Ji-ah drags herself through the school gates, each step heavier than the last.
By the time she reaches the apartment, her chest aches from the weight of everything.
The door clicks open. The air hits her—thick, clinging, pungent with alcohol and musk. Her father sprawls on the living room floor, an empty bottle dangling loosely in one hand. Beside him, a girl leans against the sofa, half-dressed, sweat glinting faintly in the dim light. The smell lingers, suffocating.
Ji-ah freezes just inside the doorway. Shame clings to her skin, hot and suffocating. Her legs move anyway, stiff and uncooperative. She slides the door closed behind her.
Her shoes come off first, placed neatly by the edge of the hallway. Then she climbs the stairs, each step careful, the wood creaking beneath her weight, loud in the quiet.
Each stair presses the day's humiliation deeper into her chest. The apartment smells of smoke, sweat, alcohol. It clings to her like a second skin she cannot shake.
She drops her bag. The thud echoes in the tight room. Her fingers claw at her palms, nails digging into skin that barely registers.
"Demon!" The word tears from her throat, raw and jagged, aimed at Yoon-hee, at every shove, every whispered insult, every humiliation she's carried for years.
Her body trembles. Her knees buckle. She collapses onto her bed, face pressed into the pillow, tears spilling freely. Her chest heaves in ragged gasps. The walls shrink around her, shadows pooling in the corners. Her cries shatter the silence, and for a heartbeat, nothing exists beyond these four walls.
Hours pass—or maybe minutes. She does not notice. Exhaustion drags her under until sleep finally claims her.
And then reality begins to blur. The apartment, the shadows, the lingering stench—all fade. Only a soft, white emptiness remains.
On her desk, the unfinished novel stirs as if touched by an invisible wind. Pages flutter, words smearing and fading. Most go blank, leaving only empty sheets. Slowly, new letters trace themselves across the pages, forming a story she has never read—a story alive, insistent, waiting.
She moves in the dream without thinking, yet fully aware of herself.
Lucid. Every sense alert, every breath intentional.
And then he appears.
Ma-jin.
Pale, motionless as carved marble, hair flowing like smoke, eyes darker than ink, sharp and watchful. He folds into the white space like a shadow that has always belonged.
He regards her with slow, precise scrutiny, suspicion threading through every line of his body, every measured movement.
Ji-ah laughs at first, disbelief spilling out, but it dies immediately. There is a weight behind his gaze, quiet yet inescapable—a clarity that tells her she could vanish, and he would notice.
Ji-ah swallows, pulse quickening. 'Are… are you real?' she whispers, the words fragile in the silence around her. Her hands twitch at her sides, unsure whether to reach out or retreat.
A streak of fire bursts beside her, brushing past her shoulder and lifting a strand of hair. It does not burn. It does not stop. It arcs through the emptiness, leaving only heat and the faint echo of its motion.
She catches her breath. The white void hums with the remnants of flame, alive, almost aware. She senses its motion, its energy, its intent.
"You… you're not real," she murmurs again, her words fragile against the silence.
Ma-jin's dark eyes hold hers. "Real enough," he replies, low and steady, each word weighted with authority.
Another streak of fire flashes past, brushing her once more. She flinches, but it does not burn; the white space thrums, alive and restless.
"You could have vanished in an instant," he says, smooth, calm, "yet here you stand."
His black robes—reminiscent of high-ranking attire from a distant era—cling to his form, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw and the broad "V" of his torso. His gaze presses against her chest, probing the walls she has built around herself.
Ji-ah swallows, pulse quickening further. "Why… why are you here?" Her voice is tentative, almost swallowed by the emptiness.
Ma-jin's gaze holds firm. "You called me," he replies, calm and collected, each word settling in the void like stone.
She blinks, shivers running down her spine. I didn't… I didn't say anything.
Then his lips move—slow, deliberate—and without a sound, the word forms:
.
.
.
.
'Demon'