Chapter Text
The dorm living room buzzed with the soft hum of the air conditioner. A 65-inch television filled the wall, the kind of oversized purchase they’d all laughed about when management approved it—“too much for a dorm,” Hoshi had said, yet here it was, swallowing the space with high-definition color.
The others had drifted into their rooms, some half-asleep, some scrolling through phones, leaving the living room quiet except for Wonwoo. He sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, remote balanced loosely in his hand.
His glasses slid lower as he scrolled through Netflix’s endless rows of thumbnails. The algorithm, confused by a household of thirteen very different tastes, offered him everything from romantic comedies to nature documentaries. He scrolled past all of it, his thumb steady, until he reached the “Horror” category.
He paused. For years, he’d brushed off horror movies with a casual shrug. At a fansign once, he’d even admitted, “They’re not that scary.” The fans had laughed, thinking it was bravado. But that wasn’t it. The truth was… fiction never quite matched the real thing.
Tonight, though, he was curious.
He wanted to test something.
Earlier that week, he had slipped his glasses off absentmindedly while working at his desk. When the world blurred around him, something odd had happened—the corners of the room didn’t blur the way they should have. Instead, they sharpened. Shapes stood out, faint but defined, clearer without the barrier of glass and frame. Figures that weren’t supposed to be there, watching.
And when he put his glasses back on—just like that, they vanished.
Now, sitting in front of the massive TV, his finger hovered over a poster of a film featuring a haunted hospital. He clicked. The television glowed, flickering through the opening credits that rolled, a dark hallway bathed in artificial shadows.
Wonwoo leaned back, letting his glasses slide down his nose again.
The screen blurred for a second, then… shifted. The way things always did. The world of the film sharpened in strange places, not in the clean way lenses corrected the real world, but the opposite: what was not meant to be seen grew clearer, more defined.
Dark hallway. Cheap string music. A girl holding a candle.
Wonwoo’s head tilted slightly, eyes reflecting the light. His expression never changed—calm, unbothered, almost blank.
The jump scare hit: a scream, a sudden flash of pale face lunging toward the camera. The speakers rattled.
Wonwoo blinked once. Then his eyes, however, narrowed.
Onscreen, the actress ran, shrieking down a corridor. The sound boomed through the speakers. The set walls shook, and the camera stuttered in jerks meant to unsettle. But Wonwoo’s gaze lingered not on her, but at the corner of the screen—at the way the shadow curled unnaturally, stretching too long for the room it was in. His lips pressed together, as if suppressing a thought. It wasn’t in the script. It wasn’t part of the acting. It was attached to her, silent, watching. But the camera had caught it, recorded it, preserved it.
Something real had bled into the fiction.
For a moment, his reflection stared back from the glossy black of the TV frame. And next to it—if one looked closely enough—another outline, faint, taller than him, standing still.
Wonwoo didn’t turn. He didn’t flinch. His shoulders only dipped the slightest degree, like an invisible nod of acknowledgment.
His lips curved in the barest trace of a smile. For the first time, horror movies felt less like stories and more like… research.
“Not that scary,” he murmured again, softer this time. And he let the movie play, gaze fixed on the places the director hadn’t intended.
The movie screamed again. The apartment stayed quiet. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved into the faintest smile.
“This is… cool,” he said under his breath. “I wonder if anyone else notices.”
And just like that, for the first time, horror films stopped being entertainment. They became windows.
***
The dorm had long since gone silent. No footsteps in the hallway, no clatter from the kitchen—just the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint tick of the wall clock. Midnight pressed against the windows, heavy and unmoving.
On the television, the movie rolled into its climax. Screams ricocheted through the speakers, sharper now, oddly louder than before. Wonwoo frowned, tapping the remote to check the volume. It was still set to the same number he’d chosen earlier, nothing unusual. And yet, each sound bled into the room as if the walls themselves were carrying the echo.
He leaned back against the couch, glasses folded neatly and abandoned on the coffee table. The screen flickered, the hospital corridor bathed in manufactured shadows. And then—just at the edge of his sight—something stirred. His gaze was tracing the edges of the figure—not the one in the movie, but the one that had just slipped out of the wall.
The wallpaper behind the TV seemed to ripple, as if the plaster were as soft as fabric. A shape pressed forward, stretching out of the wall itself. It was taller than the actress on screen, its body undefined, its outline smudged like wet ink spreading through paper. The air grew cooler, brushing cold fingers across Wonwoo’s arms.
