[ririzparadise]

⠀ ⠀ # . WIP DUMPS & UPDATES 𓂃 ♥︎

all the fics would be posted under @shortonwon (enhypen) & @cortizzlr (cortis)

little things you should know , this little corner is dedicated to my WIPs and writing updates—a space I’ve created to make the journey feel a little less lonely. I hope you enjoy the energy here as much as I do.

[ririzparadise]

BETWEEN PANELS ! | ONGOING | BIRTHDAY SPECIAL.

been soooo long since I last posted a fic other than smut on shortonwon ☝🏻 so this will be posted on jakey's birthday. estimated around 10K—20K words.

[ririzparadise]

update i. (2.7k) and we going strong tonight! back on track with my enhypen blog! 😗

[shortonwon]

TOUCH HER AGAIN! ┈─ RIKI

❪ 리키 ❫　action - fic - riki x f!reader ノ bestfriends!au, not proofread 〃 ★ your best friend always liked to brag about his righteous aura—you never believed him until you were to witness it yourself through circumstances uncalled for. (🍀) 1.7k words

Riki can’t help but walk aimlessly, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the sound of his shoes scuffing against the pavement cutting through the quiet night.

He groans under his breath, kicking a pebble in front of him—more out of frustration than boredom. Another argument. Another pointless back-and-forth that left him feeling like the bad guy again. All he had been trying to do was make you understand his side, but somehow, it always circled back to him being the villain.

“I’m always the villain for her, after all,” he mutters, a humorless laugh slipping out. The words taste bitter, the kind that sting even when they’re meant to sound nonchalant.

It wasn’t like he was dating you or anything—he keeps reminding himself of that. Heck, he didn’t even see you that way. Or at least, that’s what he liked to believe.

“Girls and their stupid mood swings,” he scoffs, kicking another pebble with more force this time.

His fingers fumble inside his pocket until they find the crumpled cash he’d shoved there days ago—the same money he’d been saving to buy you a small gift for your birthday. Now, even touching it feels wrong. The notes feel heavier somehow, like a reminder of something he wanted to give but couldn’t anymore.

Because how could he spend it on anything else, knowing it was meant for you?

“It’s not like I even like her,” he says out loud, as if speaking the words will make them more believable. His breath comes out in a tired sigh, his chest tightening slightly when his own thoughts whisper back—liar.

He slows down, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes trained on the ground. “Okay… maybe I do like her,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid someone might hear him confess to himself. “But—”

He trails off mid-sentence, attention snapping toward a strange sound coming from the end of the street.

A small commotion.

He can’t quite tell what it is, but curiosity flickers in his chest.

It’s almost ironic—how even when he’s seething with frustration, his attention can still shift so easily to something else.

Maybe it’s just who he is, or maybe, deep down, he’s looking for something—anything—to distract himself from you.

“Hey—give them to us.”

“You little piece of—”

Riki knows those voices. Too well. They belong to the neighborhood idiots who get off on hassling female students—boys who are still students themselves but act like cowards on the street.

He’s caught them before.

Today, midday, after the stupid fight with you that’s been gnawing at him, hearing that exact commotion lights a new kind of fire under him.

He turns on his heel, hands coming out of his pockets into fists at his sides. He’s too tired for this—too tired to be patient with anyone who thinks it’s funny to corner someone.

“Hey, you two!” he barks, spotting them at the far end, pressing a girl against the wall. She clutches two tiny kittens to her chest; the boys are trying to wrench the kittens free, grinning like it’s a game.

Something inside Riki snaps red.

He doesn’t even look to see who the girl is.

Adrenaline takes over.

He strides forward, grabs each kid by the collar, yanks them aside with enough force to stumble them a few steps, then shoves them down to the pavement. He towers over them—six feet something, a glare that makes the air colder—frustration etched into every line of his face.

“What the fu—” one of them sputters, but Riki doesn’t give him the chance. He clamps his hands onto the kid’s cheeks, fingers rough and unforgiving, squeezing until the boy stumbles back, eyes wide.

Riki’s voice is low, sharp as a blade. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. He means it.

“If I see you two harassing another female again— I won’t hesitate to beat you up.”

His finger jabs at them like punctuation, the warning ringing in the little street. The girl behind him stays still, clutching the kittens, watching everything as if she can’t decide whether to thank him or run. The boys on the ground look small and stupid and suddenly very, very ashamed.

“We won’t, we won’t!!” one of them blurts, voice suddenly pleading. His eyes flick to the kitten squirming in the girl’s arms, and Riki feels his jaw tighten; the kid winces as Riki pulls at his hair and looks away as if the street itself just scolded him.

“I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!! LET GO!!” he begs, tiny tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

“I promise I’ll beat his ass up myself if he ever brings this shit up again,” the other boy adds, voice shaky, eyes desperate to be released. He makes sure not to meet the girl’s gaze.

“Fine. But if I ever see you doing this again…” Riki lets the sentence hang, his stare a hard, silent threat. “I won’t mind serving a sentence.”

They gulp, glance at each other, and swallow whatever pride they have left.

Their apology isn’t sincere so much as survival instinct—no one wants to be on the receiving end of ‘THE RIKI’ especially with the ridiculous rumours that he eats humans for lunch. It’s easier to play scared.

Riki steps back from towering over them. It feels wrong to just leave them without making sure the girl’s okay, and the kittens’ distressed mews tug at him. He scans for the source of the sound, then lifts his gaze—and freezes.

Because it’s you.

You’re standing there, hood pushed back just enough for him to see your face, and for a second he can’t process anything but the sight of you, right there in front of him. Everything else blurs out—the dirt on the pavement, the two boys clutching their bruised egos, even the little kittens curling into your arms.

You look at him, the kittens wriggling in your arms. He’s frozen for a beat, his eyes wide, heart pounding and then his mouth flies open in a curse.

“YOU BASTARDS!”

Your eyes go wide as Riki spins back toward the boys, his voice raw with rage. You set the kittens down on the sidewalk without thinking, then hurry over as he looms over the two guys who are trying to get to their feet. His fist connects with the first one’s face.

“YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY HARASSING GIRLS?!” Another punch lands on the other kid’s jaw—there’s a sick crack you can almost hear, and you wouldn’t be shocked if one of them needed a dentist after this.

You hover behind him, hand reaching out before you halt, stunned by how fierce he is.

“HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HER?!” he roars, another blow nearly thrown until you grab him from behind. Your arms wrap around his torso just in time; his fist freezes midair. He takes a sharp breath, shoulders heaving, glare burning into the two boys who are already trembling.

“Oh my god!! Please calm down, Riki!” you plead, squeezing him tighter. He shoves your hands away once, still glaring at them before turning to face you, sweat beading on his forehead from the adrenaline.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally, voice rough as he scratches the back of his neck, trying to step out of the haze. Seeing you—the girl he’s liked since childhood—cornered like that flips a switch inside him.

“I’m okay. I just heard kittens and stopped…” you trail off, letting him fuel his anger for a moment longer.

“And those scumbags decided it was funny to mess with you?” he finishes for you, eyes hot with fury, ready to turn back and teach them another lesson if you didn’t hold on to him so tight.

“Riki, stop it!” you scold, punching his chest lightly as the two boys finally scramble away, breaths ragged and panicked. Your thumb rubs circles on his knuckles softly, fingers digging in, not letting him go after them.

“I really need to teach them a lesson—” he begins, jaw tight.

“I need to teach you a lesson, boy. How dare you walk off in the middle of an argument?” you snap, letting go of his hand and stalking to the curb. Your feet move before your brain does; adrenaline makes you feel oddly detached.

“Are you seriously bringing this up again?” Riki groans, rolling his eyes despite the shaking in his voice. His knuckles are bruised, a faint trickle of blood seeping through in a few places, but he hides it by tucking his hands into his pockets.

You kneel, scoop the kittens into your arms, and stand, looking up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile you can’t help but scold with a sharp, “tchh” and then you walk ahead, still buzzing with anger.

Riki can’t help the small, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he stares down at his bruised knuckles.

The sting should’ve hurt, but instead, it makes something inside him twist—a quiet, undeniable realisation that he’s completely, stupidly, irreversibly in love with the girl he calls his best friend. Even if he keeps denying it, even if he’s tried convincing himself otherwise a hundred times, it’s obvious now. Painfully obvious.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky laugh before glancing up at you walking a few steps ahead. The sight alone makes his chest feel lighter. So he jogs to catch up, voice breaking the silence.

“Are you mad?” he whines, pretending not to know the answer.

“You bet I am,” you shoot back without looking at him, the faintest pout tugging at your lips.

