When Han Jae-min opened his eyes, the ceiling above him was cracked and yellowed with damp, its plaster peeling away in irregular curls like shedding skin. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen reached him faintly, a low mechanical drone that belonged to this world and no other. For a long moment, he lay there in silence, disoriented, waiting for the smell of damp cobblestones and coal smoke, waiting for the brush of fog across his cheek, the cold alley and the bruises that had blossomed there.
And then the ache came.
It pulsed through his ribs when he drew breath. His cheek burned as if struck only seconds ago. His joints were stiff, and when he shifted, a sharp stab of pain lanced through his side. He sucked in air and gritted his teeth.
So the injuries carried over.
Not a dream.
Not an illusion.
The whispers lingered too, faint and slippery in memory, like words half-heard through water. Even here, in his own bed, they brushed the edges of his mind. The wraith-touched had spoken, and though the voices were gone, the weight of their truths clung to him like frost that would not melt.
He stared at the ceiling, expression blank. A thousand thoughts flickered, but none of them stuck. Eventually, he pushed himself upright.
The apartment was silent. His mother had already left for work, leaving no trace but a folded bill on the counter for dinner and a note written hurriedly in ballpoint pen. Eat something. Don't skip school.
The air smelled faintly of detergent and stale instant noodles. Shadows pooled in the corners where light bulbs had long since dimmed. His uniform shirt hung over the back of a chair, wrinkled from yesterday.
Dragging his feet across the uneven floorboards, he went to the bathroom. Cold water sputtered from the tap before rushing clear, and he splashed it on his face, letting the sting chase away the weight in his skull. When he lifted his gaze, the mirror showed him what he already felt: a bruise spreading along his cheekbone, dark against pale skin, eyes heavy-lidded and hollow.
He touched the bruise lightly, testing the tenderness. The boy in the mirror did not flinch.
There was no Lucien Graves here. No cobblestone streets, no alleys of fog. Only Han Jae-min, a seventeen-year-old student in Seoul with nothing to his name but silence.
And yet—his ribs ached as proof that the line between the two selves was thinner than anyone would believe.
---
Breakfast was a stale piece of bread eaten without appetite. It stuck to his throat, dry and tasteless, and he washed it down with lukewarm water. He left the cup in the sink without rinsing it.
Uniform. Backpack. Sneakers worn to threads. He buttoned his shirt with slow, deliberate motions, as if each button were another wall keeping him upright.
By the time he stepped outside, the city had awakened fully.
Seoul's streets moved like a river in flood—cars honked in uneven bursts, scooters wove through narrow gaps, buses exhaled clouds of exhaust at every stop. People pressed forward in clusters, eyes glued to glowing screens, their voices overlapping into a chorus of fragments. Shop signs flickered even in daylight, neon characters shouting promises of discounts and convenience.
Jae-min kept his head down. The bruise on his cheek throbbed whenever someone's gaze brushed too long. Most people didn't notice. The ones who did looked away quickly, the way people always looked away from things that made them uncomfortable.
The city stank of fuel and fried food, rain clinging stubbornly to asphalt from the night before. His sneakers slapped the wet pavement as he walked, weaving through the crowd like a shadow unnoticed.
Cobblestones. Gaslamps. The cold hunger of Duskbourne.
Glass towers. Traffic lights. The stale hunger of Seoul.
Different skins on the same body. Both equally hollow.
---
School did not improve matters.
The hallways swelled with chatter, footsteps, the slam of lockers. A group of boys leaned against the wall near the stairwell, their laughter sharp and cruel. As Jae-min passed, one of them muttered something low to another. A smirk followed.
He ignored it.
His classroom buzzed with noise—students tossing books onto desks, trading gossip, eating snacks before the bell. Jae-min slid into his seat by the window, his movements mechanical. He placed his bag down, opened his notebook, and stared at the empty page without writing a word.
When the teacher entered, the room hushed reluctantly. Chalk screeched across the blackboard. Equations bloomed in white lines.
"Han Jae-min."
His name rang through the room, sharp enough to cut through his drifting thoughts. He looked up slowly.
"What's the answer?" The teacher tapped the board impatiently.
Numbers blurred together. Symbols twisted like half-remembered runes. He stared at them with the same indifference he gave everything.
"I don't know," he said flatly.
A sigh. Disappointment, rehearsed and familiar. "You need to focus more. You won't get anywhere like this."
He didn't reply. His gaze drifted back to the window, where clouds pressed low against the city skyline.
Behind him, someone snickered. A paper ball bounced off his desk, crumpled and small. He didn't bother unfolding it.
The teacher moved on.
---
By lunchtime, his stomach churned with a hollow ache. He carried his tray through the cafeteria, weaving between clusters of students, laughter and chatter bouncing against the walls.
He sat alone at the edge of the room, as he always did. The food smelled faintly of oil and salt, heavy without substance. He picked at it without eating much. Each bite was mechanical, tasteless.
His mind returned to the bread in Duskbourne. The way it had tasted in the cold of an alley, devoured with desperation. That bite had been sharper, more vivid, than anything here.
Hunger was the one truth that bound both worlds. Hunger and pain.
He let his fork clatter against the tray and leaned back, eyes fixed on nothing. Around him, conversations swirled, but none of them reached him.
If both worlds were meaningless, why cling to either? Why drag himself forward at all?
No answer came. Only silence.
---
Afternoon classes stretched endlessly. Words blurred together into noise. He wrote nothing in his notebook.
At one point, when the teacher called on him again, his mouth opened before his mind caught up. For a second, he almost answered in the cadence of Lucien Graves, the cold detachment of a boy standing in fog-shrouded streets. He bit the words back just in time.
No one noticed.
But he noticed.
And the line blurred further.
By the time the final bell rang, his head ached with the weight of both selves pressing against each other.
---
Outside, the sky was already fading into dusk, the clouds streaked with crimson and gray. Students poured from the gates, laughing, shouting, running toward buses and cafés. Jae-min walked alone, his pace steady, his gaze unfocused.
The city stretched before him—neon lights flickering awake as the sun sank, advertisements flashing promises of comfort and joy. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from a street stall. A busker strummed a guitar near the corner, voice swallowed by the traffic's roar.
Jae-min stopped briefly, watching it all. The motion, the noise, the endless cycle of faces. None of it touched him.
He walked on.
Down an alley, two boys were shoving a smaller one against the wall, their laughter cruel. The sound echoed faintly, like a memory. He paused.
Cobblestones. Nobles. Fists. Silence.
The scene mirrored itself perfectly, two worlds overlapping in his vision. His ribs ached in remembrance.
But he kept walking. His footsteps did not falter, his expression did not shift. The alley's noise faded behind him.
---
Home was as empty as it had been that morning. His mother would not return until late. The note on the counter remained.
He left his bag on the floor and collapsed onto his bed without turning on the light. The ceiling waited, cracked and unchanging.
His body hurt. His hunger gnawed. His silence pressed in on every side.
But beyond all that, a deeper certainty stirred.
He would sleep again.
And when he did, he would wake not as Han Jae-min but as Lucien Graves.
The worlds bled together. Neither more real than the other. Neither with meaning worth clinging to.
He closed his eyes.
And waited for the veil to thin.