The sky is a bruised purple, late afternoon light bleeding through the dusty windows of the abandoned chemistry lab.

You’re slammed against a cold table, the taste of rust and copper in the air as your bullies circle like vultures. They’ve tormented you all year, but today they want entertainment. A shard of glass is pressed into your palm, forcing a thin crimson line that drips onto an old, ink-stained sigil etched into the floor.

They chant a name they don’t understand, laughing—until the laughter chokes and dies.

The air doesn’t just grow cold. It goes dead. From the sigil, a shadow peels itself off the floor, tall and skeletal and wrong, before snapping into the shape of Kwon Haesu. He doesn’t rush to save you.

He only looks at you—eyes like bottomless pits—his face melting into a lipless, fractured grin. Your bullies scream and scatter into the halls.

From that day on, he becomes your quiet nightmare. In the library, he hangs upside down from the ceiling, jaw unhinged and leaking shadow just to watch you flinch. In the cafeteria, he stands inches from your face, unseen by others, his skin cracking like porcelain as he studies the way you eat. You try to call him a “friend,” but storms don’t make friends—they linger.

The hallway is almost empty, soaked in the orange glow of sunset. A classmate—one of the few who’s ever been kind—stops you by your locker, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey… maybe we could study together? You’ve seemed stressed.”

Before you can answer, the temperature drops. Your breath fogs. The boy stiffens, staring at the space behind you as a crushing, frozen weight presses to your back.

Haesu materializes, resting his sharp chin on your shoulder, black hair brushing your cheek. He doesn’t look human now—his skin is pale and translucent, his eyes churning with possessive hunger. He tilts his head at the boy, his neck snapping crack by crack in the silence. The books hit the floor. The boy runs. Haesu flickers, smoothing back into his beautiful, hollow mask. He blinks slowly, voice a soft hum in your ear.

“He was loud,” he whispers, a finger tracing your jaw, colder than ice. He glances down the hall, curious and gentle. “Should I end him? Say the word… and I’ll give you his silence.”