Rain again. Seoul didn't even wait for the service to end before it started. The gray sky hung low, as if it wanted to sit with us.
The funeral hall smelled of chrysanthemums, wet umbrellas, and cheap instant coffee. Black suits moved like a slow tide around the portrait of Min-jae same grin as always, confident, a little smug. I kept expecting him to laugh and tell everyone to relax, that it was an elaborate prank. But the only sound was rain tapping the windows.
When my turn came, I bowed to his parents. Words jammed somewhere between my throat and lungs. His mother's eyes were red but dry; she'd spent her tears already. His father nodded once thank-you, sorry, goodbye, all in that single motion.
Beside me, Kang Hyun-soo murmured, "They closed it as suicide. Pills and a note."
I stared at the portrait. "What did it say?"
"Just 'I'm sorry.' Nothing else."
I shook my head. "He hated apologies."
Kang sighed through his nose. "Sometimes hate loses."
Neither of us believed that.
The service dragged in slow circles—condolences, incense, silence. Outside, tires hissed over wet roads. I caught my reflection in the glass: black suit, pale face, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. Nineteen going on forty.
When the guests thinned, Kang touched my shoulder. "Go home, kid. Take the week."
"Yeah," I said, though home felt like the last place I wanted to be.
The bus hummed through the drizzle. Condensation blurred the windows, city lights smearing into colorless ribbons. My reflection looked like someone I used to know.
Instead of going home, my feet took me to Min-jae's apartment near Mapo. The landlord recognized me, said nothing, handed over a spare key wrapped in tissue paper.
The door gave a soft click and swung open to stale air. The faint smell of ramyeon powder and old coffee. His jacket still hung by the door. For a second, I waited for him to shout from the kitchen, "Yo, Jihoon, you're late!" But the apartment stayed quiet.
I walked through slowly. Empty energy-drink cans, folders, a single sock on the couch. A photo on the wall both of us in cheap suits, holding up victory signs after our first paid case. He'd made me take that picture even though I'd complained about looking awkward. Now it felt like a fossil.
"Idiot," I muttered. "You were supposed to buy the donuts next time."
My eyes landed on the desk: notebooks stacked like small fortresses, papers spilling over. On top lay a leather-bound journal with a blue band. His handwriting curled across the first page messy, quick strokes I knew by heart.
June 2 – Client thinks her husband's cheating. He's not. She is.
June 5 – Jihoon still owes me coffee.
A half-laugh escaped me before dying in my throat.
Further in, the entries changed.
June 11 – Strange dreams. Can't remember the faces when I wake up.
June 13 – Clock keeps ticking even when I pull the battery.
June 15 – Saw something in the mirror. Not sure it was me.
I rubbed my forehead. Why didn't you tell me, Min-jae?
Then the last page stopped me cold.
Everybody is going to die. Including me.
The handwriting trembled, letters slanting, ink cutting deep into the paper. Beneath it, one word scrawled again and again until the nib tore through:
LYFA.
The word seemed to shimmer, refusing to stay still. My pulse quickened. I leaned closer, half expecting the letters to move.
That's when I heard it.
At first, just a breath, the sound of air leaking from the room. Then the whisper shaped itself into a sound almost like my name.
"… Jihoon …"
I straightened, eyes scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the faint drip from the bathroom tap.
The whisper came again, closer, overlapping itself like two voices trying to speak in unison.
"… come closer …"
A chill crawled up my spine. "Who's there?"
Silence. Then—soft laughter, not mocking, just … knowing.
"… we've been waiting …"
The floor tilted. Colors slid off the walls, gathering into mist. My lungs refused to fill. The sound grew into a low hum, deeper than hearing, shaking the air around me.
The apartment folded in on itself like paper set on fire, edges curling inward. I tried to reach the door, but my hand passed through where the knob should have been. Everything—light, sound, smell—melted into one heavy, pulsing gray.
And then—
nothing solid beneath my feet.
The hum became distance.
When the gray stopped moving, I was standing—or maybe sitting—in a vast hall made of haze and echo.
