Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital was a pce where secrets were buried under the weight of forgotten names, where reality blurred at the edges, and where time moved in a slow, eerie crawl. The building itself, a relic of another era, stood at the outskirts of town, hidden behind a winding road and an overgrowth of trees that seemed almost reluctant to let the outside world in.

  Inside, the air was always thick with the scent of antiseptic, a sharp contrast to the dust that clung stubbornly to the corners of the dimly lit hallways. The floors were too clean, the walls too bare, as if stripping the pce of warmth and color would somehow keep the madness contained. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant, droning hum—like an electric whisper that never quite faded. The patients came and went, their faces changing with time, but their stories remained sealed behind locked doors and guarded files.

  But Room 405 was different.

  Unlike the others, Room 405’s files were confidential, sealed away from prying eyes. Even the doctors spoke of the patient in hushed tones, and the staff had long learned not to ask questions. No one was allowed inside without permission. No one, except for Oh Mi Rae.

  Oh Mi Rae had been working at Hwayang for three years, long enough to recognize which patients were dangerous, which were lost in their own minds, and which were simply abandoned by a world that no longer had a pce for them. Yet, in all that time, she had never once spoken to the patient in Room 405.

  For reasons left unexpined, Mi-rae had been the only nurse assigned to administer medication to the man inside. She was not told why. She was not given details beyond his name and the singur fact that his only visitor—his supposed father—was Mr. Jang.

  Mr. Jang’s presence was always the same—quiet, calcuting, undeniable. He arrived alone, his steps echoing with the kind of certainty that left no room for hesitation. He did not linger, did not waste words. His visits were routine, and when he left, the air in the hospital seemed heavier, as if he had taken something unseen with him.

  Jang Ki Ho—the patient whose name was barely spoken, whose records were sparse, as though someone had deliberately erased parts of his existence. He was a ghost within the hospital walls, his presence acknowledged only in the brief exchanges of medication rounds, his identity reduced to a file that held more omissions than truths.

  There was something unsettling about him. Unlike the other patients—some lost in hysteria, others sedated into docility—Kiho was quiet. Too quiet. He sat in his room with the stillness of someone waiting, his eyes holding the weight of someone who saw too much yet said too little. The orderlies whispered that he had been there longer than most, yet he did not act like a man broken by time. He observed. He listened. And sometimes, when Mi-rae entered with his medication, she felt the distinct, skin-prickling sensation of being watched—not in the absentminded way of the sedated, but with intention.

  Mi-rae had learned long ago that it was best not to ask questions. Ignorance was safer.

  But then she arrived.

  A woman. Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not family.

  Yet she had gone straight to Room 405.

  For the first time, something shifted—a crack in the silence that had long sealed that door shut. And for the first time, Oh Mi Rae wondered if some secrets weren’t meant to stay buried.

  The Unexpected Visitor

  It was te afternoon when Mi-rae saw her. At first, she was just another presence in the hospital—another shadow moving through the dim corridors, another fleeting figure blending seamlessly into the hushed monotony of the pce. But then Mi-rae’s gaze lingered, and something about the woman struck her as wrong.

  She wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t a nurse. And she wasn’t a visitor Mi-rae had ever logged in before.

  Yet, she moved with a quiet certainty, as though she belonged.

  Dressed in a deep red coat that cinched perfectly at her waist, the woman walked with effortless grace, her bck-gloved fingers drifting lightly along the wall as she moved. The touch was almost absentminded, yet strangely deliberate—like she was marking her path, ciming the space.

  Her heels clicked against the polished floor in a slow, measured rhythm, each step a note in an unfinished melody. The sound should have been insignificant, just another noise swallowed by the ever-present hum of the hospital.

  But somehow, it wasn’t.

  Somehow, it filled the air like an approaching storm.

  Mi-rae barely noticed her at first. Not until she saw where she was going.

  Room 405.

  Her breath caught.

  No one visited Room 405. No one except Mr. Jang.

  A cold ripple crawled down Mi-rae’s spine as she set down the patient records she had been reviewing. Her fingers trembled slightly against the paper, though she wasn’t sure why. The sensation was immediate, instinctive—a warning before her mind could fully grasp the threat.

  The woman continued forward, undeterred, unhurried.

  Mi-rae took a step. Then another.

  Her own movements felt hesitant, too careful, like she was crossing into forbidden ground.

  From the far end of the hallway, she watched as the woman in red reached the door, pausing just before entering. One gloved hand rested on the knob—not with uncertainty, not with hesitation, but with possession.

  As if this was hers to open.

  As if she had always belonged here.

