The gate groaned behind us as Kang pushed it open. Dust gusted through the gap, swirling like breath from something asleep.
"Smells like a decade of bad decisions," he muttered, stepping over the threshold.
The floorboards creaked under our shoes. Paint peeled from the walls in long, curling ribbons; shards of glass glittered on the floor like scattered teeth. My flashlight beam cut through the dark, catching the bones of forgotten furniture—a collapsed sofa, a picture frame without a photo, a cracked mirror leaning against the hall.
"Split up or stay together?" Kang asked.
"Together," I said. "Horror movies start with splitting up."
He chuckled. "Good man."
We moved room to room. Empty kitchen. Half-burnt curtain swaying against a broken window. The air tasted stale, sweet with mold. A faint humming drifted from upstairs—too soft to be the wind.
Kang raised an eyebrow. "Hear that?"
"Yeah." My hand went instinctively to my gun. "Let's check it out."
The stairs moaned under our weight. The humming grew clearer—a woman's voice, lilting, almost like she was humming to herself while doing something mundane. Makeup? Hair? A melody for mirrors.
We reached the landing. A door stood half-open at the far end, light flickering inside. Kang motioned silently; I nodded. We edged closer.
Through the crack, I saw her.
A girl sat before a cracked vanity, dust thick on its frame. The light came from a candle wedged in an old bottle beside her. She was beautiful, in the quiet, impossible way that beauty becomes terrifying. Pale skin, long hair that shimmered like black silk, eyes focused on the reflection in the broken glass. She dabbed color onto her lips with perfect care—as if the decay around her didn't exist.
Kang's whisper brushed my ear. "What the hell…"
Before I could answer, she froze. Her gaze met mine through the mirror.
The candle flickered.
She turned slowly, head tilting. The air thickened, pressing against my ribs.
Then she smiled—too wide, too calm. "You shouldn't be here."
Her voice was soft, melodic, and absolutely wrong.
Kang took a step forward. "Miss, we're—"
"Don't," I said sharply, blocking him with my arm. Something in my gut screamed danger.
Her eyes darkened, black spreading like ink. The next second she moved—fast, faster than anything human. The mirror shattered as she lunged.
"Kang!" I shouted. "Go! Now!"
He hesitated. "What—"
"Go! You can't see this!"
Something inside me knew—truth breaks what can't bear it. If he saw her for what she truly was, it might kill him.
Kang's instincts finally kicked in; he stumbled back down the stairs. I turned back just as her hand slashed through the air where he'd been. The wall exploded in a spray of dust.
I raised my gun, but the sightline warped; she was everywhere, reflections dancing in shards of glass across the floor.
Truthseeker, I thought. Show me the path that doesn't lie.
The world shifted. For a heartbeat, the gloom peeled away, replaced by faint threads of color winding through the air—most twisting black, deception layered over itself. Only a few glowed yellow, weaving like trails of sunlight through fog.
I moved along them.
Her reflection lunged from the left—black. I ignored it, stepped right, fired once into the yellow thread. The bullet tore through the illusion; the real figure staggered, clutching her shoulder, dark ichor staining her white dress.
She hissed—not pain, not human sound, but something primal, ancient. The candle blew out. For a split second, the yellow lines flared around me like a web. Then she was gone, dissolving into the dark as though swallowed by it.
Silence dropped like a curtain. My chest heaved; my hands shook. The broken mirror reflected a dozen fractured versions of me—each one breathing too fast.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Kang burst back in, flashlight trembling in his hand. "Jihoon! You good? What the hell happened?"
I lowered my gun slowly. "She's gone."
"She?"
I nodded toward the empty vanity. "Someone was here."
Kang scanned the room. "No footprints. No dust disturbed except ours. You sure you didn't—"
"I'm sure." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Let's clear the rest, then call it."
We searched every room, every corner. Nothing. Just decay and silence. When we stepped outside again, the sun had set completely. The world felt heavier somehow.
Kang rubbed his neck. "Well, that was a bust. You okay?"
"Fine."
He frowned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Something like that."
"Want to grab dinner before you start writing poetic nonsense again?"
I managed a weak grin. "You buying?"
"Black," he said automatically.
I laughed under my breath. Some habits die hard.
Later that night, I sat on my apartment balcony, nursing instant ramen and watching the city glitter below. The wind smelled of rain again. My mind replayed the fight—her eyes, the way the truthlines lit up like veins of gold through darkness.
What was she? Not human, but too human to dismiss. Another piece of the puzzle I hadn't asked for.
I exhaled, leaning back. "You'd love this mess, Min-jae," I murmured. "A mystery that lies to itself."
The steam from the noodles curled upward, glowing faintly yellow under the streetlight. Truth, or just hunger? Hard to tell these days.
My phone buzzed.
Ha-eun: "Still alive?"
Me: "Define alive."
Ha-eun: "You still owe me dinner, detective. That counts."
A small smile tugged at my lips. Yoon Ha-eun—bright eyes, sharp tongue, the kind of woman who could make silence comfortable. We met back when I was still a rookie; she'd been a witness in a petty theft case and somehow kept showing up in my life afterward.
I texted back: "Give me fifteen minutes."
Her reply came instantly: "If you're late, I'm eating your fries."
The café was half-empty, warm light spilling across worn wooden tables. Ha-eun waved from the corner, coffee already in front of her.
"Look who survived paperwork," she teased as I sat down.
"Barely," I said. "You keeping tabs on me?"
"Someone has to. You look like you've been talking to ghosts."
I laughed softly. "Just old buildings."
She studied me for a second, the way she always did—seeing through without prying. "You're thinking again."
"Bad habit."
"Or maybe your best one."
I met her gaze. No color—just her, real and unfiltered. The first honest sight all day.
We talked for hours—about everything and nothing: bad movies, Kang's coffee addiction, my tendency to forget laundry. For a while, the world shrank to the sound of her laughter and the clink of coffee cups.
When I finally walked her home, the night had settled into that soft quiet only Seoul manages—alive but hushed. She waved from her gate. "Don't chase ghosts tonight."
"No promises."
She smiled, turning away, her shadow folding into the warm glow of her porch light.
Back in my apartment, I tossed my jacket over the chair and sat by the window. The city blinked like a restless thing. Somewhere out there, a girl with eyes like mirrors was bleeding yellow light.
Truthseeker or not, I didn't know what she was—or why the world had started coloring itself around me. But I knew one thing: every answer came wrapped in another lie.
I closed my eyes, letting the hum of traffic lull me.
Another normal day, I told myself. Another lie I could live with.