“Okay, stay pissed then.” Riki shrugs, slipping past you with mock nonchalance, as if he doesn’t care—but he completely misses the small smile curling at your mouth.

Because no matter how much you try to stay annoyed, you can’t erase the image of him—your Riki—losing his mind the moment he realised the girl in trouble was you.

© shortonwon | tumblr | 2025 ! took this from my cortis blog, so if you've seen this before—it's me only.

[ririzparadise]

taglist , @kristynaaah @baedreamverse @somuchdard @enhanoir @loldiorr @xoenhalover

[ririzparadise]

BETWEEN PANELS ! | ONGOING | BIRTHDAY SPECIAL.

been soooo long since I last posted a fic other than smut on shortonwon ☝🏻 so this will be posted on jakey's birthday. estimated around 10K—20K words.

[shortonwon]

Hiii! Long time no see 🩷 I’ve been pretty inactive this month, and honestly, I still have three fics piling up that I haven’t had the courage to post yet. But I will post them eventually. Or maybe I'll just cut kinktober off with four members only. I just wanted to share what’s been on my mind lately about posting here.

i. When I first started, I had zero followers and zero expectations—and that was honestly the most fun I’ve ever had. Now, being almost at 1.8k (which I’m so grateful for, truly), I can’t help but feel this pressure to keep putting out “better” stuff each time. There’s this fear that whatever I post next won’t live up to my previous works. It’s an expectation I’ve set for myself somehow… and it sucks.

ii. The perfectionism. It’s been eating me alive, to say the least. I keep writing and erasing, over and over again. So I’ll just be honest with you all—new fics and random thoughts will still be posted, but I’ll be spacing them out until I feel secure about sharing again.

Thank you for being patient and for supporting me always. Love you all so much 🩷

[shortonwon]

cutting kinktober off with only four members. I won't be posting kinktober for sunghoon, jungwon or sunoo but I have the fics in my drafts—i’ll revise them and queue them for upcoming months! <3

[ririzparadise]

Cheering you on with that jay fic. We dngaf if kinktober is over 😤 there are not enough jay fics on this platform

OMG OFC!! KINKTOBER DRAGS TIL NOVEMBER 10TH FOR ME!! ;3 and i absolutely agree, there are sooooo little jay fics (and I kinda wanna post more & more jay fics in the upcoming months!!) 💪🏻💗 THANK YOUU GURLIE!! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH THIS MEANS!! 🥹

[shortonwon]

GIMME ALL YOUR LOVE ✦ ┈─ P.JS

i. PAIRING — husband ! jay × wife ! reader

ii. GENRE — smut, porn with plot, arranged marriage au

iii. SYNOPSIS — having always admired your brother's best friend, when you finally did end up marrying him—it was nothing like how you had planned.

iv. WARNINGS — KINKTOBER SPECIAL , arranged marriage, age-gap (teenage crush → adult intimacy), first-time sex with mild pain, premature ejaculation, pregnancy, familial verbal abuse (mother), 20th century au, longing, masturbation (kind of?), lmk if more...

v. WORD COUNT — 11.6K — OCTOBER 31TH

You can’t help but stare down at your lap, eyes fixed on the fabric of your skirt while the soft clinking of cutlery and polite laughter fill the dining room.

Both sets of parents sit around the table—his and yours—their conversations weaving comfortably between courses. He sits directly across from you, your husband, yet you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not when everyone else is talking, not when the air already feels too tight around you.

“So,” your older brother leans back in his chair with that teasing grin you’ve always hated, “how’s married life treating you two?”

Your fingers tighten around the folds of your long skirt, knuckles pressing white as you nod, forcing out a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your cheeks burn, and you can feel every gaze at the table shift toward you—curious, expectant.

“Is it not great?” he pushes again, tone light but probing, and you swear you could strangle him for being so nosy. His words hang in the air, drawing full attention from your in-laws and your own parents alike.

“It… is great,” you manage, voice a little too soft, a little too unsure.

The table quiets for just a moment, and you feel your heart hammer in your chest. You keep your eyes low, fists still gripping your skirt like an anchor.

Across the table, Jay remains calm—expression unreadable, posture perfect. He doesn’t jump in to save you, doesn’t say a word, as if nothing is wrong. As if your discomfort isn’t laid bare for everyone to see.

“Really though? Son, is my daughter being a menace?” your father asks, his tone not quite teasing but taunting—that same sharp edge you’ve grown up hearing for the nineteen years before you were married off.

Married not out of choice, but because both sets of parents knew exactly how to twist your emotions until you couldn’t say no.

(But it wasn’t like you could’ve ever rejected him anyway.)

You finally lift your gaze, eyes meeting your husband’s across the table.

For a second, you hope he’ll say something—anything—to shift the attention.

But he only looks away, a soft, polite smile tugging at his lips as he replies, “If anything, I’m the one being a menace.”

Your mother lets out a delighted laugh, clearly charmed, her eyes gleaming as if they’ve truly hit the jackpot with their son-in-law.

“You’re just being humble,” your father waves it off with a smirk, turning his gaze toward you.

The look he gives you is painfully familiar—the same one that’s always warned you he’s about to embarrass you just because he can.

“My daughter’s really bad at taking care of a home, you know? Can’t even boil water properly,” he says, chuckling to himself. “It’s sad you can’t refund her now.”

The table bursts into laughter—light, easy, unbothered—as if it’s all harmless fun.

But the sound feels like static in your ears. You keep your eyes lowered, your fists tightening in your lap, quietly focusing on steadying your breath.

Jay only manages an awkward smile, clearly unsure what to do or say, his fingers nervously tracing the rim of his glass.

The others continue eating, chatting between bites of the elaborate meal your family prepared—every dish an effort to impress your in-laws. At least they get along, you think bitterly, exhaling a quiet sigh that no one seems to notice.

You take one last bite of the tteokbokki before sliding the plate away, the sauce faintly sweet on your tongue.

It’s the same dish your mother has been bragging to your in-laws about all evening—how she used to make it for you and your brother when you were growing up, how it was always your favorite. But the truth is, even getting an extra plate of rice back then had been a luxury.

Poverty had its quiet ways of humbling you.

You’re still living somewhere in the lower range of it—not starving, but not comfortable either.

This life is just… a slightly better version of what it used to be.

You can’t help but notice the subtle imbalance around the table. Your father-in-law, your father, and your brother dominate the conversation—voices confident, steady. Your mother and mother-in-law only speak when spoken to, their smiles polite but restrained.

It’s not surprising; it’s just how things are. Society still teaches women their boundaries, even here, even now—in the 20th century.

In that small, fleeting moment, you miss the way your husband’s gaze softens as he tips back a glass of water.

He watches you quietly from across the table, eyes lingering on your face while everyone else carries on. He’s not listening to their chatter—not really. His mind seems somewhere between guilt and something unspoken.

It’s only been a month since the wedding. The ring on your finger still glimmers like it’s new—because it is. And yet, as you sit there surrounded by family, the noise of laughter and conversation blending into a blur, you feel nothing but a hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyelids grow heavy before you even realize it. You rest your head lightly on the edge of the table—it’s spotless, thankfully. You’ve always eaten cleanly, a habit burned into you since childhood, when even the smallest mess could summon your mother’s wrath.

The voices around you fade, becoming distant and dull. Just like everything else in your marriage.

⪩⪨

“Oppa!!” You giggle, your tiny arms wrapping tightly around the older boy’s waist as he pedals down the narrow village road.

The wind rushes past your face, carrying the faint scent of blooming marigolds from nearby fields.

Jay laughs, steadying the bicycle with surprising ease for an nine-year-old, while you—barely four—cling to him from the backseat, your feet not even reaching the pedals.

He’s your brother’s best friend, five years older than you, and the only person who ever lets you ride with him. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no awkwardness—just the soft, protective kind of affection an older boy has for a little girl he’s known forever.

Jay turns his head slightly, flashing a grin toward your brother, Jake, who stands sulking on the dirt path, arms crossed and face scrunched up with jealousy.

“You’ll get your turn!” Jay calls out, his laughter echoing through the quiet afternoon.

Even then, you can’t help but admire him.

The way he talks, the way he smiles, the warmth in his voice—everything about him feels safe, gentle, and kind. To your tiny heart, it all feels like love. Pure, innocent, childish love that blooms without reason.

But as time passes, the sweetness sours. You grow older, and so does he, and you start to understand the quiet ache that comes with knowing the truth—that to him, you’re just a little girl he once looked after. Someone to protect, not someone to love.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than anything your nine-year-old heart has ever known.

⪩⪨

And now.

