The classroom buzzed with restless energy.
Morning light slanted through the tall windows, catching on chalk dust suspended in the air. The teacher stood at the front, flipping through a worn notebook, her glasses sliding low on her nose.
“Attention,” she said, raising her voice over the chatter. “For the midterm project, you will work in pairs. Each pair will prepare a presentation on a selected piece of literature. You may not choose your partners. I will assign them.”
Groans rippled across the room. A few students whispered urgently, bargaining for luck. Jaewon sat quietly at his desk, pen tapping against his notebook, trying to ignore the dull throb of unease in his stomach.
The teacher began to read names. “Jung Hyejin with Kim Daewon. Seo Hana with Lee Sanghyuk…”
Each pairing drew reactions—sighs, laughter, complaints. Jaewon tried not to care. Whoever he was matched with, he’d manage.
Until his name was called.
“Moon Jaewon… with Baek Sion.”
The room went silent.
Too silent.
Then, the whispers began.
“Seriously? He’s with him?”19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEk7Bmvk6c6
“Poor guy. First month here and already doomed.”19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqa8v5HNNtu
“Do you think he’ll survive the semester?”
Jaewon’s throat went dry. He glanced instinctively toward the back of the room.
Baek Sion was seated in his usual spot, posture relaxed, gaze fixed on the window as if none of this concerned him. But Jaewon felt it—like invisible threads tugging at him, binding him in place.
The teacher moved on, unbothered by the tension, rattling off more names. But Jaewon barely heard them. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Yerim leaned over from the next row, her expression tight with concern. She whispered, “Be careful, okay?”
Before he could respond, Hana’s voice carried from the front. Not loud, but sharp enough for everyone to hear: “Guess we’ll see how long the new kid lasts.”
Laughter snickered around the room.
Jaewon’s face burned. He gripped his pen harder, trying to keep his voice steady.
“It’s just a project,” he told himself under his breath. “Nothing more.”
But the knot in his chest didn’t loosen.
When the bell rang, students spilled out in clumps, buzzing about the assignments. Jaewon packed slowly, his hands clumsy. He could feel eyes on him—curiosity, pity, even a little fear.
He was about to stand when a shadow fell across his desk.
He looked up.
Baek Sion stood there, closer than he’d ever been. His dark eyes were unreadable, his expression calm, detached.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, fading into the background.
Then Sion said, voice low and even: “Library. After class.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A statement.
Before Jaewon could answer, Sion turned and walked out, his footsteps soundless against the floor.
The air he left behind felt colder.
Jaewon stared after him, his pulse racing, his mouth dry.
Library. After class.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than Sion had ever said to him.
And it was enough to unsettle him for the rest of the day.
The last bell rang, and the building began to empty.
Students surged through the hallways, laughing, calling to one another, relieved the day was over. Jaewon lingered at his desk, packing slowly, his fingers fumbling with the zipper of his bag.
He had told himself he wouldn’t go. He could just leave, pretend he’d forgotten, avoid whatever this was.
But the memory of Sion’s voice—low, calm, absolute—clung to him. Library. After class. It hadn’t sounded like an invitation. It had sounded like inevitability.
By the time he realized it, his feet were already carrying him down the stairs.
The library was quieter than he expected. Rows of tall shelves stretched into dim corners, the air heavy with the scent of paper and dust. Only a few students lingered, hunched over desks, scribbling notes or reading in silence.
And there, at the far end, near the window where the light slanted in gray and pale—sat Baek Sion.
He hadn’t brought any books. He wasn’t even pretending to work. He sat with his arms loosely crossed, gaze distant, as if waiting for something inevitable to arrive.
Jaewon’s throat tightened. For a moment he considered leaving.
But Sion’s eyes lifted, meeting his across the room.
A jolt ran through him.
There was no smile, no flicker of warmth, but something in that gaze told him he’d been seen long before he stepped through the door.
