The air shimmered faintly, heavy with the scent of rain on old paper. Somewhere, far away but close enough to feel in their chests, a music box played a lullaby in slow motion, each note stretching like taffy.

Your steps were light but uncertain, the hem of your dress brushing against your knees. Donghae followed, his eyes tracing the shadows you left behind more than the strange corridor ahead. The dreamcore twisted space around them, doorways spilling into impossible gardens and flickering motel rooms.

He wanted to ask you if you were scared, but the words stayed caught in his throat. The Backrooms were supposed to be cold and endless. This layer was different—soft, almost tender—but something about it felt fragile, like it could shatter if they spoke too loudly.

Donghae stared back at you as if asking what are you supposed to do.