Sitting in your little hiding spot by the lake—the one nestled deep within the forest where no one ever dared to go—you can’t help but sob quietly, your small shoulders trembling with each hiccup.

The night air is damp, the scent of moss and still water filling your nose as you wipe at your tears with the back of your palm.

It happened again today.

Something so small, yet it broke you all over again—your brother getting the larger piece of fish while you were left scraping the thin curry for flavor.

“I hate everyone,” you whisper between choked sobs, voice cracking.

The darkness does nothing to comfort you; it only feels heavier, pressing against your little body as you rock back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. It’s the only way you’ve ever learned to stop the hurt—to hold yourself because no one else will.

“Hey?!”

You freeze at the sudden sound, breath catching.

“Please don’t kill me!” you blurt out, voice trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Sure, you’ve wished to disappear before, but not like this—not at nine years old, not here, not tonight.

A familiar voice cuts through the rustling of the trees. “What are you even doing here at this hour?”

You slowly peek through your fingers, your vision still blurry from the tears—and there he is. Jay. Completely soaked, water dripping from his hair as he steps out from the lake. For a moment, he looks unreal—like an angel pulled straight from the water, moonlight glinting off his damp skin. Your heart pounds faster, too fast, and you forget how to breathe.

“I asked you a question, girl,” he calls again, shaking his head roughly to dry his hair. The droplets scatter, landing on your face and hands. You flinch but secretly, it feels special—like being blessed somehow, as ridiculous as it sounds.

You’re just so hopelessly down bad, even at nine.

“...I ran away.” You murmur, voice soft and shaky, not really expecting him to say anything back.

But Jay tilts his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he asks again, “Something to do with your family?”

That’s all it takes for your younger self to spill everything.

“Yes… they gave fish to my brother but not me,” you complain, words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting too long. You glance up at him as he quietly sits beside you on the large rock, his presence grounding in the still night air.

“You want fish?” he questions suddenly, cutting through your silence.

Before you can even form a reply, he gets up, walking over to where a small stick rests by a dying campfire.

You blink in surprise as he blows over a piece of grilled fish, the faint smoke curling between you, and holds it out toward you.

You just stare, a little dumbfounded—why is he doing this? Especially when you’d just been ranting about your family, about his best friend’s family.

“Why were you cooking fish in the middle of a forest anyway?” you finally voice out, hesitant, not yet taking the food.

He shrugs lightly, settling back down beside you. “I just like the peace. Home’s… too chaotic for me,” he admits, tone calm but honest. Then, with a small frown of focus, he carefully tears off a piece of the fish, checking for small bones. Once satisfied, he holds it out to you again.

“Here… ahh.”

You hesitate, eyes glimmering with fresh tears, before finally opening your mouth.

The taste isn’t great—a little burnt, a little bland—but somehow, eating from his hands makes it perfect. It’s the kind of warmth you’d been starving for.

The moonlight catches his skin as he moves—his bare chest still glistening from the water, muscles shifting with every motion—and your eyes betray you, darting down before you can stop yourself.

He looks older, stronger, impossibly beautiful under the pale glow, and it makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand yet.

“Oppa… thank you so much,” you whisper, testing the word on your tongue, watching his small smile in response.

You open your mouth for another bite, and he obliges easily, pulling apart another piece and removing the sharper bones before gently bringing it near your lips.

You can’t help but smile, cheeks flushed, the warmth in your chest spreading.

It’s been months since you last had fish—real food, something warm—but it isn’t just that.

Somehow, sitting here beside him, under the quiet blanket of night, feels more like home than home ever did.

⪩⪨

And even as time passed.

What did not stop was the admiration and love you still harboured for him during your teen years. That affection also spilled into a bit of teenage exploration, and it always circled back to him.

Your hands cupped the soft weight of your still-forming breasts, the shower water pouring over you as you shut your eyes, picturing him—right behind you, pressing his firm body against yours.

Would he be all muscle? He looked strong under his clothes every time you saw him—god. You craved it all, the way he would grip your waist from behind, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up to cradle the gentle curve beneath your breasts. Your own hands followed the fantasy, tracing what you wished he would do.

“Jay…” you breathed, squeezing your breasts together, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks while water streamed down, plastering your hair to your cheeks. A hot pulse stirred deep in your pussy.

A soft whine escaped you, the feeling too good to ignore, even if you did not yet grasp why—even if you did not realize your secret thoughts about your brother’s best friend were the spark.

Your hand drifted lower, pushing aside the damp curls as your fingers met slick warmth. You inhaled sharply at the strange, slippery heat, then spread it over your folds. A needy moan slipped out, half-whimper.

“Jay… please…”

In your mind, his fingers worked you, but with him absent, yours took over. You circled the tender swell at the top, your clit or so you thought, pleasure flaring bright, hips rocking into your touch.

Water rushed over your shaking thighs, mingling with the slickness gathering between them. You pressed firmer, chasing the ache that buckled your knees.

You never slipped inside—the idea felt too bold, too unknown back then.

“HOW MUCH LONGER ARE YOU GOING TO SHOWER?” came the shout, followed by a sharp knock on the door.

You flinched visibly, eyes snapping open, hands freezing mid-motion. You pulled them away; the one that had been between your legs glistened with your own slick warmth. Your nipples stayed peaked, but now the chill of sudden exposure bit harder than any lingering heat.

“ARE YOU DEAD IN THERE?”

The shout jolted you fully awake. Your voice trembled as you called back, “Almost done!” The words thinned under the steady drum of the shower.

You twisted the faucet off at once, water dying to drips. Towel in hand, you scrubbed your skin dry, slipped into the clothes hanging on the hook, then wound the damp towel around your hair. Each knock and raised syllable from your mother made you shrink.

“THIS GIRL. GODDAMN. YOU ALONE WASTE HALF THE WATER IN THIS HOUSE.”

Another flinch rippled through you. The door clicked open. Your pulse hammered; you stepped out fast, shoulders hunched, praying her palm stayed at her side today and didn't ache to be on your cheek. You brushed past her in the narrow hall, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

She kept yelling—five full minutes about bills, about waste, about how useless you were—until she finally pushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Only then, in the sudden hush, did your mind drift back to the shower.

That strange, slippery heat still coated your fingers; you could almost feel it again.

You pressed your thighs together, remembering the ache he sparked without even being there. His imagined hands—bigger than yours, sure—gliding over your wet skin, cupping, stroking, claiming.

Your mother’s voice faded into dull noise behind the bathroom door, and all you heard was the echo of your own quiet plea. “Jay…”

⪩⪨

And then, almost like magic—or maybe a cruel twist of fate—you were suddenly arranged to marry him. You were just eighteen, barely stepping out of the kitchen after spending the afternoon trying to follow one of your mother’s recipes.

“Mom, what do I do with the rest of the flour?” you shout, loud enough for the whole house to hear, brushing a streak of flour off your cheek as you step out. You don’t realize there’s company in the living room—not until the words hang in the air and silence greets you instead of your mother’s usual grumpy reply.

Your eyes lift, and there he is. Jay.

You freeze.

For a moment, the world narrows down to the sight of him sitting there, composed as ever beside both sets of parents. Your heart stutters; your face burns. You can feel the flour still smudged across your apron and skin, and it makes your embarrassment worse.

“M–mom..?” you manage weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper as you look toward her.

She stands by Jay’s mother, both smiling in that overly polite, knowing way adults do when they’re discussing something life-changing for everyone but themselves.

“Oh, there she is—our daughter” your father announces proudly, gesturing toward you as if presenting you to an audience.

You can only stare, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of it.

Your brother, Jake, looks equally bewildered, his brows furrowing as his gaze darts between you, Jay, and the parents.

“What’s going on..?” he finally interrupts, his tone sharp as his arm instinctively slips around your shoulder—protective, firm, a rare show of care from someone who’d literally tackled you for a stolen chip that same morning.

Then the realization seems to hit him like a storm. “Don’t tell me you guys are…” he points from Jay to you, then to the parents again, voice rising in disbelief. “You’re not seriously—”

“I don’t agree,” Jake cuts in before anyone can answer, his glare fierce as it lands on Jay. The tension is thick, his grip on your shoulder tightening.

“Let’s go,” he says under his breath, jaw tight, his hand guiding you firmly down the hallway. “No point staying here.”

Before you can even look back, he shuts the door behind you, locking it with a sharp click.

You stand there, heart pounding, staring at the closed door—the muffled sounds of conversation fading outside—and you realize you’re still holding the bowl of flour.

It all feels surreal. One moment, you were learning to cook. The next, they’d decided your entire future.

You still can’t wrap your head around it—any of it.

Your pulse is loud in your ears, the faint smell of flour clinging to your clothes, your hands trembling slightly as you stare at Jake.

