Morning arrived as if it regretted existing.
Hanrim's corridors were damp, the lights flickering, and the students looked like they'd collectively lost an argument with their alarms.
Han Yura dragged herself into consciousness, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sleep hadn't helped — her reflection's smile still replayed in her mind like a jump scare with emotional depth.
"Maybe I'm just hallucinating," she muttered. "That would be healthy for a change."
A knock at her door interrupted her self-diagnosis.
"Enter," she said, without moving.
Haerin peeked in, eyes wide and frantic, clutching two cups of coffee. "You weren't answering your messages!"
"I was busy contemplating possession," Yura replied, sitting up. "Spoiler: it's trending."
Haerin thrust one of the coffees toward her. "Drink. You look like you argued with a ghost and lost."
"Technically," Yura said, "it smiled first."
Haerin groaned. "Don't start that again."
"I'm not starting," Yura said, taking a sip. "I'm continuing a nervous breakdown in serialized format."
---
THE PLAN
Later that day, the trio gathered in their usual secret spot — a half-abandoned anatomy lab that smelled faintly of formalin and rebellion.
Daejun stood by the window, checking a map of the school's restricted areas. "If we're really doing this, the Archives are two floors below the east wing. No student access. It's basically a crypt with fluorescent lighting."
Haerin fidgeted. "You're sure it's even real? What if the files were destroyed years ago?"
"Then we'll just confirm the school's commitment to secrecy," Yura said dryly. "It's about closure."
"Closure?" Daejun asked.
"Yes," Yura said. "Closure for my sanity, which has been missing since the mirror started flirting with me."
Daejun sighed. "You can back out, you know. You don't have to prove anything."
Yura looked at him, her voice quiet but sharp. "When someone sends you a photo of your dead twin from the past, it's not curiosity anymore. It's obligation."
Haerin muttered, "I regret being friends with people who say things like that."
Yura smirked. "You should. We're statistically doomed."
---
THE DESCENT
The three waited until after midnight, when Hanrim's hallways were silent except for the hum of security cameras and the occasional echo of something that wasn't quite footsteps.
They moved carefully — Haerin with her flashlight, Daejun with his improvised lockpick, and Yura with her impeccable sarcasm.
"Why do you look so calm?" Haerin whispered.
"Because fear is unproductive," Yura whispered back. "Also, I've accepted that ghosts have better attendance than most students."
After several locked doors and one very judgmental security camera, they found the metal gate marked ARCHIVE — STAFF ACCESS ONLY.
Daejun worked on the lock. "Keep watch."
"I'm not good at keeping watch," Yura said. "I attract danger by existing."
Haerin hissed. "Then maybe exist quieter!"
With a faint click, the gate opened.
Cold air greeted them — the kind that smelled of old paper, chemical dust, and forgotten things.
---
THE FILES
Rows of metal cabinets stretched into the dark. Each was labeled by year, covered in dust thick enough to qualify as sediment.
"Start with the 1960s," Yura whispered. "Han Yuna's era."
They split up. The only sound was the shuffle of folders and the soft buzz of dying lights.
Yura opened one cabinet — HANRIM RESEARCH: 1964-1966 — and began leafing through files. Experiment reports, student records, disciplinary actions.
Then she found it — a brown folder labeled PROJECT: RECLAMATION.
Her pulse skipped. "Found something."
Daejun and Haerin hurried over.
Inside were faded documents — experiment logs signed by multiple founders. And a photo — Han Yuna again, standing beside the young Dr. Seo Minjung, smiling over a table filled with surgical tools.
Haerin whispered, "Reclamation… what does that mean?"
Yura scanned the notes. "It says… Subject exhibits partial memory overlap. Genetic reconstruction successful."
Daejun frowned. "Genetic reconstruction?"
"Sounds like cloning," Yura said. "Or reanimation. Both equally comforting."
At the bottom of the page, a handwritten line made her stomach tighten:
'New vessel designated: HY-02. Memory stability uncertain.'
Haerin stepped back. "HY… 02? Han Yuna, zero two? That's you."
Yura didn't answer. The words swam in her head. New vessel.
Something creaked behind them — a door, slow and deliberate.
---
THE INTRUDER
"Students," a calm voice echoed. "You really shouldn't be here."
Professor Min Haesoo stood at the doorway, flashlight in hand, her expression unreadable.
Daejun instinctively stepped forward. "Professor Min—"
"Save it," she said softly. "You think you're the first to come down here? Every few years, someone does. Curiosity is such a fatal inheritance."
Yura closed the folder slowly. "Then you know what this means."
Min's gaze lingered on her. "It means you were never supposed to remember."
Haerin whispered, "What are you talking about?"
Min took a step closer, her tone almost tender. "Project Reclamation was the founders' attempt to preserve genius through replication. The first subject — Han Yuna — died during the procedure. The second… survived."
Daejun's jaw tightened. "You mean—"
"Yes," Min said. "Han Yura is not just her descendant. She is her. The perfected continuation."
Yura's voice was steady but cold. "Perfected? You make me sound like an essay draft."
Min's smile was sad. "Perhaps you are. A brilliant one."
"Why tell me now?" Yura asked.
"Because," Min said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "someone else already knows. The Dean won't allow another accident."
Before Yura could question her, the professor turned sharply — as if hearing something down the hall — and motioned them to hide.
Seconds later, the corridor lights flickered. A silhouette passed by — tall, deliberate, carrying what looked disturbingly like a surgical instrument.
Min mouthed, Run.
They did.
---
THE ESCAPE
The trio bolted through the dark maze of cabinets. Haerin nearly tripped, Daejun dragged her up, and Yura clutched the folder to her chest like oxygen.
Behind them, faint metallic sounds echoed — someone dragging steel along the floor.
By the time they burst out of the Archive door, Yura's lungs burned, but her mind was sharp — too sharp.
"We have proof," she gasped. "They made me."
Haerin shook her head. "We shouldn't have come."
"Correction," Yura said, half-laughing, half-trembling. "We shouldn't have left."
---
FINAL SCENE
Back in her dorm room, Yura spread the folder on her desk. The ink was faded, the paper old — but the truth was clear.
HY-02.
Memory instability.
Replication success.
Her reflection watched from the window again, calm and still.
She met its eyes. "So… I'm a science project."
The reflection smiled faintly.
> "No," it whispered. "You're the correction."
Yura froze. The lights flickered once — twice — and went out.
Somewhere beneath Hanrim, something began humming — rhythmic, mechanical, alive.
The experiment hadn't ended. It had resumed.