Chapter Text
The dorm room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the occasional rustle of papers as Haechan rummaged through Mark’s desk. It was late—too late to be awake, really—but Haechan’s phone was at 3%, and he needed his charger. The problem? He had no idea where he’d left it.
“Ugh, why is your desk such a black hole?” Haechan muttered under his breath, shoving aside a stack of notebooks and loose papers. Mark was annoyingly organized, but his desk was a chaotic mess of half-finished assignments, empty coffee cups, and random trinkets. Haechan’s fingers brushed against something leather-bound, and he paused.
A notebook.
It wasn’t unusual for Mark to have notebooks lying around—he was a journalism student, after all—but this one looked... different. It was worn, the edges frayed, and the cover was embossed with a single, ominous title: “Confession.”
Haechan froze.
“What the hell?” he whispered, pulling the notebook out and flipping it open. The first page was filled with Mark’s neat handwriting, but the words were anything but ordinary.
Here’s the added gruesome diary entry to enhance Haechan’s misunderstanding and paranoia before the final reveal:
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"October 12th.
The struggle was brief. Panic hit her eyes first—wide, disbelieving, a silent plea. Her breath shuddered as the blade met skin, slicing through layers of flesh like silk.
I watched. Observed. Recorded every movement, every detail. Their final breath rattled like a broken whisper. A fleeting moment of silence followed—the kind that swallows you whole.
Then, the cleanup. Precise. Efficient. No evidence left behind. Only the lingering scent of iron, the weight of death in the air."
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Haechan’s hands shake as he flips to the next page.
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"October X.
The next one is close. Too close. They trust too easily, never suspecting that behind a friendly smile, there’s something darker lurking.
I’ll test it. I’ll see how far they can run before it’s too late.
Ren.
Let’s see how long you last."
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Haechan’s breath hitched. Ren? As in... Renjun? His mind raced, connecting dots that probably didn’t exist. Mark’s recent behavior—the late nights, the hushed phone calls, the way he sometimes stared at Haechan like he was studying him—it all made sense now.
“Oh my god,” Haechan repeated, louder this time. “My roommate is a psychopath.”
The sound of a key turning in the lock made him jump. He shoved the notebook under his pillow just as the door creaked open.
Mark walked in, yawning and carrying a stack of books under one arm. He looked tired, his hair messy and his glasses slightly askew.
“Hey,” Mark said, dropping his books on the desk. “You’re still up?”
Haechan forced a laugh, though it came out more like a strangled cough. “Me? Haha. Totally. Just... thinking about life. And how fragile it is.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Uh... okay. You good?”
“Yep! Never better!” Haechan said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Just... you know. Existential crisis. Normal stuff.”
Mark gave him a weird look but didn’t press further. “Alright. Well, I’m gonna shower. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Haechan said, his smile so forced it hurt.
As soon as the bathroom door closed, Haechan let out a shaky breath. His mind was racing. What do I do? Do I call the police? Do I confront him? What if he kills me in my sleep?
He glanced at the pillow where he’d hidden the notebook. Part of him wanted to burn it, but another part—the part that had watched too many true crime documentaries—knew he needed evidence.
Carefully, he pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures of the pages. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with them yet, but it felt like the right move.
When Mark returned from the shower, Haechan was lying in bed, pretending to be asleep. He heard Mark shuffle around for a bit before climbing into his own bed.
“Night, Haechan,” Mark said softly.
Haechan didn’t respond. He lay there, stiff as a board, clutching his pillow like it was the only thing standing between him and certain death.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Every creak of the building, every rustle of sheets, made Haechan’s heart race. He kept imagining Mark standing over him, knife in hand, ready to make him the next victim in that twisted diary.
But as the hours dragged on, something else crept into his thoughts. Something he didn’t want to admit.
Why is he so hot when he’s terrifying?
Haechan groaned internally. This was not the time for inappropriate thoughts. His roommate was a serial killer. Probably. Maybe.
By the time the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains, Haechan had made a decision. He needed to talk to someone. Someone who could help him figure out what to do.
And he knew just the person.