He kneels a little so your eyes meet, his expression surprisingly serious, a contrast to his usual teasing self.

“I might be an ass to you,” he starts, voice low but steady, “but I’m not letting my sister get married off to someone she doesn’t want to.”

You blink at him, the words not sinking in immediately.

Then your breath catches.

“Married?” you echo, your voice cracking.

Jake sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “Yes, marriage. They are here to talk about a proposal.”

Your stomach flips. Marriage. The word feels unreal—too heavy, too sudden—and yet, before you can even think twice, the words spill out of you.

“But I do want to marry him!!” you blurt, almost desperately, spinning toward the door. But before you can reach the handle, Jake’s hand shoots out, holding it firmly shut.

He stares at you in disbelief. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him, and you’re saying you want to marry him?” he scoffs, shaking his head.

To him, you’re still the kid who cried over broken crayons and burnt toast—the same little sister he’s spent half his life protecting and yelling at.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this, situation” he adds, his voice softer now but still laced with frustration. “That boy’s twenty-three, and you’re just eighteen—”

“But I’ll be nineteen by the time we actually marry!” you cut in quickly, trying to sound logical, like you’ve already thought this through.

Jake’s brows knit together, but you keep going, using the same sweet tone your mother always used to get her way.

“Oppa,” you say, cupping his face between your flour-dusted hands, the bowl placed away, looking up at him with pleading eyes, “he has a good job. He can take care of your little sister easily.”

Jake just sighs, clearly torn between amusement and disbelief.

You can see the corners of his mouth twitch, the way they always do when he’s seconds away from giving up on arguing with you.

The two of you stand there—a chaotic pair, the room smelling faintly of flour—and for a brief second, it almost feels like any other sibling fight. Except this time, what’s at stake isn’t a bag of chips or a TV remote. It’s your future.

“But you gotta promise me that you’ll break this off if you feel anything suspicious or off” Jake pleaded, his tone laced with genuine worry.

Something about this whole situation had him unusually protective, almost tense. Meanwhile, you couldn’t help the tiny burst of happiness that bubbled up inside you at his concern.

“I promise,” you added with a grin, your voice light but full of certainty. You could barely contain the excitement at the thought of it—finally getting married to him. The boy had owned your soul ever since the day you met him. As indecent as it sounded, you wanted no one else. You knew that even if you ended up with another man, your heart would still yearn for him—for Jay.

Jake sighed heavily before finally opening the door, stepping out first.

You followed, your movements shy and hesitant, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress as you lingered by the entrance. You could hear Jake’s voice as he spoke to both sets of parents, the polite greetings mixing with the hum of casual conversation.

But your eyes weren’t on them.

They were on him.

Jay sat across the room, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on his lap. His expression unreadable—almost too calm for what this moment meant to you. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he lifted his gaze. His eyes met yours.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering so violently that it hurt. You quickly looked away, stepping back behind the doorway, your pulse still drumming in your ears. You prayed he hadn’t noticed you staring—though deep down, a part of you wished he had.

But even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.

Because soon enough, he was going to be yours. In a year, you’d belong to him—far from this place, somewhere only the two of you existed.

Somewhere peace awaited you—in the arms of someone you loved, and someone who, you hoped with everything in you, might someday learn to love you back.

⪩⪨

“Tchh.”

You let out a small sound of frustration, the memory of your old excitement now feeling like a cruel joke.

Sitting in the train that carried you both back to the city, exhaustion weighed on your body after the long family dinner.

Dinner—if you could even call it that.

It had felt more like torture, a silent interrogation wrapped in politeness. And what irked you the most was how Jay hadn’t spoken up for you even once.

You sat quietly, eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of stars scatter across the night sky. They glimmered faintly—as if they’d stolen the light you’d once had inside you.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and hold his hand. Your throat itched to finally tell him how much it hurt—how much his silence had cut you open when you needed him most.

“Jay—” you began softly, but the word barely left your lips before you stopped.

His head had fallen gently against your shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted slightly as sleep overtook him. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him. Your husband—asleep on your shoulder like a weary child.

A shiver ran down your spine, not from discomfort but from the quiet intimacy of it all. Warmth bloomed in your chest, melting away some of the heaviness you carried.

You shifted a little, straightening your posture and raising your shoulder slightly so he could rest more comfortably.

Despite the ache, despite the resentment—seeing him like this softened you.

So what if he didn’t care? You cared. And maybe that was enough… for now.

Still, the bitterness lingered.

You hesitated, then slowly reached out, gathering what little courage you had left, and took his hand in yours. The cool metal of his wedding ring glinted faintly in the dim train light—mocking, somehow, in how brightly it shone while the bond between you both had dulled.

“Jay…” you breathed, your voice no louder than a sigh as your thumb brushed over the ring. Resting your head gently against his, you let yourself linger in that fragile moment—the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft hum of the moving train, the illusion of closeness that almost felt real.

It had been a month since the wedding.

A month of trying.

A month of hoping.

And still, he didn’t care.

Or maybe he did—just not in the way you wanted him to.

He would sleep with you, yes—but he would never reach out to hold you, never wrap his arms around you, never pull you close in the way you had always dreamed a husband would.

It wasn’t like the soft, honey-colored fantasies you’d painted for yourself when you imagined marriage. It was cold. It was quiet. It was lonely.

You remembered the little things, the moments that confused your heart more than they should have.

Like the way he helped you cook because you couldn’t get through a recipe without either burning the vegetables or leaving them half-raw.

He never complained, never sighed in frustration, just silently stepped in to help—even when he came home after a long, draining day at work.

That was sweet, yes.

It made your chest flutter in the smallest way.

But then he’d go right back to that distant tone, treating you like the same girl he’d known for years, never like a woman who now shared his home, his bed, his name.

It was maddening.

You remembered asking him once over dinner, your voice trembling but steady enough to carry your heart’s weight. “Would you still treat me this way if I was some other girl you married?”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there in silence—the clink of his chopsticks against the bowl louder than any words he could’ve said. And somehow, you knew the answer already. He wouldn’t.

What you didn’t know, however, was that he would never agree to marry anyone else in the first place—not if it wasn’t you.

You were young, naive maybe, but the thought of you being handed off to some stranger, a man who might use you and discard you without a second thought, had terrified him more than anything ever had.

Jay could live with guilt. He could live with exhaustion. But he couldn’t live with the image of you being hurt.

Love?

He wasn’t sure if that was what it was.

But care—deep, instinctive care—that he knew too well.

He understood how marriage worked in this era, how women were treated as property, traded off to men twice their age with nothing but silence for protest. The thought of you in that position made his stomach twist until he could hardly breathe.

So he did what he thought was right—even if it meant building walls between you both after.

Because losing you, in any form, would’ve been far worse than the quiet misery he chose instead.

But to you, all of this felt like being treated like a child—always assuming you couldn’t do something, always stepping in before you even had the chance to try.

It wasn’t protection anymore; it was pity disguised as care.

You wiped at your tear-streaked cheek with the back of your hand, eyes drifting back to the window where the stars hung faintly above the blur of trees.

They seemed duller now, as if even they had grown tired—reflecting your life a little too perfectly.

All you could do was hope—hope that once you reached the city, you could crawl into bed, bury yourself in the sheets, and cry without worrying about anyone hearing.

You wiped another tear that threatened to fall, forcing your breathing to steady.

Because no matter what this was—the awkward silences, the quiet ache, the way love felt half-formed between you—it was still better than what you had endured before. The shattered dishes, the shouting, the hands that struck before words ever could. You had been the one on the receiving end of that chaos, and even the thought of it still made your chest tighten.

So even if life now meant living in a cramped apartment with a husband who barely looked your way, it was still peace. It was safety. And that was something.

Jay’s fingers twitched in his sleep, tightening slightly around yours.

“Mm…” he hummed lowly, half-conscious, as if even in sleep he refused to let go.

You stilled, watching the way his hand fit so easily against yours, and tried not to feel too guilty about the warmth that bloomed from it.

Because how could you complain? He was your dream. The same boy you had adored since childhood, the one you had prayed for, whispered about, wished on stars for—and now he was here. You were holding his hand. Sharing a bed. Living under the same roof. Even if it wasn’t the way you had imagined, it was still something, and you clung to that.

You couldn’t cook without burning something, couldn’t finish chores properly, couldn’t even contribute a penny to the rent—and still, he never once raised his voice or made you feel small. That alone, you told yourself, was enough reason to be grateful. So you were.

