The hallway buzzed with noise. Cadets streaming out, laughter bubbling like cruel mockery of what he remembered.
And then—
The shadow blocking the door.
Seo Ha-young.
Her posture was casual, leaning against the frame with her arms folded, but there was nothing casual about the way her eyes flicked over him—sharp, unblinking, as though she were reading a page only she understood.
"Skipping already?" she asked, voice light, lilting, but edged like glass. "What, the little bookworm can't keep up?"
The same script. The same words.
But not the same person.
Ha-young's smirk wasn't the loud jeer of a bully. It was quieter. Amused. As though she was testing him, weighing his reaction like currency in her hand.
Hae-won's chest didn't seize with helpless dread this time.
He knew what would follow: the circle of cadets, the whispers, the humiliation. And worse—the silence he had chosen before.
Not this time.
Her eyes glittered as she stepped closer, raising her voice just enough to draw attention. "Look at you—shaking like a leaf. You sure you even belong here? Or did the instructors pity you?"
Cadets slowed. Whispered. A circle began to form.
The script.
The same script.
Hae-won's hands tightened at his sides until blood welled where his nails dug into his palms.
Ha-young tilted her head, expression widening into a grin that was almost playful. Almost. "Pathetic. Can't even look me in the eye?"
The crowd waited for his reaction. The same one as before: silence. Submission.
But Hae-won wasn't the same.
He had died twice. Seen the Titan's foot crush the boy who swung bravely. Watched Arin scream Do-hyun's name into ruin. Felt the debt-sword rip through his chest.
And he was not going to follow the same script again.
Ha-young leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper sharp enough for only him. "Well? Are you going to break?"
The punch landed before the words finished.
Bone met flesh with a crack. Ha-young's head snapped sideways, her body stumbling against the doorframe with a muffled grunt.
Silence fell.
The cadets froze. Whispers died on tongues.
Hae-won stood with his knuckles throbbing, breath sharp. His hand shook—not with fear, but with release. With breaking the page that had bound him.
Ha-young pushed herself off the frame, eyes wide, one hand pressed to her cheek where blood welled. For a heartbeat, shock held her still.
Then—laughter.
Soft at first, then sharp, bright. She tilted her head back, her grin spreading wider, almost delighted.
"Oh, Chae Hae-won…" she said, voice low enough that only he could hear. "You really are different this time."
The words slid into him like a blade. Different this time.
The circle broke. Cadets murmured, nervous, backing away. The moment shattered.
Hae-won didn't wait. He stepped past her, each footstep heavy, leaving her laughter behind him.
Something had shifted.
The script had been broken.
And for the first time since the regression, the ledger's whisper faltered in his head.
"…unpaid… unpaid…"
As if even the debt itself had blinked.
That night, Hae-won couldn't sleep.
He sat at the corner of his dorm, staring at the ceiling. Phantom pain lingered in his chest. But alongside it, something else coiled tight.
Possibility.
He had broken one chain. Knocked Seo Ha-young off her script.
And the way she laughed—like she knew more than she should—made his skin crawl.
Maybe this regression wouldn't just be about fighting Titans.
Maybe it would be about her.
The dormitory was quiet. Too quiet.
Moonlight spilled pale and thin across the floorboards, tracing silver lines over the rows of sleeping cadets. The faint rustle of breath, the creak of wood—mundane sounds. Nothing like the collapse, the screams, the ledger's toll.
But Hae-won's chest still burned. Every shallow inhale was threaded with phantom ache, like the Titan's blade still lived inside him. He pressed a hand against his sternum, half-expecting to feel the scar split open.
Nothing. Smooth skin. A liar's body.
He stared at his trembling hand in the dark. The knuckles were raw, bruised, streaked with drying blood. Seo Ha-young's blood, mixed with his.
The image wouldn't leave him. Her wide eyes after his punch. The silence of the cadets. And then—her laughter.
That laughter.
It wasn't humiliation. It wasn't outrage. It was delight.
As if she had been waiting for him to change.
"…No," he whispered into the dark.
He wanted to believe it was coincidence. Just her twisted sense of humor. But the words she had murmured before he walked away echoed too sharp in his skull.
You really are different this time.
How could she know? Unless—
The floor creaked.
Hae-won's head snapped up.
A figure leaned against the dormitory doorframe, half-hidden by shadow. The faint moonlight carved her face pale, glinting across the bruise on her cheek.
Seo Ha-young.
She hadn't bothered to cover it. She wore the mark of his defiance like an ornament, her grin lazy, sharp as ever.
"Can't sleep either?" she murmured, her voice too casual for the hour.
Hae-won's throat tightened. "…What do you want?"
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Each of her footsteps was deliberate, soft against the wood, but loud enough that he felt them in his chest.
"Don't be like that," she said lightly. "You finally grew a spine. You think I'd be angry?" She leaned closer, eyes glinting. "I'm impressed."
His hands curled into fists beneath the blanket. "Stay away from me."
"Scared?" she tilted her head, mockery dripping from the word—but her gaze was sharper than mockery. It lingered, dissecting.
The silence stretched.
Then she crouched beside his bed, her voice dropping low.
"Tell me, Hae-won… why do you look at everyone like you've already buried them?"
His breath caught.
She smiled faintly, too close, too knowing. "You walk around like you've seen this all before. Like you're watching a play you've already read." Her lips curled. "It's delicious. I almost want to ask how many times you've failed already."
The room spun. His pulse thundered in his ears.
She couldn't know. She shouldn't know. Regression wasn't something spoken aloud, wasn't something anyone else was aware of.
But the way she whispered those words—like a collector counting coins—made his blood run cold.
Hae-won forced steel into his voice. "…Leave."
For a moment, her gaze held him there, pinned. Then she stood, brushing dust from her skirt as though nothing had happened.
"Fine," she said, smile bright as broken glass. "But I'll be watching you. Don't disappoint me, Hae-won."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Only then did he realize his hands were shaking so hard the blanket slipped through his fingers.
The whisper of the ledger returned, faint, drawn out.
"…unpaid… unpaid…"
And this time, it didn't sound like it came from the Titan.
It sounded like it came from her.