The thing moved, slipping closer, as though trying to insert itself into the narrative of the film. For a heartbeat, the actor’s scream and the entity’s silent advance overlapped, clashing in a surreal duet of fiction and intrusion.
Wonwoo smiled. Not wide, but enough to curve at the edges of his mouth, the kind of smile that shouldn’t exist in a room like this. His eyes, sharp without lenses, lifted to meet the figure’s face. His shoulders relaxed, not a trace of fear on his face. He tilted his head, studying the visitor like one might study a curious insect.
The shadow hesitated. Its faceless form turned as if realizing it had been seen—truly seen.
Wonwoo’s eyes met where its gaze should have been.
“You’re new here?” he asked, voice low and casual, like greeting a neighbor in the elevator.
The thing froze. Whatever intention it had—startling him, testing him—crumbled under the simplicity of the question. Then, with a swift recoil, it stepped back, melting into the wall with frantic hast, and vanished into the darkness until nothing remained but a pale distortion that faded like smoke, as though embarrassed to be caught out of place.
Wonwoo leaned back against the sofa, blinking once before turning his gaze lazily to the film again.
The actress still writhed on screen, but now, it almost looked like she wasn’t acting alone. Wonwoo blinked once, calm as ever. He exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh, and turned his attention back to the movie.
“Figures,” he murmured. “Not here either.”
The space where the figure had been was empty now, just a patch of darker shadow against the wall. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered there for a moment, then dropped back to the screen. His lips pressed into a thin line—not in fear, but in quiet resignation.
It was always like this.
They never stayed.
Because that was always the case. The dorm, the practice rooms, the company building—they were almost sterile. Empty of the restless presences that crowded abandoned hospitals and forgotten train stations. Somehow, wherever Wonwoo lived and worked, they kept their distance. At the first sign of recognition—just a glance, a word—they slipped away, like startled animals vanishing into the underbrush.
As though afraid of him.
The movie crackled on, but Wonwoo wasn’t watching anymore. His chin rested in his palm, elbow balanced on the sofa’s armrest, eyes narrowing at the blur of shapes and sounds. The air was still colder than before, the kind of chill that clung to the skin, but he already knew: nothing else was going to show itself. Not for him.
He let out a soft breath through his nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.
“Always running,” he muttered, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.
For a heartbeat, the room felt lonelier than it should have. A building full of people, yet in this strange corner of his vision, he was the only one left.
Wonwoo blinked, straightened, and reached for his glasses. The world snapped back into its blur, the chill receded, and the movie returned to being just a movie. His expression smoothed, unreadable again, but his fingers lingered on the frames as though weighing whether to put them on or leave them aside.
The question sat quietly in his mind, unvoiced but steady: Why do they avoid me?
***
The credits rolled, spilling white letters down a black screen. Wonwoo didn’t move. His hand dipped into the half-empty snack bag beside him, fingers brushing crumbs. The quiet after the film ended felt too thin, too hollow. He blinked once, then reached for the remote.
Another attempt, another horror title queued up, the kind Vernon had once insisted was “unwatchable.” Wonwoo’s thumb pressed play. The television flickered, throwing pale light across his face, his glasses still untouched on the table.
The dorm was hushed except for the low hum of the TV—until footsteps padded down the hallway.
“Hyung?” Mingyu’s voice was thick with sleep. He rubbed at his eyes, hair messy, and stopped dead at the doorway. “Why are you still up? It’s almost three.”
Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. On screen, something shrieked in distorted sound; off screen, his expression didn’t flinch. Only the slow, steady chewing gave him away, his eyes trained on the blur of light and shadow like a man following a sermon.
Mingyu shivered. For a moment, it wasn’t the TV that unsettled him—it was the picture of Wonwoo, sitting motionless in the glow, spectacles set aside, eyes gleaming with a clarity they shouldn’t have without lenses.
“Hyung…” Mingyu stepped closer, voice lowered, “…are you even watching? You can’t see a thing without your glasses.”
Finally, Wonwoo turned his head, slow and deliberate. His eyes locked on Mingyu, darker and sharper than they had any right to be. His lips curved the faintest bit as he’d just heard an inside joke.
“I can see enough,” he murmured.