Slowly, carefully, Jaewon walked over. He slid into the chair opposite, setting his bag on the table. The wood creaked under his palms.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, without looking away, Sion asked, “Do you like to read?”
Jaewon blinked. Of all the things he expected—silence, a demand, maybe even nothing at all—this question caught him off guard.
“I… yeah,” he said finally. “Sometimes.”
Sion tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the answer. “What kind?”
“Novels. Mostly.” Jaewon hesitated. “Why?”
Sion leaned back in his chair, gaze shifting briefly to the tall shelves around them. “Words have weight. People forget that.”
His voice was quiet, but each syllable seemed deliberate, pressed into the air like an imprint.
Jaewon’s mouth went dry. He tried to steer the conversation back toward safer ground. “So… the project. We’re supposed to analyze a poem, right? Did you pick one yet?”
Instead of answering, Sion leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. The shift brought him closer—too close.
“Why did you transfer here?”
The question landed heavy, out of place.
Jaewon froze. “What?”
Sion’s eyes were steady, unblinking. “You don’t belong here. Why come?”
The words cut sharper than he expected, though Sion’s tone held no malice—only curiosity, layered with something unreadable.
“I… my parents.” Jaewon’s voice was thin, defensive. “They thought it would be better if I stayed with my cousin for a while.”
Sion hummed softly, as if the answer confirmed something. “And do you dream often?”
The question made Jaewon’s skin crawl. He shifted in his seat, trying to mask his unease. “That’s… none of your business.”
For the first time, Sion’s mouth curved—barely, faintly, something between a smirk and a shadow of amusement.
“Maybe not,” he said. His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. “But your dreams know me.”
The words settled in Jaewon’s chest like a stone.
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Sion leaned back again, expression smoothing into calm detachment.
“Pick the poem,” Sion said simply. “I’ll follow your choice.”
The shift was jarring, as if nothing unusual had been spoken.
Jaewon sat frozen, pulse pounding, mind struggling to catch up. His dreams. Sion knew about his dreams.
But how?
The silence between them stretched.
Jaewon fiddled with his pen, flipping it over in his fingers to keep from fidgeting outright. He couldn’t shake the unease pressing on his chest. Sion’s last words clung like damp cloth—your dreams know me.
How could he possibly know about that?
Jaewon glanced around the library, half-expecting someone to burst out laughing, to reveal it was a cruel prank. But the few other students were absorbed in their own work, oblivious.
When his gaze drifted back, Sion was watching him again.
Not staring exactly, but studying—like an artist examining a canvas, or a scientist dissecting something under glass.
Jaewon swallowed hard. He tried to ignore the prickling sensation crawling up the back of his neck.
“I’ll… pick a poem tonight,” he said at last, forcing his voice steady. “We can meet tomorrow to work on it.”
Sion didn’t answer.
Instead, his gaze flicked briefly to the window behind Jaewon, where the gray light had dimmed another shade closer to evening. For an instant, his expression changed—subtle, but sharp, like a ripple cutting through still water.
Jaewon frowned. He turned slightly, following Sion’s line of sight.
The windowpane reflected the library’s interior: rows of shelves, scattered desks, a few students. His own reflection, pale and tired.
And behind it—
A shadow.
Dark, formless, standing far too close, though no one was there when he glanced over his shoulder.
He whipped back to the glass, but the reflection had smoothed into normalcy.
Jaewon’s breath stuttered.
When he looked at Sion again, he found him still watching, his expression unreadable.
“You see them now, don’t you?” Sion asked softly.
The words hit Jaewon’s nerves like a strike of cold water. “See… what?”
Sion didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on Jaewon’s face for a moment longer before drifting away, as if the conversation had already ended.
Jaewon gripped the edge of the desk, grounding himself. He wanted to demand clarity, to demand an explanation, but his tongue felt heavy, weighted by something deeper than fear.
Across the table, Sion reached out—not toward Jaewon, but toward the book lying between them. His fingers brushed the cover, and Jaewon swore the library lights flickered.
