CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Patient
He turned.
No one.
But on the concrete floor, right where he'd stepped—
A second set of footprints. Wet. Bare.
Leading in.
Not out.
The footprints didn't fade. They stayed, slick and silent. But when he bent to touch them, his hand passed clean over dry concrete.
Not water. Not real.
His flashlight flickered. Once. Twice. Then the room reset.
No names. No footprints. Just him. Just a table.
He didn't remember walking up the stairs, but suddenly he was standing in the living room again.
His breath sharp in his throat.
His heart too loud.
Then a voice.
Not a whisper this time.
Sharp. Close.
"You think this is over?"
He spun around.
Nothing.
But the ceiling fan was turning.
It hadn't worked in years.
And the walls— The walls were bleeding.
He blinked hard.
No blood.
Just faded floral wallpaper, peeling at the corners.
His hand flew to his head, gripping it tight.
The hum in his skull was rising.
A pressure building in his ears, like the world was pushing inward.
He stumbled outside.
But the street wasn't there.
Just corridors.
White tiles.
Fluorescent light humming overhead.
A heart monitor beeped steadily in the distance.
He turned a corner.
Another hallway. Then another. Then—
Room 306.
He reached for the door. It opened before he touched it.
Inside: A hospital bed.
Machines.
Monitors.
IV lines curling like vines.
And in the bed—
Someone.
Wires in his arms.
Bandaged all over.
Lips pale.
Still.
He backed away.
"You're haven't awoken."
The voice was behind him.
He turned fast—too fast.
————
A man stood there.
Face pale.
Shirt stained with something dark and rust-colored.
Eyes like mirrors.
Seungbae opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
The man grinned.
"You have always been here.
He paused,
And you never left."
Then continued.
Seungbae looked toward the mirror on the far wall.
A man stared back.
Bearded.
Hair unkempt.
Eyes dead.
Draped in a hospital robe—creased, stained, loose at the collar.
It was himself.
But behind that reflection—
On the bed—
There was another version of him.
Head bandaged.
IV in his arm.
Still. Unmoving.
He froze, rooted to the floor.
Silence stretched—until the flash came.
A moment lit behind his eyes.
A crash.
Two years ago.
Evening.
The shriek of metal.
The taste of blood on his tongue.
Vision spinning.
Red.
Then black.
He remembered.
He had blacked out.
Slipped under.
Into a coma.
Brought here.
To this hospital.
Two years ago.
The man lying in the bed—
He had been there all along.
And he never woke up.
The man lying on the bed was him all along.