Even as his hand tightened around yours again, and the train slowed near your stop, you already knew. You wouldn’t bring it up. Not the neglect, not the ache, not the longing. Not when he was trying, in his own quiet way, to take care of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days pass just… okay-ish. Nothing new, nothing different—just the same quiet routine, the same silence that fills the gaps between you two. Because really, nothing has changed.

By the time you finally get back home from errands, your body feels unbearably heavy. Your head throbs, your skin burns, and every bone in you aches.

Fever—that’s what it is, but even that doesn’t stop you.

You still manage to drag yourself to the kitchen, fumbling through the recipe you had written down on a crumpled piece of paper. It’s your one-month anniversary today—your first month as his wife—and even if it might not mean much to him, it means something to you.

So you bake. A small, uneven cake. The top’s a little burnt, the frosting’s a little too sweet, but it’s yours. It’s love, in the only way you know how to give it.

When you finally collapse on the bed, the smell of sugar and vanilla still lingers on your fingers. You close your eyes, exhausted, hoping just a short nap will help before he comes home.

But when your eyes flutter open again, the room feels different—chaotic. The air feels sharp, heavy with tension. Jay’s standing near the sink, shoulders stiff, eyes dark with disappointment as he glares at you.

Your heart sinks immediately. You can’t even piece together what could’ve gone wrong.

“Jay?” you call out softly, voice still hoarse from sleep. But before you can say more, his voice cuts through the air—louder, sharper than you’ve ever heard it before.

“Do you seriously not understand that the water taps should be closed after use?” His tone is pure frustration, the kind that burns more than it should. “Do you have any idea how much water—how much money—went down the drain because you forgot? God, it must’ve been running for at least an hour!”

You blink at him, stunned, feeling your throat close up as guilt rises like bile.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, tears already pricking your eyes. You can tell—this isn’t the usual quiet annoyance, this is anger. Real anger. And it terrifies you.

He shakes his head, rubbing his temples as if trying to control himself, but his voice still carries the same edge. “You’re sorry? If you really were, you’d have known better than to keep the tap running! Do you know how hard I work? And to come home to this—” He gestures around at the mess, the damp floor, the unwashed dishes, and it’s too much.

You close your eyes tight, pressing your lips together to stop the trembling. Because this moment—his voice, his words, his frustration—feels too familiar.

It’s like being back there again. In that house. The one filled with yelling and broken dishes. The one you promised yourself you’d never relive.

And yet, somehow, you’re right back in it.

“Why are you so quiet now? No acknowledgement, no… nothing?” he trails off, his voice softer now, confusion edging out the anger.

Finally, for the first time that evening, he really looks at you—and his entire expression shifts. He moves closer, kneeling down hesitantly in front of you, one hand reaching out before it stops midair as if he’s not sure whether he even deserves to touch you. Then, slowly, he presses his palm against your forehead.

The heat under his skin tells him everything.

His eyes widen in alarm, the pieces of the puzzle falling together in an instant—the exhaustion, the paleness, your trembling voice.

Regret floods him all at once, and his chest tightens painfully.

“Are you…” he starts, voice cracking as he exhales deeply. “I didn’t realise…” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes down your cheek—a tear that burns more than any words could have.

He feels sick.

Absolutely sick at himself.

“I’ll… I’ll get you something to eat,” he finally says under his breath, guilt heavy in his tone.

He stands up abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the rug as he walks toward the small kitchen area—still in his outside clothes, still too frantic to even remove his socks.

But as soon as he reaches the counter, he stops dead in his tracks.

A small cake sits there—uneven, slightly tilted, the frosting messy but filled with color. There’s a heart on top, carefully made from chocolate gems, the kind you always saved to eat last. His breath catches in his throat.

He feels the air leave his lungs as his mind races—what is this? And then, a sinking realisation hits.

He grabs his phone, scrolling through the calendar, and the date stares back at him like a cruel reminder—the one-month wedding anniversary.

And you remembered.

He stands there for a long moment, silent, his hand tightening around the counter edge as guilt swallows him whole.

You’d been sick… and still baked him a cake.

You’d put your heart into something that was supposed to be sweet, a tiny celebration of love, and he had crushed it under anger.

“What did I just do…” he breathes out shakily, running a hand through his hair, eyes glassy with shame. He takes a plate, his movements careful now, almost reverent, and slices a small piece of the cake—one for you, one for himself.

It couldn’t go to waste. Not after how much it must’ve taken you to make it.

Not when you both were already running low on everything—time, money, and maybe… a little bit of love too.

With slow, uncertain steps, he walks back into the room. You’re sitting up now, your face pale, a faint frown tugging at your lips—the kind that twists something deep in his chest. He lowers himself down to the floor, kneeling in front of you, eyes searching yours as he carefully places the plate on your lap. His voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I’m so sorry…”

You just stare at him, the weight of everything sitting heavy between you.

There’s sincerity in his eyes—raw, trembling, almost boyish—but it doesn’t erase the ache still lodged in your heart.

You shake your head slowly, pushing the plate back toward him.

“You were right,” you murmur, the words fragile.

“You don’t work hard just to come back to a home that looks like… this.” You gesture vaguely around the room—the cluttered dishes, the undone laundry, the exhaustion that’s started to live in every corner of his tiny apartment.

He exhales, guilt twisting through his expression. “It’s okay… it really is,” he manages quietly, his gaze falling to the plate before flicking back to you. “But… please. Eat it. It’s our anniversary, after all…” His voice trails off, the guilt pressing deeper into him.

The word anniversary tastes like regret on his tongue—knowing he forgot, knowing he brought you nothing but disappointment.

“Yeah…” you whisper, your tone fragile and faintly bitter. “Happy anniversary.”

You finally lift the small slice of cake to your lips, taking a slow bite before hesitating—then, wordlessly, you offer him the rest.

He freezes, the air thick between you.

You let out a soft, broken laugh.

“Of course. Why would you eat something that—”

Your words die in your throat when his hand catches your wrist. Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward and takes the piece from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin. You go utterly still as he draws your fingers between his, tongue sweeping lightly over the tips to clean away the crumbs. His eyes never leave yours while doing so.

The room feels heavier, hotter, your pulse stuttering against your wrist where his hand still holds you captive. He chews slowly, his jaw tightening, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Jay…” you breathe, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, the words more desperate this time, laced with something that sounds like self-hatred.

You blink back the sting in your eyes, the frustration, the ache. “Like you said,” you begin, voice trembling but steady enough to cut through the silence, “Sorry doesn’t make up for it. You treat me like that same little girl you met all those years ago… not like someone who’s supposed to be your wife. Why?”

The question falls between you, heavy and bare, leaving him wordless.

He slowly stands, taking the empty plate from your lap, and sets it on the table beside the bed. Then he looks back at you—his eyes dark, conflicted, full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“Then what does…?” he asks quietly, the words low but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between you.

He leans in a little too close, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and your heart stutters in response—loud, uncontrollable, trembling.

“Jay…” you whisper, swallowing hard before the words tumble out.

“You just… never treat me like your wife. We don’t—we haven’t even kissed or… I—” You stop, the fever pulsing through you making everything heavier, hotter. You shouldn’t be saying all this, but you’ve finally managed to get him to listen, to actually see you.

“Can I kiss you?” Jay interrupts softly.

Your mind blanks for a second. “What?” you blink, startled. That easily?

“You said you wanted to—”

“No.” The word leaves your mouth before he can finish.

“Don’t kiss me. Not when you’re doing it just to fulfill your husband duties.” You stare up at him, your tone steady but your chest aching.

He studies you for a moment—then straightens, pulling away.

You think that’s the end of it, that he’s withdrawing again like he always does, but instead his hand slides beneath your knees, the other pressing gently against your back. You gasp softly as he lifts you, effortlessly, his movements careful and quiet as he carries you across the small room.

He places you down on the narrow bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. You stare up at him, eyes wide, utterly lost. He looks down at you, and for once, you can’t read him. His expression isn’t cold or distant—there’s something unreadable, a tension that pulls at your chest.

“Why would you—”

Before you can finish, he presses a finger to your lips, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if I kiss you on the couch,” he pauses, the words deliberate, “I won’t be able to stop myself. So better yet… start here.”

He leans in closer, and you instinctively fall back against the pillow, breath catching in your throat.

For a fleeting moment, you can’t believe this is him—the same man who used to avoid even brushing his fingers against yours, now looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can I kiss you now?” he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that every word brushes your mouth like a touch.

You nod, the smallest dip of your chin, and his lips seal over yours in the same breath. He lowers you fully; your back sinks into the mattress of the narrow bed you have shared on restless nights. His body follows, pinning you gently beneath him.