It was small. Barely noticeable. But he saw it.
And when Sion looked up again, the corners of his lips tilted into that faint, unreadable curve.
“Tomorrow,” Sion said. “Same time.”
It wasn’t a request.
Before Jaewon could respond, Sion stood, fluid and silent, and walked away. His figure slipped effortlessly between the shelves until he vanished, swallowed by the rows of books as though he had never been there at all.
The air around Jaewon felt colder in his absence.
Jaewon sat for a long time, his heart pounding, the empty chair across from him like an accusation.
He should have left then. He knew it. But instead, his eyes drifted back to the glass window.
He waited. Watching.
Half-hoping he wouldn’t see anything.
Half-dreading he would.
By the time Jaewon left the library, the sky outside had deepened to a heavy gray. Streetlights flickered to life, casting long, jagged shadows across the school courtyard.
A few students lingered, chatting quietly or hurrying along with backpacks slung over their shoulders. Most had already disappeared down the path toward the main road.
Jaewon felt the weight of every step. His thoughts were tangled, half with fear, half with something else—something he couldn’t name.
He passed a group of classmates leaning against the wall by the entrance.
“Hey,” one called, smirking. “Looks like Jaewon’s teaming up with Sion.”
Laughter rippled through the group. “Good luck surviving that,” another added, mock sympathy in their voice.
Jaewon’s stomach churned. He forced a neutral expression, muttering, “I’ll be fine.”
But the words sounded hollow, even to him.
Yerim appeared from the side, her expression tight. She glanced at him, then at the laughing students, before falling into step beside him.
“Ignore them,” she said softly. “Just… be careful, okay?”
Jaewon nodded. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but couldn’t find the courage. Not yet.
The walk home was silent, heavy with tension.
Even the familiar streets felt different tonight, unfamiliar and watching. The shadows of trees stretched long and thin across the pavement, twisting as the wind stirred.
Jaewon’s thoughts kept returning to the library—Sion’s gaze, the shadow in the windowpane, the faint flicker of the lights when his fingers brushed the book.
And the way Sion had known things about him, questions about his dreams, his transfer…
Jaewon’s chest tightened.
Could anyone else know? Could anyone else see the same things?
He shook his head. No. Sion. It had to be Sion.
The thought was both terrifying and magnetic.
By the time Jaewon reached his street, the first drops of rain had begun to fall, light at first, then heavier, pattering against the rooftops.
He hurried home, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, heart still hammering from the unease and confusion of the afternoon.
Inside, the warmth of the house was a brief comfort. Jiwon looked up from his laptop.
“You’re late,” he said, voice calm but firm.
“I… stayed after for the project,” Jaewon muttered, unable to meet his cousin’s eyes.
Jiwon didn’t comment further. Jaewon went to his room, dropping his bag in the corner, pulling the curtains shut. The room was dim, heavy with the scent of rain outside.
He should have tried to relax, to read or take a shower.
But sleep didn’t come easily tonight.
Once again, the hallway from his dreams unfolded.
This time, it was darker, narrower, walls pressing inward. Shadows slithered along the edges, whispering his name in voices too soft to understand but heavy with intent.
And then Sion appeared, standing at the end of the hall.
Closer than before.
His eyes held the same unreadable expression, but now there was something different—anticipation. Hunger, maybe, or patience stretched into something almost unbearable.
“You shouldn’t have stayed after,” Sion whispered, voice soft, almost melodic.
Jaewon’s heart raced. He tried to move, to speak—but couldn’t.
Sion stepped closer, close enough that Jaewon could feel the heat of him, his presence pressing into the darkness.
“You’ll learn soon,” he said, and the shadows seemed to shift, almost bowing away from him.
The whispering voices faded, leaving only Sion, and Jaewon’s racing pulse in his ears.
Then the darkness swallowed him.
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and then Add to home screen.