He woke up in a bed he didn't recognize.
The room was small. Plain. White sheets. Oak desk. A single photograph on the wall: a family of three, smiling in front of a house Ji-Hyuk had never seen.
But his hand reached for the photo automatically.
His fingers knew where it was.
His body… remembered.
That was the first warning.
The second was the name whispered in his ear — not aloud, but inside his thoughts, like an echo bouncing off his skull.
"Ji-Hyuk. Time to go to work."
A woman's voice.
Warm. Familiar.
But he didn't know it.
He rose carefully. Touched his face. Looked down at his hands. Same scars. Same calluses.
But when he looked into the mirror—
The reflection wore a necktie.
And no blade.
He left the apartment and stepped into a different Seoul.
Quieter.
Cleaner.
A world without shadows behind the buildings.
No monsters.
No portals.
No Berafe.
Ji-Hyuk walked the streets in silence, absorbing the impossible: people waved at him. Called him by name. A barista handed him his usual coffee. A little girl smiled and said, "Mr. Yi, you forgot your umbrella again!"
He didn't know any of them.
But they all knew him.
The perfect life.
The one he might've lived, had he never crossed into Berafe.
Had he stayed human.
He returned to the apartment by instinct, unable to explain why.
And the woman was there.
Dark hair. Soft eyes.
She looked up from the kitchen and smiled. "You okay?"
Ji-Hyuk stared at her. His voice didn't work at first.
Then: "I don't know who you are."
Her smile didn't falter. "You always say that. Usually when you're stressed."
She walked toward him. Placed a hand on his cheek. "You don't have to be the strong one today, Ji-Hyuk. Just rest."
The moment her fingers touched his skin, something in him broke.
Not pain.
Not resistance.
Longing.
A life that never happened.
A comfort that had never been his.
And the most dangerous part?
He wanted it.
But something inside him stirred.
A whisper, buried in instinct.
"Pain is proof."
He blinked.
And suddenly the apartment flickered.
Once.
Then again.
He saw — for a heartbeat — the true shape underneath.
No home.
No city.
Just black stone.
A stage of mirrors.
And behind the glass… the Fold, watching.
Learning.
Feeding.
Ji-Hyuk staggered back.
The woman's smile twisted.
"Why fight this?" she asked, voice still gentle. "We built this from your hopes. Isn't it kinder?"
He looked her in the eyes.
"You built this from my weakness."
Then he reached deep — into the reservoir of will he hadn't touched since Berafe's darkest nights.
He summoned the glyph.
Not for power.
For memory.
And carved it into the air with his hand.
"I am Yi Ji-Hyuk," he whispered. "I killed gods. I buried friends. I bled across two worlds. And I earned this pain."
The false world shattered.
He awoke on a rooftop, coughing.
Concrete under him. Blood on his lips.
Maeryn knelt nearby, glyphs glowing at her fingertips.
"You almost didn't come back," she said quietly. "The Fold locked you in a full echo-loop. That's… not supposed to happen."
He sat up slowly. "It used me against myself."
Yeonho stepped out from the stairwell, grim. "That's its method. Not just memory theft. Resonance rewriting. It doesn't destroy the self. It convinces it to rewrite."
Ji-Hyuk looked at his hands.
They still trembled.
He remembered her face.
The voice.
The feeling.
And that was what scared him most.
That night, he burned a page in his journal.
A list of the names he never wanted to forget.
Isha.
Karun.
The boy in the canyon.
The captain who took his place.
All of them had died because he had lived.
He stared at the ash.
Then whispered to the dark:
"Try again."
But far above the city, behind the stars, the Fold pulsed once.
And began dreaming of someone else.
Someone stronger than Ji-Hyuk.
Someone willing to accept the lie.
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