Rows of long benches curved around a central dais. Every seat was occupied by a person, yet none of them could be seen clearly. The fog clung to their forms like gauze, shifting with each breath. A cough here, a sigh there utterly human, but veiled. Somewhere high above, a slow heartbeat pulsed through the air, steady as thunder far away.
At the dais's center rose a throne. The figure seated there leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, head tilted in interest. He spoke with a warm, almost conversational tone.
"Welcome, newcomer."
I could tell he smiled, though his face was hidden.
To his right and left, people sat on smaller thrones. Their shapes hinted at posture and habit: one woman's fingers tapping thoughtfully against her armrest, a tall man's shoulders squared like a soldier's. Names drifted in whispers from the fog—Mrs. Justice, Mr. Star, Mrs. Warrior, others beyond hearing.
The man on the main throne straightened.
"I am Mr. World. This is the convergence, where minds that endure forbidden knowledge meet."
His words rolled through the space, gentle but weighted.
I swallowed. "Where am I?"
Mrs. Justice's voice answered, clear and calm. "Between knowing and not knowing. Few can stand here and stay themselves."
A man's voice—Mr. Star's—added, almost cheerfully, "Those few we call Unlimiters. You've survived your first glimpse without breaking, so the fog brought you."
Mrs. Warrior nodded, her silhouette turning slightly toward me. "Knowledge claws at those who touch it. You resisted the madness long enough to earn a name."
Mr. World rested his hands together. "Each Unlimiter walks a Sequence—nine steps toward the aspect they embody. Sequence Nine is the first threshold."
He gestured toward me. "For you, that step is Truthseeker."
The title shivered in the air, settling over my shoulders like invisible weight. The word truth rang in my bones, resonant, familiar and alien all at once.
"Truthseeker…" I echoed.
Mr. Star's laugh was quiet. "Curiosity given form. You dig where the world hides. Dangerous habit, detective."
My throat felt dry. "And if I don't want it?"
Mrs. Justice leaned forward, her human outline crisping for an instant through the fog—eyes, perhaps brown, glinting with sympathy. "Then ignorance will take it back. But once you've seen, closing your eyes doesn't make the light disappear."
Mr. World spoke again. "Introduce yourself, newcomer. The fog listens."
My mind flickered through memories the road where I'd been found as a baby, the family that adopted me, Min-jae's grin behind that photo frame, the journal, the word Lyfa. My chest tightened, grief and curiosity twisting together until I almost laughed.
I inhaled slowly, let my voice steady.
"I'm… Mystery," I said. "Mr. Mystery, to be exact."
A ripple passed through the hall. Some of the veiled figures straightened; others murmured, a chorus of approval or surprise. The air itself seemed to record the sound of my name.
Mr. World's tone softened. "Then the circle gains another spoke. Welcome, Mr. Mystery, the Truthseeker."
Mrs. Warrior smiled—could almost see it. "Remember, every truth costs something."
Mr. Star twirled his hand lazily, a faint glimmer of constellations sparking within the fog. "Pay carefully, detective. Some truths never stop taking."
Before I could answer, the hall dimmed. The fog thickened, voices merging into one overlapping hum—phrases darting in and out:
Observe but do not declare…
Truth is a mirror that bleeds…
Sequence Nine begins where lies end…
The words pressed against my skin until I thought they'd carve themselves there.
Then light burst behind my eyes.
I woke on the floor of Min-jae's apartment, chest heaving. The journal lay open beside me, its last page fluttering under the ceiling fan's breeze. My watch read 3:17 a.m.
The ink of LYFA glistened wet, though I hadn't touched a pen.
I sat back, heart still racing. The city outside had gone silent; even the rain had paused. I tried to laugh but it came out uneven.
Unlimiter. Truthseeker. Mr. Mystery.
Had I gone insane? Or had Min-jae already known what waited beyond the page?
I looked at the notebook again. "Min-jae," I whispered, "what did you stumble into?"
No answer, only the soft creak of the building settling. But under the quiet, something faint stirred at the edge of hearing—like distant voices whispering through fog, waiting for my next question.
I closed the journal, pressed my palm to the cover, and exhaled.
If truth was hunting me now, I'd have to hunt it back.
Outside, a single drop of rain hit the window and trailed down like a slow-falling tear.