The kiss ignites something sharp and sweet. His tongue traces the edge of your lips, coaxing them apart, then slips inside to tangle with yours.

Your hands fist the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as the familiar slick heat gathers between your thighs, growing with every slow stroke of his mouth.

“Jay,” you whine against him, the fever still burning under your skin.

He shifts, the hard line of his body presses flush to yours, thigh nudging between your legs, and you feel the throb of him even through the layers of cloth.

“So sorry…” he breathes, the apology lost as his tongue finds yours again.

Your eyes flutter shut, his taste floods you—warm, faintly salted, everything you once imagined in secret. The little girl inside you sighs in quiet triumph.

“It’s okay…” you whisper when he draws back just enough to speak.

Your lips shine. His do too.

A thin thread of saliva stretches between you, glinting, then snaps.

His gaze is dark, pupils blown wide. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he dives back in.

He kisses like he is starving, lips molding, tongue stroking, teeth grazing your lower lip until it stings. One large hand gathers both your wrists, pinning them above your head against the pillow. His other hand slides beneath the hem of your dress—the soft cotton gifted for the marriage, still crisp with newness.

His palm meets fever-hot skin along your ribs. He traces upward, thumb brushing the soft underside of your breast, then hesitates at the tied strings of your dress.

You arch into him, hips rolling, lips seeking his again, guiding his fingers back inside with a soft nudge.

There is no chance you will let him stop now, not after years of wanting this.

You—wrapped in his arms, his mouth devouring yours. The only thing left is to feel him deeper—inside you, filling the ache that pulses low in your belly. The fever, the need—whatever name it carries—promises you will have it soon, if the kiss never ends.

You nearly cursed yourself for guiding his hand back under your dress; women who made moves were judged harshly.

But Jay only kissed you harder, hips rolling forward. Through his pants and the thin cotton of your dress, you could feel the hardness of his dragging against your walls. Your eyes rolled back, you were so close now. It did not matter that it started from an argument.

“Jay…” A fresh rush of wetness soaked your folds. You felt it slick the inside of your thighs, and he had not even touched you there. Your walls clenched around nothing.

“Is the fever—”

“Not about it… just… I…” You clamped your lips shut. If he wanted this, he would take it. Speaking too much was unladylike, you had been taught that since you were small. Be obedient. Listen to your husband. Keep quiet.

His mouth left yours and drifted to your neck. You swallowed a moan, afraid of waking anyone up. He sucked gently at the tender skin below your ear, just like every secret dream you had ever had, only better.

“…I…” He started, voice rough, then slid both hands beneath your dress. His palms cupped your breasts fully, thumbs sweeping over the stiff peaks. The soft weight filled his hands, you had ached for this touch for years.

It’s happening. It’s happening. It’s happening.

Your mind lit up like festival lanterns. You arched into him, pressing your chest forward, but you did not grab or pull. You stayed still, letting him lead, heart hammering with equal parts joy and fear.

He untied the knots at the front of your dress, fingers quick and sure. The fabric loosened, slid down your shoulders, over your breasts, past your hips, until it pooled on the floor beside the bed.

The air in the small room pressed thick and warm against your bare skin. You looked up at him, cheeks burning, struck silent by the sight of your own husband seeing you like this for the first time.

His one hand still pinned both of yours above your head. With the other he unhooked your bra, tugged your panties down your thighs, all without letting go. You heard his sharp inhale, felt it shudder through him, and the sound snapped you out of your haze. You pushed at his chest.

“What—” Jay blinked, confused, staring down at you naked beneath him, suddenly shoving him away.

Your nipples were tight peaks, skin flushed crimson, pussy clenching around emptiness, and still you managed to whisper, “You don’t have to do this just to make me happy…”

“Who said I’m doing this to make you…” He paused, cock twitching hard in his pants as he finished, “…happy?”

“Huh?” you breathed, lost, before he surged forward, tackling you back onto the mattress.

He yanked his zipper down, shoved his work shirt off his shoulders, let it drop. Bare chest met yours, hot skin on hot skin. His mouth crashed into yours again while the thick length of him, freed from his open zip, dragged along your soaked folds.

You felt like you were floating inside a dream.

Him wanting this—not just for you—made everything burn brighter.

Without warning he notched the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in an inch, then pulled back. You fisted the sheets, eyes rolling, a broken sound catching in your throat. He did it again, shallow dips, the rough fabric of his pants and the cool bite of the zipper grazing your inner thighs each time. He hadn’t bothered to strip fully. You weren’t about to ask why and break the spell.

“Jay…” you whined, arching. His hands left your wrists to cup your breasts, thumbs circling the stiff nipples, squeezing gently. Then his fingers slid up your arms, lacing with yours, pinning your hands beside your head as he braced above you. His eyes locked on yours, dark and fierce, and he kissed you again—wet, open-mouthed, the slick sounds of lips and tongues filling the quiet room. It was enough to make you gush, fresh wetness spilling over his cock.

In that frantic rush, every insecurity melted away.

“Aghhh…” The groan tore from his throat, low and ragged. Heat spilled across your lower stomach, your slick folds, thick ropes of his release painting your damp skin before he had even truly begun.

“What was that—” you started, voice small, but he swallowed the question with his mouth.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered against your lips, a shy edge threading through the words. You caught it, the faint flush creeping up his neck, and you let it go. It was not your place to press.

“Okay, I won’t…” you whispered back, fingers flexing in his grip. He squeezed tighter, steadying himself, then nudged forward again, the slick head of his cock sliding through his own mess to find your entrance once more. Embarrassment still clung to him, he had spilled too soon, undone by nothing more than friction and want.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky. The blunt crown breached you, pushing past the tight ring of muscle that had never known another. You sucked in a sharp breath, a sting flaring bright as he sank deeper, stretching your walls around his thickness. He froze the instant he felt the resistance give, buried halfway, every inch of him pulsing inside you.

A single tear slipped free, he kissed it away without hesitation, lips soft at the corner of your eye.

“Should I move…?” His hips jerked involuntarily, a helpless twitch that dragged him a fraction deeper. You could feel how close he was to losing control again, muscles locked to keep from thrusting wildly.

You blinked through the haze, pain and pleasure tangling until you could not tell where one ended and the other began. You nodded, small, desperate.

“Please,” you breathed.

“You don’t have to say please…” he stated, voice rough silk. Only your mingled breathing filled the small, quiet apartment.

He drove forward in one slow, relentless glide until he bottomed out, cock seated fully inside you.

Your eyes rolled back, legs snapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The coarse fabric of his half-open pants scraped your inner thighs. The cold bite of the zipper kissed your skin with every tiny shift, sending sparks up your spine.

He drew back an inch and pushed in again, the drag of his length stroking your walls, thick and hot and perfect. A broken cry spilled from your lips.

“Oppa!” The childhood nickname tumbled out raw, instinctive, laced with need now that he filled you completely.

He groaned at the sound, hips rolling deeper, the rhythm building, steady and hungry.

He kept moving, slow drags of his cock along your walls, and the sharp ache faded into something warm and electric. You could not believe this was real—him inside you, joined so completely.

A strange coil tightened low in your belly. You squeezed his hands, eyes shut tight as he scattered kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere his mouth could reach without breaking the rhythm of his cock.

“You… you gonna cum?” he asked, voice shy, almost unsure.

You nodded, pussy fluttering around him. Your fingers trembled as you lifted one hand to thread through his damp hair. “Jay…” The word broke on a gasp, your walls clamped down hard.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips stuttering. He buried himself deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside you. Your own release crashed through, body shaking in his arms, thighs locked around his waist.

He stayed there, breathing hard, afraid to move.

Pull out and pretend nothing happened?

The thought tangled in his chest.

Instead he rolled you both, settling you atop him. Your cheek pressed to his thudding heart, his cock still nestled inside, softening slowly, leaking the last drops. The narrow bed creaked, but you fit together perfectly, skin to slick skin.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks softly, his voice low enough to blend with the quiet hum of the night. His hand moves slowly up and down your bare back, tracing lazy, soothing lines against your skin. Each drag of his fingers sends a faint shiver running down your spine.

“Not so much…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if afraid the walls might hear and spill your secret. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—a sound that’s both comforting and painfully intimate.

“I’m sorry…” he murmurs after a long pause. “I never wanted to—”

“You didn’t want to do… this?” you interrupt quietly, your breath catching as the question slips out, terrified of what his answer might mean.

“Not… not this,” he clarifies quickly, his hand pausing for a second before moving again. “I never wanted to scold you. The work’s just been… too much. And the bills—”

“I understand,” you cut him off gently, pressing a soft kiss to his chest where your cheek had just been. He exhales shakily, his chest rising and falling under you as he looks around the small, dimly lit room—the single bed, the cracked wall, the faint smell of detergent from the clothes drying near the window.

