Chapter 22
"The Dead Walk (III)"
Sung Ho hadn't slept in two nights.
Every time he closed his eyes, the river came back. Black water, swollen with rain, churning against the stone piers. Bloated bodies, pale and limp, drifting downstream. Their faces turned upward like grotesque masks. Xin Min. The two goons. All of them dead.
Yet every morning, when Sung Ho walked into class, those same faces were there. Laughing. Talking. Breathing. Alive.
His hands trembled as he gripped the pen at his desk. He pressed down until the plastic cracked. Ink bled across the paper, seeping into his palm. He didn't even notice. All he could see was Xin Min sitting at the back of the classroom, chair tilted, smirk painted across his lips. Too casual. Too human. Pretending.
When the bell rang, Sung Ho shot up and caught a group of classmates before they could leave. His voice came out in a stammer.
"D-doesn't something feel off to you? About Xin Min?"
They blinked at him. "Off? You mean besides the fact he's back to beating people up?" One boy snorted.
"No, I mean—" His throat locked. The words I saw him dead hovered but refused to cross his lips. He swallowed hard. "I mean… doesn't he feel different? Like he's not really—"
The group exchanged looks, then burst into laughter.
"You're just mad he came back."
"Yeah, admit it—you were praying he'd disappear for good."
"Scared little Sung Ho thought he was free, huh?"
Their laughter trailed after them as they walked away. Sung Ho stood frozen in the hallway, bile burning his throat.
Why won't anyone see it?
He turned his head—and his stomach dropped. From the far end of the hall, Xin Min was staring at him. Not mocking. Not grinning. Just staring. For a heartbeat, Sung Ho swore the boy's eyes were bottomless pits, ancient and patient, like something that had been waiting for centuries.
His knees nearly buckled. He staggered to the bathroom and vomited into the sink until his throat burned raw.
That night, he tried writing it all down. The lamp flickered as his pen scratched furiously across the page:
I know what I saw. They were dead. I saw them in the river. No one else believes me, but I'll prove it. I won't let him trick me.
The words steadied his breath, but not for long. Every creak of the house sent shivers up his spine. He locked his door, shoved a chair under the handle, drew the curtains tight. Yet when he glanced toward the mirror, his blood froze.
It wasn't his reflection staring back. It was Xin Min. Pale. Water dripping from his hair. Lips curved in that same smirk.
Sung Ho screamed and hurled the mirror to the floor. Shards scattered across the tiles. His chest heaved. He didn't dare pick them up.
The next day at school, he sat slumped in his chair, shaking. The whispers around him blurred together. His classmates had already branded him strange.
Then it happened. Xin Min turned his head, met his eyes, and without moving his lips, mouthed two silent words:
I drowned.
The blood drained from Sung Ho's face. He shot to his feet, finger trembling, voice cracking.
"You're dead! You're dead!"
The classroom fell into silence. Dozens of eyes turned toward him. Then the laughter came.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Lost your mind, Sung Ho?"
Even the teacher snapped at him. "Sit down or I'll call your parents!"
His chest heaved. He tried to explain, but the words tangled into madness. His voice cracked into a scream. Finally, he collapsed back into his seat, shaking as the room erupted with whispers.
Across the room, Xin Min leaned back casually, smirk once more in place, as if nothing had happened.
That night, in a quiet rented room miles away, Maverick sat polishing a blade in his borrowed body. Voldrack stood by the window, arms folded. Zaratul lounged in a chair, his humanoid form lazily draped, eyes glimmering like coals.
"He's unraveling," Voldrack muttered. "The boy shouts in class, speaks of corpses, sees ghosts. Soon others will take notice. What if the angels hear whispers?"
"They won't," Maverick replied, voice flat. "The more he screams, the less he's believed."
Zaratul's lips curled into a thin smile. "A rat gnawing at its own cage. Should I end him, Master? A twist of my hand and his head could roll."
"Not yet," Maverick said. His gaze was as cold as the river. "Fear is sharper than blades. Let him bleed out on his own terror. When the time is right, he will be erased without ripple."
The rain outside thickened, pattering against the glass. In the silence, Maverick set the blade aside and closed his eyes. Somewhere in the city, Sung Ho was clawing at his walls, screaming into empty rooms. But no one was listening.
And Maverick was patient.
Always patient