The door closed behind her. Not with sound, but with a feeling like being forgotten.
Ahri stood in a room where nothing moved, and yet everything watched. No walls, no ceiling—only endless weavings stretched into the void. Threads drifted in slow spirals, suspended like breath held too long. Her footsteps made no echo, and her thoughts felt louder than her body.
She was inside the Loom's dream. Or the memory of one.
Across the air, a voice wove itself into the silence—not spoken, but threaded directly into her perception.
You should not be here. You were not stitched for this.
She turned. No figure. Just the Loom itself—vast, alive, and unknowable. It blinked. Not with eyes, but with awareness. She was being seen in layers: as girl, as Threadseer, as trespass.
"You remember me," Ahri whispered. Her voice quivered. Not with fear, but something colder. A suspicion that had no name.
All threads are known.
A ripple passed through the weave. One of the suspended strands unraveled slightly—showing her an image.
Baek Hyun-tae.
Frozen in the last moment of his life, hand outstretched, thread burning from his chest.
Then another image. Jin. Silent, back turned to her, staring into a mirror that showed a thousand fractured Ahri's—each making a different choice.
Then another. Miran, cloaked in lightless thread, smiling—not cruelly, but knowingly. Her fingers wove symbols into the air: We were never enemies. We were the answer you refused.
Ahri flinched.
"Why are you showing me this?"
To correct distortion. You resist the pattern. But you are the pattern's heir.
The Loom pulsed once. Beneath her feet, new threads bloomed—formed of her memories, her doubts, her fragmented loyalties. Every lie she had believed. Every truth she had twisted to stay afloat.
She wanted to scream. But the threads wouldn't let her. They wrapped gently around her limbs, not as bonds—but as invitation.
"You think this is clarity," she said slowly. "But it's just control in disguise. I see it now. You don't record fate. You enforce it."
All chaos returns to pattern. This is mercy.
"No." Her voice hardened. "This is obedience dressed as order. And I won't be woven into silence."
A violent tremor passed through the Loom.
The images distorted. Hyun-tae's outstretched hand curled into a fist. Jin's mirror cracked. Miran's smile disappeared—but her presence lingered, like a smirk in the dark.
Ahri stepped back.
Then forward.
Then reached out—and did the one thing she had not yet dared.
She plucked a thread from the Loom's body. One that pulsed with her own name.
And the Loom screamed.
Not with sound—but with unraveling.
The silence shattered. The world shuddered. The Loom's eye snapped shut. And the space around her collapsed into threaddust, folding into itself like a rejected prophecy.
Ahri fell—no, was cast—into a new layer of the unknown.
But this time, she wasn't afraid.
e Loom Dreams in Silence
The door closed behind her. Not with sound, but with a feeling—like being forgotten.
Ahri stood in a room where nothing moved, and yet everything watched. No walls, no ceiling—only endless weavings stretched into the void. Threads drifted in slow spirals, suspended like breath held too long. Her footsteps made no echo, and her thoughts felt louder than her body.
She was inside the Loom's dream. Or the memory of one.
Across the air, a voice wove itself into the silence—not spoken, but threaded directly into her perception.
You should not be here. You were not stitched for this.
She turned. No figure. Just the Loom itself—vast, alive, and unknowable. It blinked. Not with eyes, but with awareness. She was being seen in layers: as girl, as Threadseer, as trespass.
"You remember me," Ahri whispered. Her voice quivered. Not with fear, but something colder. A suspicion that had no name.
All threads are known.
A ripple passed through the weave. One of the suspended strands unraveled slightly—showing her an image.
Baek Hyun-tae.
Frozen in the last moment of his life, hand outstretched, thread burning from his chest.
Then another image. Jin. Silent, back turned to her, staring into a mirror that showed a thousand fractured Ahri's—each making a different choice.
Then another. Miran, cloaked in lightless thread, smiling—not cruelly, but knowingly. Her fingers wove symbols into the air: We were never enemies. We were the answer you refused.
Ahri flinched.
"Why are you showing me this?"
To correct distortion. You resist the pattern. But you are the pattern's heir.
The Loom pulsed once. Beneath her feet, new threads bloomed—formed of her memories, her doubts, her fragmented loyalties. Every lie she had believed. Every truth she had twisted to stay afloat.
She wanted to scream. But the threads wouldn't let her. They wrapped gently around her limbs, not as bonds—but as invitation.
"You think this is clarity," she said slowly. "But it's just control in disguise. I see it now. You don't record fate. You enforce it."
All chaos returns to pattern. This is mercy.
"No." Her voice hardened. "This is obedience dressed as order. And I won't be woven into silence."
A violent tremor passed through the Loom.
The images distorted. Hyun-tae's outstretched hand curled into a fist. Jin's mirror cracked. Miran's smile disappeared—but her presence lingered, like a smirk in the dark.
Ahri stepped back.
Then forward.
Then reached out—and did the one thing she had not yet dared.
She plucked a thread from the Loom's body. One that pulsed with her own name.
And the Loom screamed.
Not with sound—but with unraveling.
The silence shattered. The world shuddered. The Loom's eye snapped shut. And the space around her collapsed into threaddust, folding into itself like a rejected prophecy.
Ahri fell—no, was cast—into a new layer of the unknown.
But this time, she wasn't afraid.