Three people died last night in Mokdong.
None of them were injured. No trauma. No poison. Their hearts simply stopped, all at once, while they slept.
Ji-Hyuk stood in the middle of one of their bedrooms now — a cramped apartment filled with old books and incense ash.
The air tasted wrong.
Not like death.
Like residue.
"Third case in three days," Yeonho muttered behind him, checking the files. "Always one room. Always during sleep. And no sign of struggle."
Ji-Hyuk knelt by the bed.
The sheets were perfectly smooth.
The pillow undisturbed.
But the walls told a different story.
He could see the faint burn marks in the paint — runes burned by thought, not fire. Psychic residue, scrawled in patterns older than language.
Maeryn examined them silently, then spoke. "This isn't just death. This is a harvest. Something fed on the dream state. Pulled them too deep. Left their minds in the Fold."
Yeonho glanced up. "Then what's next?"
Ji-Hyuk stood.
"They're testing."
Later that evening, Ji-Hyuk sat in an abandoned park — the kind designed by a committee and forgotten by the people.
Children's swings creaked in the wind. Leaves rustled, though no wind blew.
And at the edge of the sandbox sat a woman.
Barefoot.
Hair tangled with petals.
Eyes closed.
He approached cautiously.
She opened her eyes.
And Ji-Hyuk stopped.
Because he knew her.
Even though he'd watched her die in Berafe. Watched her body burned by the Ash-Sworn. Watched her whisper his name with her last breath.
"…Isha?"
She smiled.
It was the same smile he remembered.
But wrong.
Off.
"You're not her," he said.
"No," she replied gently. "But I remember what she felt like. What she feared. What she wanted."
She stood slowly.
The sand didn't move.
"I come from where memories go to die," she said. "The Fold is not a place. It is a mind. And right now, it's dreaming of you."
Ji-Hyuk didn't reach for his weapon. Not yet.
"What do you want?"
Her head tilted.
"Nothing. Not yet. The Fold simply wants to understand you. It has… questions."
"Then let it ask."
Her eyes darkened. The petals in her hair turned to ash.
"Why did you survive?"
The voice that asked wasn't hers.
It wasn't human.
It was many voices — stacked, layered, vibrating through Ji-Hyuk's bones.
The park melted around them.
The sky flickered.
And suddenly he stood on a battlefield of broken moons and bleeding clouds.
Berafe — but not any Berafe he knew.
A dreamscape.
Constructed from his own nightmares.
He didn't flinch.
"This trick won't work on me."
The Isha-thing laughed. "It's not a trick. It's a reflection."
Ji-Hyuk raised a hand and formed a glyph — not to attack, but to anchor.
The sigil snapped into place around his feet. The dreamscape shuddered.
The Isha-thing snarled. "You don't belong here."
"Neither do you."
Then he struck.
His blade wasn't real — not here — but it didn't need to be.
It was will. Manifested as motion.
The Isha-thing dodged, but slowly. It wasn't built for combat. It was built for questions.
He hit her again — slicing through the image.
It split.
Dissolved.
And behind her, the sky cracked — revealing eyes watching through the Fold.
He met their gaze.
And smiled.
"Keep watching," he said. "You'll regret it."
Then he tore himself free of the dream.
Back in the real world, Ji-Hyuk gasped and staggered.
Yeonho caught him before he fell.
Maeryn stood nearby, hands glowing faintly. "You were out for two minutes. Mentally gone. We couldn't reach you."
"I wasn't unconscious," Ji-Hyuk said, breath steadying. "I was in."
Yeonho frowned. "In what?"
Ji-Hyuk looked toward the stars, which suddenly felt much closer.
"The Fold is more than a mind. It's a hive. Something is using memories — using people — to learn Earth's shape."
"And what does it want?"
Ji-Hyuk didn't answer for a long time.
Then he said, "I think it wants to replace us."
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