It’s smaller than what you lived in before, maybe too small for two people who barely know how to talk without hurting each other. But you never once complained. You never said a word. And somehow, that silent acceptance makes the guilt in his chest feel even heavier, settling there like a weight he can’t lift.

“You work so hard for both of us… I should have remembered to close the tab…” you voice out, voice thick with sleep, your palm flat on his chest. Beneath it, his heartbeat steadies, but lower, you feel him twitch inside you, thickening again, slow and deliberate.

“Do you still see me just as that little girl…?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You shift your hips the tiniest bit, testing, and a soft groan rumbles from his throat.

“Well… not after this.” His arms tighten around your waist. “You are my wife now, and I should have… God, I missed out on so much.” He lifts his hips, driving himself deeper, the sudden stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. Your eyes roll back, pleasure sparking sharp and sweet.

“I always dreamt of this…” you breathe against his skin.

“About what?” he asks, hips stilling, cock buried to the hilt, pulsing.

“About us.” The words hang in the quiet room.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The air between you feels thick with unspoken things—memories, apologies, hopes that neither of you has ever dared to voice. He looks down at you, confused yet tender, his thumb brushing faintly against your arm. You don’t explain, you don’t have to—you just tuck your face against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.

The night settles quietly around you both, wrapping you in a stillness that feels unfamiliar yet safe. It’s not obligation anymore—it’s something fragile, something real. You listen to his low grunts, swallow your own moans, guarding every sound like a secret meant only for the two of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days are a blur of quiet confusion. Neither of you brings up that night—not once—but something shifts in the way you exist around each other. You both start sleeping in the same bed, no longer pretending that the couch is more comfortable. The bed is too small to fit you properly, so you end up tangled together anyway, your legs brushing, breaths mixing in the dim light that seeps through the thin curtains.

Some nights, you find yourself massaging his back, tracing the tension from his shoulders until he finally breathes out and softens against your touch. On others, it’s him who gently presses his palm to your forehead, massaging slow circles until your headache fades away. Those small gestures—silent, unspoken—begin to fill the spaces that once felt unbearably distant.

And in those quiet moments, you realize something simple yet certain. The little girl you once were had chosen right. You had chosen a man who, even in his flaws, never let you feel like you were back in that house—the one filled with yelling, broken dishes, and bruised echoes of love. Jay, despite the cracked walls and the peeling paint of your tiny apartment, somehow made it feel like home.

“Did you really just pull up, Jay?” one of the older women laughs, nudging you with a teasing smile as she gestures toward your husband.

You’re at a small reunion with Jay’s college classmates—something he insisted you come to since a few were bringing their partners too.

You had agreed easily, wanting to support him, to stand by his side. But what you hadn’t expected was how out of place you’d feel once you got there. They were older, sharper, dressed in confidence that came with years you hadn’t yet lived.

And some of them, clearly, enjoyed poking at the quiet unease that already sat heavy in your chest.

“Are you sure he really married you?” one of them jokes, half-laughing as she sips her drink.

You try to smile, but it feels stiff, your fingers tightening around the hem of your dress as your heart sinks just a little deeper.

“Have a good time,” Jay had said earlier, smiling as he clinked glasses of soju with his male classmates. You’d smiled back then too, not realizing that ‘good time’ meant sitting across from two of his female classmates—both of whom seemed far too eager to remind you how well they knew your husband.

“Did you know he liked the perfume I wore?” one of them said, her tone light but edged, like a knife hidden behind sugar. “He used to compliment me every single day.”

You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t have even believed her. But your lips parted before you could stop yourself, your expression faltering into a quiet frown.

“The way he used to say he liked girls like me,” the other one chimed in, crossing her legs with a click of her heel, “and then he goes and marries you?” She scoffed softly, exchanging a knowing look with her friend.

They both looked polished—manicured nails, glossy hair, flawless skin, and confidence that came from being exactly the kind of woman you thought he would’ve liked. You could feel their eyes scan you, from your plain dress to your small gold earrings, until their gaze landed on your sandals—worn out from months of use.

“Do you even know how to cook?” one of them asked, smiling as if it were a genuine question.

You inhaled quietly, afraid to answer but still nodding, your hands tightening around the cup in your lap.

“Boiling water doesn’t count as cooking,” the other one added, laughing. Her friend joined in, the sound sharp and grating, echoing in your ears louder than the music playing in the background.

You tried to smile, to brush it off, but your throat felt tight. Your gaze fell to the floor, to your feet—your sandals with the edges scuffed and the straps a little loose. Next to theirs, bright and fashionable, yours looked tired.

Just like you felt.

“I just know it’s not going to work out,” one of them said, tone dripping with certainty.

You looked up from your lap, eyes instinctively finding Jay across the room. He was laughing at something one of his friends said, his face flushed from the soju. When his gaze caught yours, he smiled—warm and unaware of the storm brewing quietly inside you.

You tried to return it, but it faltered. He raised a brow, sensing something was off. Even from a distance, he could read you. You saw him murmur something to his classmates, setting down his glass before standing up. Without even glancing at the women beside you, he simply said, “We’ll leave, sorry.”

His hand found yours—firm, certain—and you let him lead you out, even if the food hadn’t been served yet. You felt guilty for ruining what was supposed to be a rare, easy night.

The air outside was cooler, the streets quiet except for the faint hum of passing cars and the laughter spilling from open restaurant doors.

“What’s wrong?” he finally questioned, his tone gentler now. The two of you walked side by side, steps slow, every sound of your sandals scraping the pavement louder than it should be.

“They… I… Did you like her perfume?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, shaky and unsure.

Jay blinked, startled, before a small chuckle escaped his lips. “What are you talking about?”

You hesitated, but the way his laughter met your insecurity only made your chest tighten. “She said you used to like her perfume,” you mumbled, staring at the road ahead, “and that you liked girls like her.”

Jay stopped walking, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “That’s complete nonsense,” he stated simply. “Why would I ever like someone like her?”

His fingers tightened around yours, reassuring in a way that made your heart ache even more. The only sound that followed was the buzz of restaurant chatter nearby—until suddenly, he tugged your hand, pulling you toward one of the open doors.

Your eyes widened. “What are you doing—oh my god, Jay!”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he let out, as if that explained everything.

“There’s food at home,” you protested, tugging his hand back. “We can’t just—this place looks expensive—”

“And it’ll take forever to cook dinner now,” he reasoned, still pulling you gently but firmly.

“Jay, please…” you pleaded softly, your voice barely above the street noise. You could already imagine him regretting this later, his shoulders slumped from the guilt of spending what little you both had.

Still, he didn’t listen. He just gave you a small, boyish smile before walking in, your hand still in his. You followed, heart pounding, the two of you immediately out of place among the polished tables and people dressed in clothes far more expensive than yours.

You could feel eyes on you—their stares lingering on your simple dress, your frayed sandals, the way your fingers clung tightly to Jay’s hand like it was your only anchor in the room.

He sat down first, sliding into an empty chair across from you, the soft hum of restaurant chatter surrounding the both of you. You hesitated before sitting, your brows furrowing as you tried to understand what exactly pushed him to make such a reckless decision. Jay wasn’t the type to spend unnecessarily—so what was this?

“Why are we eating here?” you finally addressed the issue, lowering your voice. There was still time to leave, to make up some excuse and run home before the waiter came by.

“Because I want to treat my pretty wife to something nice,” he said simply, his tone gentle but firm.

Your breath caught for a moment, and warmth spread across your cheeks. You looked down quickly, afraid he might notice how red your face was.

“But this place… it’s expensive,” you whispered, the words barely audible, your eyes darting nervously around. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to overhear, to pity the couple counting coins while eating in a place meant for polished shoes and glossy handbags.

Jay didn’t answer right away. He just gave you a small smile—the kind that disarmed you every time—and waved the waiter over, ordering a simple fish curry for both of you.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve in protest. Your eyes pleaded with him. You could already feel the heaviness in your stomach—not from hunger, but from guilt. The thought of this meal costing him more than it should made it impossible to enjoy.

“It’s really okay,” he reassured, his voice soft but final, cutting through your worry like a calm wave.

You sighed, sitting back, trying your best to eat without looking at the menu again, without calculating how many bills this would add up to. All you did that evening was stress over the price—each bite feeling like a luxury you hadn’t earned.

Meanwhile, Jay couldn’t stop watching you. A small smile tugged at his lips as he rested his chin in his hand, just observing—the way you carefully took the tiniest bites, pretending not to enjoy the meal so he wouldn’t think you wanted more. But he could see it in your eyes, the flicker of delight you couldn’t quite hide. He knew you well enough to see through every small act, every effort to make things easier for him.

