The old east wing stood like a relic of a forgotten time—its bricks weathered and ivy-cloaked, windows cracked, some shattered entirely. A few "DO NOT ENTER" signs clung to rusted chains, but the gate had long since lost its lock.
Minjae stepped over the threshold.
The air shifted.
Even before his shoes met the dust-covered tiles inside, he felt the temperature drop. The hallway was long and dark, only faintly lit by moonlight filtering through broken panes. His flashlight flickered before he'd even turned it on.
"Stay calm," he muttered to himself. "It's just a building."
But Room 503 wasn't just a room.
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He climbed carefully. The staircase groaned under his weight—every step a protest. The fourth floor was already a graveyard of rusted furniture and old dorm room doors hanging loose from broken hinges. His breath fogged the beam of his flashlight.
Fifth floor.
The hallway was silent.
There were only two doors intact.
One labeled "Maintenance."
The other: 503 — painted over in red.
Except… it wasn't paint.
The numbers looked like they were drawn in dried blood. Or something that had long since turned black and crusted.
Minjae swallowed and stepped forward. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the master key. It didn't fit.
But the door clicked open anyway.
Not with the sound of a latch.
It opened like it wanted him in.
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Inside, dust danced in the air like ash. The room was larger than expected—an old studio-style dorm, the furniture long gone, walls covered in layers of peeling posters and claw marks.
But what made his breath catch wasn't the room.
It was the mirror.
A full-length, floor-standing antique, placed at the far end, draped partially with a torn white sheet. The kind you only ever see in antique shops or haunted films.
And in front of it…
A single chair.
With a phone placed on it.
His phone.
The one he lost months ago and had written off.
How did it get here?
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He stepped toward it slowly. The screen blinked on without touch.
1 Unread Message
📲💬
From Unknown
Don't look away when it begins.
💬
He turned toward the mirror.
The sheet was slipping—falling, piece by piece—though there was no wind in the room. The glass beneath shimmered strangely, as if it were liquid rather than solid.
And then…
His reflection smiled.
But Minjae didn't.
The person in the mirror wasn't matching his movements.
It stepped forward.
Minjae remained still.
He froze, heart thudding in his chest.
The figure in the mirror looked just like him—but older, eyes completely black, with a strange stitched wound running along his jawline.
The reflection raised its hand, pointing to the base of the mirror.
Minjae's gaze followed.
There, scratched into the wooden frame:
"To wake is to forget. But forgetting is how she wins."
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Suddenly, the lights in the room flared—no source, just blinding white—and then the phone began to ring.
Minjae hesitated.
Then answered.
No words came through.
Just a scream.
Not of pain.
Of madness.
Of obsession.
Then, silence.
The call ended.
And the mirror? It was normal again.
Minjae's reflection mimicked his posture now—staring back, wide-eyed, breathless.
He backed away slowly and turned to leave.
That's when he saw it.
On the back of the door.
Another note.
This one was burnt at the edges, but the writing was clear:
"Six have been marked. The seventh is already dreaming."
Below it:
"The clock stops at 11:11. Only one remembers. You will be that one."
And in blood-red ink, a final line:
"She's closer now."
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Back in his dorm, Minjae didn't speak.
Didn't eat.
Didn't sleep.
He laid the note on the table beside the others. His collection now spanned multiple mediums—paper, messages, stitched fabric, cryptic drawings. Whoever she was, she was everywhere.
And yet… nowhere.
He remembered the cracked mirror in his own room—the one that hadn't been broken when he moved in.
He walked over to it, flashlight in hand.
The crack had widened. It now spread in the shape of a branching vine, curling like veins.
He reached out and traced it with a fingertip.
A jolt.
He pulled back.
And beneath the crack… new writing appeared.
He hadn't seen it before.
It was only visible when the light hit at the right angle.
"The reflection isn't yours anymore."
He staggered back.
The mirror went dark.
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📲💬
From Unknown
I watched you in 503. You looked scared. That made me angry.
💬
His phone buzzed again.
📲💬
From Unknown
You promised you'd never be scared of me.
💬
Minjae stared at the message, breath caught in his lungs.
He hadn't replied to a single one.
Never said anything.
And yet—
How did she know that phrase?
That line?
The one he used to say… when he was a child.
When he had imaginary friends.
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A knock on his door broke his thoughts.
"Minjae?" Mirae's voice. Soft. Concerned.
"You okay?"
He opened the door just a crack. She looked worried again—holding a plastic container.
"I brought you some dinner. You haven't come out in two days."
He took it with a nod. Forced a smile.
"I'm okay."
"You look pale."
"I just need rest."
She lingered.
"You know… if you're ever in trouble, I mean real trouble… you can tell me, right?"
He hesitated. His eyes drifted to the mirror behind him.
Then back to her.
"Of course. I know."
But he didn't tell her.
Because deep down, he knew the truth:
Mirae might not be able to help him.
She might already be part of it.
⸻
That night, the dream came.
Or maybe it wasn't a dream.
He was back in Room 503—but this time, the mirror was shattered.
In its place… was her.
Just a silhouette.
Hair down to her waist.
Eyes glowing faintly red.
She didn't speak.
Just stepped closer.
Closer.
Until he could smell the sweet, rotting scent of wilted flowers and perfume.
And then—
She whispered.
💭 "Soon, Minjae. You'll remember everything." 💭
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[End of chapter 11]
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