There was no pain.
Kim Haneul expected it—the shattering of bone, the crushing weight of metal, the tearing of flesh. But there was nothing.
No sound of sirens. No voices. No rain.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself floating in a vast emptiness. There was no sky, no ground, only an endless gray horizon stretching in all directions.
It was silent. A silence so deep it pressed against his ears until he thought he might go mad from it.
He raised his hand. Or thought he did. His arm moved sluggishly, as though it were made of smoke. His fingers blurred at the edges, dissolving into the endless gray.
Am I dead?
The thought came without weight, without fear. It was simply there, drifting like a leaf on still water.
In the distance—if there could even be distance here—something flickered. A faint shimmer, like light passing through fog. He tried to walk toward it, but there was no ground beneath his feet. Instead, his body glided forward slowly, drawn by something unseen.
Time was strange here. He could not tell if he moved for moments or centuries.
Memories surfaced, one by one, like shards of glass rising from deep water.
The cracked ceiling. The taste of stale crackers. His manager's voice—average.
His mother's message—try harder.
And Jiyeon's laughter, soft and bright, but not for him.
Each memory cut him again, even here in death.
He tried to close his eyes, but the images would not fade. They circled him, fragments of a life gray and hollow, a life that had ended without ever truly beginning.
The flicker ahead grew brighter. Not warm, not welcoming—simply brighter than the endless gray.
He felt himself being pulled toward it.
For the first time, fear stirred faintly in his chest. He tried to resist, but his body was no longer his own. He was nothing but a shadow, drifting.
The silence deepened, thick and heavy, until even his thoughts seemed to fade.
And then—
The gray did not break.
Not yet.
It stretched on, vast and endless, swallowing all sense of time. There was no heartbeat, no breath, no hunger—only the weight of memory pressing down on him.
At first, Haneul thought the silence was merciful. But slowly, he realized the void was not empty. It was filled with echoes.
He saw his apartment again, the cracked ceiling watching him like an unblinking eye. He smelled the stale ramen broth, tasted the bitterness of instant coffee that had gone cold.
The sound of keyboards returned, dozens of fingers typing in rhythm, a mechanical hymn of numbers and reports. He was back at his desk, invisible among the rows of bent heads.
"Do it properly," his manager's voice murmured, not angry, not loud, just dismissive.
The words layered over another memory—
"Consistent, but average."
Average. Safe. Never rise.
The voices overlapped until they became a chorus. His colleagues whispering, his mother's texts, Jiyeon's laughter on another man's arm. All of them circling him, binding him tighter than chains.
He tried to scream, but no sound came. His mouth opened, but the void swallowed even that.
And then the faces appeared.
Not clear, not real—just shapes, outlines, fragments of people who had once brushed past him in the streets, on buses, in offices. None of them looked at him. They walked past, endlessly, as if he were nothing but air.
One by one, they dissolved into the gray.
Haneul drifted alone again.
Was my life… truly mine? Or was I only a shadow walking through someone else's dream?
The thought was not bitter. It was quiet, resigned.
He lowered his head, though there was no ground beneath him.
The flicker of light in the distance pulsed once more, brighter than before. This time, it seemed almost alive—beckoning, demanding.
He did not move toward it. He had no strength left to move at all. But the void shifted, and his body drifted closer.
As he drew near, the memories began to dissolve. The apartment, the office, the café window—all of it peeled away, fading like chalk in the rain.
For the first time in years, there was nothing to hold on to. Nothing at all.
And in that nothingness, Haneul thought he heard his own voice. Not spoken aloud, but echoing from somewhere deep inside.
If there is another life… let it not be gray.
The light flared.
The void shattered.
The light swallowed the gray.
At first, it was warmth—gentle, almost soothing. But then it grew hotter. Brighter. It pressed against him from all directions, crushing and merciless, as though it meant to burn him away.
Haneul gasped, though he had no lungs. His body—if he could call it that—was dragged forward, faster and faster, pulled into a rushing torrent of fire and ice.
Flames licked at him, devouring the edges of his form. Then a sudden chill gripped him, so sharp it cut deeper than any blade. He felt himself unraveling, strand by strand, as if he were being stripped down to nothing but a hollow core.
And then he heard it.
A whisper. Not from outside, but from within.
Forget.
The word was soft, but it thundered through his being.
Images began to vanish—his desk, his cracked ceiling, his mother's message, Jiyeon's smile. They flickered like fragile candles in the wind, one by one going out.
"No…" The word tore from him, voiceless yet full of desperate resistance.
The torrent pressed harder, erasing, consuming.
Forget.
He clutched at the memories with everything he had. The bitterness of instant coffee, the sting of rain on his skin, the humiliation of being called average. Even the loneliness—especially the loneliness. They were his. The only proof that he had lived at all.
"Don't take them!" he cried, though no sound escaped. "They're mine!"
The light roared back, a flood of heat and cold, tearing at him. Pieces of himself broke away, dissolving into the current. His own name trembled at the edge of erasure.
For a moment, he feared there would be nothing left. That he would wake as someone else entirely—a hollow vessel, empty of Kim Haneul.
And yet, something within him burned. A spark, small but stubborn.
If I lose even this… then I was never here at all.
That spark grew teeth. It clung to the fragments, holding them together. The taste of ramen, the sound of rain, the memory of laughter not meant for him—painful, bitter, but his.
The torrent screamed against his resistance. Pressure built until it felt like his very soul would crack.
But he refused to let go. "I am Kim Haneul!" he howled into the light. "Even if no one remembers me—I remember myself!"
And with that cry, the torrent shattered.
The fire turned to breath. The ice turned to air.
And then—