For him, it wasn’t about the food or the bill. It was about the way your eyes widened when you tasted something you liked, or the way you looked around shyly as if afraid you didn’t belong there. That alone made it worth every penny.

And when you later found out the reason behind the sudden dinner—that he had just gotten a promotion and had chosen to treat you instead of celebrating with his friends—you could only stare at him in disbelief.

He had earned something he’d worked so hard for… and the first thing he wanted was to share it with you.

⪩⪨

“Just stop wasting my son’s money. You don’t do anything after all—just sitting at home, not even capable of taking care of it. We need his money more than you do, but you—” blah blah blah.

You pull the phone slightly away from your ear, rolling your eyes as her voice grows sharper on the other end. Before she can finish her usual speech, you end the call with a soft sigh. Another one of those days when your mother-in-law decides to remind you how ‘useless’ you are in your husband’s life.

If she had said this four months ago—back when you had just married him—you might’ve believed her. But now? You couldn’t bring yourself to.

Not when Jay had started being gentle. Not when he put in effort—teaching you little things, helping you learn how to cook, praising you whenever you did something right. Everything between you two had begun to feel… steady. Real.

The doorbell rings, followed by the sound of the front door opening. You turn your head just in time to see him—your husband—stepping inside, sleeves rolled up, grocery bags in both arms. He sets them down beside the counter, slips off his shoes, and immediately walks toward you.

He notices the phone in your hand, the faint frown on your face. His brows knit. “Was it mom asking for money again?” His voice is low, controlled, but you can sense the irritation simmering beneath it.

“It wasn’t her…” you trail off, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

He stops right in front of you, arms crossing. “Then who was it?” The tone isn’t demanding—it’s protective. He hates when you hide things, especially when it comes to her.

You hesitate, glancing away. “I—”

“I know it’s Mom,” he cuts in, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Jay, don’t.” Your voice softens, concern edging every word. Before he can dial, you gently take his hand and guide it to your belly. His entire posture changes the moment his palm meets the small, growing curve of your stomach.

And just like that, the tension in his eyes melts away. He sets the phone aside without a second thought, both hands now cradling your belly with a tenderness that never fails to make your heart ache.

“My babies,” he coos, kneeling down as he presses a soft kiss there. His voice turns light, warm. “You’re growing fast, huh?”

Jay likes to believe there are two of them—two little lives making your belly look fuller than it should at just three months. You let him believe it, because the way his eyes soften when he talks to your stomach… it’s the kind of love that makes all the noise from outside fade into nothing.

He immediately scooped you up into his arms, the suddenness of it stealing your breath. In just a few seconds, he had you laid gently on the bed—his movements quick yet careful, like he’d done this a thousand times before. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, softer and wider than the one you two used to share.

It took you a moment to process, your heart still racing from how effortlessly he handled you. The bed was new—Jay had insisted on getting a bigger one, saying something about ‘needing more space for you and the babies.’ But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just that. He simply wanted you comfortable… surrounded by softness, by warmth—by him.

As he spoons you from behind, his bare legs tangle with yours, you do not remember when his pants came off, only that they are gone. Rain taps the window in steady rhythm, pulling you back to those teenage nights when you could only dream of this closeness.

“My babies…” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin before he presses a kiss there.

One hand slides over the gentle swell of your belly, caressing in slow circles. The other eases your panties down your thighs, the fabric catching briefly before slipping free. He gathers your top higher, bunching it beneath your chin, and rolls your already hard nipples between his gentle fingers. The touch shoots sparks straight to your pussy, you try to hold back the soft moan that escapes.

“Jay…” you breathe, shy and trembling. His free hand slips between your bodies, finding you slick and ready. Two fingers ease inside, curling just right, drawing another quiet cry from your lips. His other palm keeps kneading your tender breasts, soothing the ache while stoking your dripping wet folds.

“I can’t help thinking how much I’ll love our babies when they arrive,” he voices out his thoughts, voice low and sweet against your ear. The words wrap around you like the rain outside, familiar and cherished.

To you, it still feels unreal—his fingers moving inside you, his body molded to yours, the life growing beneath his hand.

For Jay, the moment is pure joy.

The papers for the new house sit folded in the drawer, the year nineteen ninety seven stamped across the top—his surprise he meant to share tonight.

Instead, he is here, buried in the warmth of your pussy, making love like time itself can wait.

Your moans and his hushed whispers fill the small room, blending with the rain until nothing else exists.

© shortonwon | tumblr | 2025 — thank you so much for reading!

[ririzparadise]

default taglist , @inkhoee @dulcetnostalgia @s0shroe @miauumin @babeadoobee @hearts4h00n @masochistcult @ghostlychildpolice @starry-eyed-bimbo @taesnumber1 @heeseungsgf26 @tessa365 @angelhyuka @raven-unkind @kienhawon @jaengwon @cakeforwonu @victoriasge @loverbyfate @lassiie @nuggets4lifers @addictedtohobi @k1ttyjwon @psyches-reid @kezmo-shi @bleuriette

[ririzparadise]

REWRITING A DIFFERENT JAY FIC BECAUSE I'M NOT SATISFIED WITH THE PREVIOUS ONE. 1.4K words so far. But honestly, as soon as I'm done with kinktober 2025... I'll start writing kinktober 2026 fics because this shit is not made for me 😭🤌🏻

[ririzparadise]

update three. 11.6k words. only need to review this now ☝🏻 not so proud of this.

[ririzparadise]

REWRITING A DIFFERENT JAY FIC BECAUSE I'M NOT SATISFIED WITH THE PREVIOUS ONE. 1.4K words so far. But honestly, as soon as I'm done with kinktober 2025... I'll start writing kinktober 2026 fics because this shit is not made for me 😭🤌🏻

[ririzparadise]

update two. 5.1k words. hopefully will finish writing this one tomorrow :( even if kinktober season is officially over, I'll hopefully post all the remaining fics!! (4/7 remaining)

[ririzparadise]

REWRITING A DIFFERENT JAY FIC BECAUSE I'M NOT SATISFIED WITH THE PREVIOUS ONE. 1.4K words so far. But honestly, as soon as I'm done with kinktober 2025... I'll start writing kinktober 2026 fics because this shit is not made for me 😭🤌🏻

[ririzparadise]

update one. 3.8k words. I just know I'm stretching this kinktober to 10 days more ☝🏻

[ririzparadise]

REWRITING A DIFFERENT JAY FIC BECAUSE I'M NOT SATISFIED WITH THE PREVIOUS ONE. 1.4K words so far. But honestly, as soon as I'm done with kinktober 2025... I'll start writing kinktober 2026 fics because this shit is not made for me 😭🤌🏻

[ririzparadise]

what boys want? — seonghyeon. 2.1k words & the fic is completed, it's funny how the inspo came all of a sudden.

[cortizzlr]

WHO? ──── CORTIS

CHAPTER ONE OF WHO?

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.

© CORTIZZLR, TWENTY TWENTY FIVE — THANKS FOR READING, WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS !

[ririzparadise]

SERIES TAGLIST. @lonelylandofan @winterlico @1luvsiyaa @hiraeth101 @hynjinizzy

[ririzparadise]

i’m probably going to turn this into a cortis horror series or a long oneshot… something I want to at least start (if not finish) by the end of october. it’ll be juhoon × reader ft. seonghyeon, and keonho × reader. all my cortis WIPs will be posted under @cortizzlr.

[ririzparadise]

update six. chapter one, 20.1k words, dropping soon :3

[ririzparadise]

i’m probably going to turn this into a cortis horror series or a long oneshot… something I want to at least start (if not finish) by the end of october. it’ll be juhoon × reader ft. seonghyeon, and keonho × reader. all my cortis WIPs will be posted under @cortizzlr.

[ririzparadise]

update five. 8.2k words. 51% progress with chapter one.

[ririzparadise]

i’m probably going to turn this into a cortis horror series or a long oneshot… something I want to at least start (if not finish) by the end of october. it’ll be juhoon × reader ft. seonghyeon, and keonho × reader. all my cortis WIPs will be posted under @cortizzlr.

[ririzparadise]

update four. 6.3k words. 30% progress with chapter one.

[ririzparadise]

i’m probably going to turn this into a cortis horror series or a long oneshot… something I want to at least start (if not finish) by the end of october. it’ll be juhoon × reader ft. seonghyeon, and keonho × reader. all my cortis WIPs will be posted under @cortizzlr.

[ririzparadise]

update three. 3.6k words only. 💀🫠