The words landed heavier than the screams echoing from the television. Mingyu swallowed hard, suddenly more awake than he wanted to be, and wondered—not for the first time—if his hyung was scarier than the ghosts on screen.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV. Shadows stretched across the walls while Wonwoo lounged back into the sofa, arms folded loosely, his long frame relaxed. His expression barely shifted, eyes steady on the screen as if he were watching a nature documentary instead of a horror movie.
***
Mingyu returned from the kitchen with a glass in hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, finally sinking down beside Wonwoo. The living room was the same as he had left it: Wonwoo leaning into the sofa, posture loose but strangely deliberate, eyes fixed on the huge TV screen where the horror film flickered.
The movie was at its peak now—doors slamming, a woman screaming in the distance. Mingyu winced at the sudden bang, shoulders jumping, but when he glanced sideways,
Wonwoo hadn’t flinched. His lashes lowered once, slow, calm, like nothing had happened. He sat perfectly still, expression unreadable, as if the scene on the screen were no more than a weather forecast.
That difference made him seem… strange. Almost uncanny. Too calm.
“You really don’t scare easy, huh,” Mingyu muttered, trying to sound casual.
Wonwoo tilted his head, just enough to let the corner of his lips lift.
“Watch closely. Right side of the frame. The door.” His tone was steady, quiet. “Someone’s opening and closing it. Dressed in black. A woman, maybe. Can’t see her face clearly.”
Mingyu’s head snapped toward the TV, eyes wide. The screen was empty. Just the scene as it should be.
“Wonie-ah…” Mingyu tried to sound steady, but his voice betrayed him. “There’s nothing there. Don’t mess with me. And anyway—that’s not in the film. I’ve seen this before.”
“I’m serious.” Wonwoo’s tone didn’t shift at all. His eyes didn’t leave the screen.
“Yeah, right.” Mingyu forced out a laugh, louder than necessary. “Not funny.”
With a quiet sigh, Wonwoo tilted his head toward him, lips curling into the faintest smirk.
“You’re no fun.” Wonwoo’s smile widened—yet it didn’t reach his eyes. For a second, it almost felt like he was talking to someone else.
“You’re the one being no fun, hyung,” Mingyu shot back, frowning, irritation masking unease. Mingyu shoved his shoulder, muttering, “You’re impossible,” and tried to focus back on the film.
That was when Wonwoo laughed—low, unguarded, and completely satisfied. Not sinister, yet something about it sent a prickle down Mingyu’s spine, as if he had just walked into the punchline of a joke only Wonwoo understood.
“Ah, your face when you panic—it’s priceless.”
Mingyu turned away, cheeks warming, half annoyed, half unsettled
Wonwoo shifted forward, picking up the remote with one long hand. “That’s enough for tonight.”
Click.
The screen went dark.
For the briefest heartbeat, just before the TV shut off completely, Mingyu saw it—something dark, something standing in the corner of the frame exactly where Wonwoo had said. A flicker, less than a second. Wonwoo stretched, calm as ever, setting the remote down with the kind of ease someone had only after finishing a casual sitcom binge.
Then nothing.
Just his own reflection in the dead screen. Mingyu, though, couldn’t shake it. That flash. That something. He rubbed his eyes, hard, like maybe exhaustion was playing tricks on him. His heart still hadn’t slowed down.
“I must be imagining things,” Mingyu muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“See you tomorrow,” Wonwoo said simply.
Mingyu sat there a little longer, the weight of the silence pressing down. When he finally got up and dragged himself to bed, he pulled the blanket up high over his shoulders, almost defensive, though he told himself he wasn’t scared. Just tired.
Then the image returned uninvited. A dark dress. A faceless figure. The slight sway of fabric. Standing in the corner. A door moving that shouldn’t have moved.
It hadn’t been in the film. Mingyu knew that with absolute certainty—he had seen that movie before. He could almost recall every beat of the story, every shadow carefully placed by the director, every fake scare.
So why had it looked so… organic? Like something unscripted, caught only by accident.
The more he replayed it in his head, the fuzzier it became. Was it really there, or had Wonwoo planted the idea so firmly that his brain filled in the blanks?
His chest tightened.
Had he really imagined it?
Mingyu pressed a palm against his chest, trying to calm the tightness there.
It’s nothing.
It’s just Wonwoo messing around again. He’s good at that—deadpan, unreadable, knowing exactly when to laugh.
Mingyu squeezed his eyes shut, restless. But the image wouldn’t leave him. A single thought lingered, sharp enough to keep him from sleep:
What if Wonwoo wasn’t joking?
