Kim Jisoo slid the combat knife into the inside pocket of his jacket. The weight was comforting. Not because he thought it would save him if things got bad, but because it gave his hands something to do—something to grip when instinct screamed too loud.
The lab door sealed shut behind him. He paused at the tunnel exit, listening.
Silence.
Then the long walk up.
By the time he reached the city's edge, the sky was an ugly bruised grey. It wasn't growing darker or brighter. Just sitting in that wrong, pale shade, stuck between night and day—like the sun didn't know if it should rise again.
Jisoo's apartment was 40 minutes away on foot if he stuck to the route he used before. But things had changed. He could feel it.
He moved through alleys and broken parking lots. Everywhere he passed, people stood still. Not talking. Just… watching.
They turned their heads slowly as he passed. Their eyes—void of light—followed him like he was an animal that had wandered into their territory.
Some smiled. Wide. Offbeat. Lips pulled too far back. A twitch here. A jaw clench there.
But none moved. Not yet.
Jisoo didn't look back.
His heart thudded hard in his chest. His instincts screamed—run. hide. now.But he didn't.
Because his mother's picture was still in the apartment.
The only thing left that proved she had once existed. That she hadn't been just a dream, or a ghost. He couldn't explain it. Couldn't rationalize the risk. But something in him couldn't leave it behind.
Even now. Even with the world falling apart.
When he reached his building, he paused behind the stairwell, hidden in shadow.
The lobby was empty.
The thing that knocked yesterday was gone.
But the memory of its voice still clung to the air.
Jisoo slipped through the side entrance, past the trash bins. He moved silently up the stairwell, skipping the elevator. He trusted machines less and less now. There were too many ways they could trap him.
By the time he reached the fourth floor, sweat dripped down his neck. His hands were shaking again, but not from exhaustion. From something deeper. Instinct.
Danger. Close. Too close.
He reached his door and stared.
It was cracked open.
He never left it like that.
Never.
Slowly, he pushed it open.
His apartment was no longer neat. No longer his.
Furniture was overturned. Books ripped apart. Drawers thrown to the ground. His food stores slashed open, cans dented, packets torn like someone—or something—had gone through it all looking for him.
The walls were scratched. Deep claw marks etched into the plaster.
He took one step inside. His boots crunched on shattered glass. The lightbulbs were smashed.
His breath caught.
This wasn't looting.
This was rage.
This was a message.
Something had come here to find him. To kill him.
He clutched the knife inside his pocket until his knuckles whitened.
He could leave now. Just turn around. Backtrack. Leave the photo behind.
But then he looked at the bedroom door.
Closed.
Unmarked.
But something behind it…
He could feel it.
His legs nearly gave out. Sweat poured down his spine. His ears rang.
Every cell in his body begged him to leave.Now.Before whatever was inside that room opened the door first.
He gritted his teeth and took one shaky step closer.
Then stopped.
No.
Not now.
His eyes locked on the photo frame he could barely make out through the bedroom gap. It sat on the far wall, inside. Just one more step, and he could grab it.
But also just one more step—and he'd be in its space.
Common sense kicked in like a hammer.
You're not ready. Not yet. Not like this.
What if he took the risk and didn't make it out?
What if that thing behind the door wanted him to open it?
He backed away slowly. Step by step.
If he stayed alive, he could come back later. With weapons. A plan. A suit. Fire, even.
But if he died here—for a photo—it was over.
"Stay alive. First rule," he whispered.
He turned and slipped out of the door.
Pulled it shut, softly.
Then ran.
By the time he reached the ground floor, his legs were jelly. But he didn't stop.
He hit the lobby and moved toward the rear hallway, where the alley led to the exit—
—and froze.
A door creaked open.
Apartment 1-B.
A woman stepped out.
Late sixties, maybe. Dressed in an old floral blouse and knit sweater. Her hair was silver, tied in a loose bun.
Behind her: a child. Maybe seven or eight. Holding a small stuffed bear, eyes wide.
Both stared at Jisoo.
He stared back.
The tension was instant. The air heavy.
His hand hovered near his pocket, ready to draw the knife.
Then the woman blinked.
The child tilted his head.
They looked... human.
No twitch. No black eyes. No wrong smiles.
Just tired. Afraid. And real.
Jisoo didn't say anything.
Neither did they.
Then the child stepped forward.
"Are you going somewhere?" he asked.
The voice was soft. Shaky.
Jisoo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Then the boy said:"Can we… come with you?"
The woman touched the child's shoulder, gently pulling him back. But her eyes met Jisoo's with the same question.
He didn't answer.
Not right away.
The instinct in him didn't trust easily. Not even now.
He scanned them. Watched for even the slightest unnatural blink. A weird flex of fingers. A shadow that moved wrong.
But they stayed still. Real.
He didn't owe them anything. He didn't even know their names.
But then again… neither had anyone known his.
He looked away, then back.
"Do whatever you want," he said.
The words came out flat.
Not unkind. Just empty.
He turned, heading for the alley exit.
He didn't look to see if they followed.
He just kept walking into the heavy grey air, his mind spinning faster than his heart could catch up.
He had avoided the bedroom door. Made the smart choice.
But something told him… it wouldn't stay closed for long.
And next time?
It might follow.