbreaker) ☠ Food play
October 19th: Itoshi Sae (Blue Lock) ☠ Hate sex
October 20th: Sano Manjiro/Mikey (Tokyo Revengers) ☠ Phone sex
October 21st: Draco & Theodore (Harry Potter) ☠ Threesome
*•.¸♡ Week 4 ♡¸.•*
October 22nd: Armin (Attack on Titan) ☠ Riding
October 23rd: Tom Riddle (Harry Potter) ☠ Possessive sex
October24th: Jack Hughes (NHL) ☠ Bondage
October 25th: Narumi Gen (Kaiju No. 8) ☠ Cockwarming
October 26th: Clark Kent (Superman) ☠ Office sex
October 27th: Eddie Diaz (911) ☠ Mommy kink
October 28th: Lee Chan/Dino (Seventeen) ☠ Piercings
*•.¸♡ Week 5 ♡¸.•*
October 29th: Sam Winchester (Supernatural) ☠ Anal
October 30th: Giyuu Tomioka (Demon Slayer) ☠ Just the tip
October 31st: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris (F1) ☠ Double Penetration