***
The dorm grew quiet again, the silence settling heavily after Mingyu’s footsteps faded into his room. Wonwoo stayed in the living room, remote still in his hand, the faint afterimage of the TV screen glowing in his eyes.
He didn’t bother turning on another show. The darkness was better—cleaner. Without the false light, the room’s corners were easier to read.
Wonwoo leaned back into the sofa, eyelids lowering, listening.
There it was: the soft drag of something brushing against the wall, too faint for anyone else to notice. A draft that wasn’t from the air conditioner. The lingering weight in the air where the figure had appeared beside the film.
His gaze followed it out of habit. When the shape shifted, trying to gather itself near the edge of the room, Wonwoo only tilted his head. The same outcome as always—the moment its formless face turned toward him, it recoiled, scattering like smoke under the wind.
He didn’t smile this time.
“Every time,” he murmured, not sure who he was speaking to. His voice was barely more than breath.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. That tiny bend of his posture was the only acknowledgment he ever gave. A habit carved deep into him—older than the dorm, older than debut. A bow so slight no one would notice, paired with words he never spoke aloud.
Peace be upon you, those who dwell in this place.
The air shifted once more, lighter now. Wonwoo exhaled and pressed the heel of his palm over his left eye, tired but not unnerved.
Behind the door, Mingyu was probably already drifting off. He hadn’t seen enough to be frightened—not really. That was the point.
Wonwoo leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t interested in chasing. He had never been. Watching was enough. Letting them know he’d noticed, and then sending them away before they got close to the others—that was enough.
He closed his eyes. By the time he finally moved to his room, the living room felt ordinary again, like nothing had ever disturbed it.
***
The memory came uninvited, as it always did when he found himself whispering the words.
The old courtyard smelled of damp earth, the kind that clung to shoes and sleeves. Wonwoo was small then. He had been small enough that his hand disappeared entirely inside his grandmother’s when she led him through the family burial ground or followed the slow steps of his grandmother as she pressed her palms together before the family’s stone markers in a funeral hall.
The air was sharp with incense, heavy with murmurs from grown-ups dressed in black. Wonwoo had been restless, curious—his eyes darting to every corner, the framed photo, the strangers bowing, the offerings lined on low tables.
She had bent down, her voice warm and steady against his ear.
“Always greet them first,” she said, tilting down to him with a smile. “They were here before us.”
Then she lowered her head, lips moving in a whisper, Wonwoo didn’t catch. He copied the gesture anyway, clumsy and unsure.
And so he did. Always. At the threshold of quiet houses, forgotten gardens, stairwells that smelled of dust and time. The words reshaped themselves as he grew older, until they settled into a simple greeting.
A secret handshake, offered to whatever lingered unseen.
Years later, the house was different—walls repainted, windows replaced—but his mother’s silhouette by the doorway felt the same. She paused before stepping inside, fingertips brushing the frame, her lips moving in a quiet rhythm that only he could catch because he stood close.
His mother had leaned down, voice hushed yet certain.
“Before you walk in, you should greet them,” she said, smoothing his hair back.
Wonwoo frowned. “Them?”
“It’s polite. They were once people, too. We show respect.”
Wonwoo blinked up at her, confused. “But… they can’t hear me, right?”
She smiled in that patient way only mothers could. “Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you mean it.”
Then she bent her head slightly, lips moving in a whisper.
Wonwoo mimicked her—head lowered, voice small, stumbling on the words. His mother squeezed his hand in approval.
And just like that, it became a habit. At the next funeral. The next visit to a quiet graveyard. Even at the gate of a friend’s old house. His mother never corrected him, never asked him to stop. It stayed with him until the motion of lowering his head and the shape of those words became as automatic as breathing whenever he entered somewhere new.
Wonwoo didn’t ask. He only mirrored her, the way children do, whispering something of his own. A half-formed string of words, not quite a prayer, not quite a greeting.
By the time he was old enough to notice it was the same gesture both women carried, he was already packing for the trainee dorm. He thought of asking once, maybe twice. But schedules and practice swallowed the question, and the habit stayed behind with him—quiet, reflexive.
Even now, when he crossed an unfamiliar threshold, his lips shaped the same murmur. Like a secret handshake, passed down through hands that never let go.
The words shifted over the years until they became his own:
Peace be upon you, those who dwell in this place.
A reflex. A small bow of the head, like saying “excuse me” to the air.