The room was small but tidy, the kind of neatness that came from habit rather than effort. A wooden desk stood by the window, stacked with schoolbooks and a few worn paperbacks whose spines had long since creased. Beside it was a narrow bed pressed against the wall.
On that bed lay a boy, tangled halfway in his blanket, breathing softly.
For a brief moment, the world was quiet.
Then—
GRIIIIING! RIIING! RIIING!
The alarm clock erupted into noise, its shrill cry slicing cleanly through the still morning air.
The boy flinched.
His eyelids twitched before slowly parting. His vision was blurry, unfocused, and filled with the pale gold light of dawn spilling through the curtains. He blinked several times, trying to gather himself, before turning his head toward the source of his suffering.
The alarm continued screaming without mercy.
With a tired groan, he forced himself upright. His black hair was a mess, sticking out in uneven directions. He reached out blindly and slammed his palm down on the clock.
Clack.
Silence returned.
"Aughh…" he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
He stretched both arms above his head, fingers spreading wide as his back arched. The movement pulled a quiet groan from his throat. Sunlight filtered across his features, illuminating tanned skin and sleepy dark eyes that still struggled to stay open.
Miguel blinked toward the ceiling.
"I'm so tired…"
He remained seated on the edge of the bed for several seconds, shoulders slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees. His body felt heavy, like he hadn't truly rested at all.
"MIGUEL!!!"
The shout from outside the room jolted him fully awake.
"Yes, Maa!" he shouted back automatically, the reflex ingrained after years of repetition.
He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck while muttering under his breath, "I'm already up…"
A short while later, the door to their house stood open.
Miguel emerged from the hallway, hair damp from a shower, dressed neatly in his school uniform. The transformation from sleepy mess to presentable student was almost complete—almost. There was still a faint laziness in the way he adjusted his collar.
His mother stood by the doorway, arms lightly crossed.
"Miguel, call me if something happens, alright?"
He sighed, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder.
"Maa… I'm already in my last year. I'm not a kid anymore."
His tone carried mild embarrassment, but not true irritation. He avoided her gaze for a second too long.
She only smiled.
Miguel scratched his cheek awkwardly. He knew she's worried. He knew she had every right to.
She had raised him alone, poured every bit of love she had into him.
He wouldn't admit it out loud.
But he would never disappoint her.
"I'll go now, Maa."
"Take care."
Stepping outside, Miguel was immediately assaulted by heat.
The sun hung aggressively in the sky, already blazing despite the early hour. Warm air wrapped around him, thick and heavy.
"How is it this hot already?" he grumbled, squinting upward.
He began walking toward the highway where he usually waited for the bus. His footsteps were unhurried, his mind wandering aimlessly—thinking about school, assignments, and whether he had enough sleep.
Then—
His vision flickered.
The world dimmed as though someone had lowered the brightness of reality itself.
He stumbled.
[??????? is looking at you.]
The words didn't appear in front of him.
They pressed directly into his mind.
Before he could react, his knees buckled.
His body fell forward and the world vanished.
There was no ground beneath his feet.
No sky above him.
Miguel found himself standing in a space that defied explanation. Darkness stretched infinitely in all directions, yet it wasn't empty. Something existed there.
Something vast.
Something wrong.
He felt it before he saw it.
A presence so immense that it made his chest tighten.
The shape before him shifted constantly, writhing—not violently, but unnaturally, as though the concept of "form" did not apply to it. Parts of it folded into itself, unraveling and reforming in ways that made his head ache just from trying to focus.
Miguel swallowed.
He had read enough novels. Enough mythology. Enough cosmic horror.
He knew this feeling.
'An outer god…?'
The thought surfaced instinctively.
The entity moved again. Not toward him. Not away.
It simply existed.
A being like this—if truly seen—should shatter the human mind.
Yet Miguel remained standing.
Terrified.
But standing.
"This is a dream," he whispered to himself.
It had to be.
It felt real—too real—but that only proved it was a dream, right?
Then—
The being opened its eyes.
They were enormous.
Not made of flesh or light, but awareness itself.
They fixed onto him.
Miguel felt as though invisible chains had wrapped around his soul.
He couldn't look away.
[??????? Wake up.]
—
Miguel's body jerked violently.
"HOO—!"
Air rushed into his lungs in a desperate gasp.
He was lying face-down on the concrete road.
Pain stung his palms where they had scraped against the surface. His entire body trembled as he pushed himself upright.
Sweat dripped from his forehead.
His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
"What the hell…"
He wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to steady his breathing.
'Lack of sleep,' he told himself firmly. 'That's all.'
But his steps afterward were quicker.
Sharper.
Like someone being watched.
When he reached the highway, a bus approached almost immediately.
Miguel blinked.
"Lucky," he muttered.
The bus pulled to a stop with a hiss of air as the doors folded open. The conductor stepped down, glancing at him.
"Davao City," Miguel said politely.
The conductor nodded.
Miguel climbed aboard.
He paused.
The bus was empty.
Not a single passenger.
A faint unease settled in his stomach, but he ignored it and chose a seat near the front. He didn't want to miss his stop.
He set his duffel bag on his lap and leaned back.
The engine rumbled.
The vehicle began moving.
Miguel exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
—
DING.
The sound was soft.
Too soft.
Miguel's eyes snapped open.
The air felt different.
Cooler.
The rumbling beneath him wasn't from a bus engine.
It was smoother. Faster.
He turned his head.
Metal bars.
Hanging straps.
Rows of seats arranged differently.
Windows showing tunnels flashing by.
His fingers tightened around his bag.
'…This isn't a bus.'
It was a train.
A subway train.
Panic crept into his chest.
"Are you alright?"
Miguel flinched and turned.
A man sat a few seats away, holding a phone in one hand. His expression was calm but slightly concerned. Black hair. Sharp eyes.
Familiar features.
Too familiar.
Miguel forced a stiff smile.
"Yeah. I'm fine. Where… are we?"
The man studied him briefly before answering.
"We're in Seoul. This train's heading to Bulgwang."
Seoul.
The word echoed hollowly inside Miguel's skull.
Seoul.
His breathing became shallow.
"Dokja, what's wrong?" a woman's voice asked from nearby.
Miguel's heart stopped.
Dokja.
Slowly, as though moving underwater, Miguel turned his head.
The man.
The phone.
The expression.
Memories of countless chapters flooded his mind.
'Kim… Dokja.'
His fingers trembled.
This wasn't just Seoul.
This was—
No.
No.
His mother.
His home.
His world.
All of it felt impossibly distant.
'I'm inside a novel.'
The irony was cruel.
Kim Dokja had entered his favorite story.
And Miguel—
Miguel had entered his.
The train continued moving as if nothing had changed.
As if his entire existence hadn't just shattered.
Miguel lowered his head slightly.
Inside his chest, something stirred again.
Watching.
Waiting.
'I want to go home.'
His throat tightened.
'I wish…'
His eyes closed.
'I wish to wake up from this dream.'