  Then—

  From inside.

  A voice.

  “You came.”

  Mi-rae stopped breathing.

  The voice was calm. Steady. Almost amused.

  It wasn’t the voice of an unstable patient. It wasn’t slurred or fragmented by medication. It wasn’t the hollow muttering of someone lost in their own mind.

  It was knowing.

  Mi-rae’s heartbeat stuttered.

  She took another step closer, trying to hear more, but the woman in red suddenly turned, her face partially visible through the narrow gss panel on the door.

  Their eyes met.

  Mi-rae stopped.

  The woman’s gaze was piercing, dark, filled with something unreadable. Not curiosity. Not surprise. Something else. Something that made Mi-rae’s breath hitch.

  And then—slowly, deliberately—a smile.

  Not warm. Not kind. Something else. Something that sent a slow, creeping chill down Mi-rae’s spine.

  The woman’s lips curved ever so slightly, but her eyes did not match the expression. They held no warmth, no amusement—only a quiet, unsettling certainty, as if she had already anticipated this moment. As if she had expected Mi-rae to be standing there, watching.

  Mi-rae couldn’t move. She couldn’t look away.

  The woman tilted her head just a fraction, as though considering something, her gaze lingering on Mi-rae a beat too long. Then, without a word, she turned, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she stepped toward the door of Room 405.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  The door opened without resistance, as if it had been waiting for her. The dim light from inside cast her silhouette into sharp relief—elegant, composed, utterly unbothered.

  And then, with a soft but decisive click, the door shut behind her.

  The hallway plunged into silence.

  The air felt heavier now, charged with something invisible yet suffocating.

  Mi-rae stood motionless, her hands cold, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. Her pulse roared in her ears, loud and frantic against the oppressive quiet.

  She didn’t know what she had just witnessed.

  A patient receiving an unexpected visitor? A simple exchange, nothing more?

  No.

  No, this was different.

  Something about that smile. Something about the way the woman moved, the way she looked at her, as if Mi-rae was nothing more than a fleeting moment in the grander scheme of things.

  A quiet warning.

  A silent cim.

  Like she already belonged inside that room.

  And suddenly, Mi-rae had the distinct, chilling feeling that she had seen something she was never meant to.

  That she had stood at the edge of something vast, something dangerous—

  And it had seen her back.

  And for the first time in her years at Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital, Oh Mi Rae felt truly afraid.

  The Patient Without a Past

  Jang Ki Ho’s room was a world of its own—silent, sterile, and utterly detached from time. It was a private room, unlike the shared ones in the lower wards, but it was still a psychiatric ward, still a pce for the forgotten.

  The walls were a dull, muted gray, padded for safety but cold to the touch. The single window was barred, its frosted gss distorting the outside world, letting in only a vague hint of light that never felt warm. The bed was bolted to the floor, the thin mattress stiff and covered in crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of disinfectant. There were no decorations, no personal belongings—nothing that might remind him of a life before this one.

  The room had no mirrors. Of course not. This was a psychological ward, and mirrors weren’t allowed. But sometimes, when the light hit the polished metal surface of the sink just right, he caught a glimpse of something—a shadow, a reflection too blurred to make sense of. He often wondered if it was truly his face staring back or if it was someone else’s.

  There was a single wooden desk in the corner, empty save for a small mp that buzzed faintly when turned on. The bulb flickered sometimes, casting uneven light across the room, making the shadows shift in ways that made him uneasy. The door, heavy and reinforced, had a small observation window near the top, one that the nurses often gnced through during their rounds.

  Kiho had little sense of time in this pce. The days bled into each other, marked only by the routine—wake up, take medication, sit in silence, eat, sleep.

  The only real break in the monotony came in the evenings.

  During the day, everything was distant, blurred by the medication. But at night, when the effects began to fade, something else took hold.

  Memories cwed their way back in—fragments, shadows, pieces of a puzzle that never quite fit.

  A long hallway. The sharp scent of cologne. A deep voice murmuring something just out of reach.

  A name.

  A name that wasn’t Jang Kiho.

  His breath would hitch, his body tensing against the thin mattress as fshes of a life he didn’t understand crept through the cracks in his mind. And in those moments, fear gripped him.

  Because for all the time he had spent in Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital, for all the days he had sat in silence, there was one thing he was certain of.

  He didn’t know who he was. But he was starting to remember.

  Jang Kiho sat by the window, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the gss. His eyes, dark and distant, watched the raindrops race to the bottom, but there was no recognition in them—just quiet fascination, as if the world outside belonged to someone else.

  He rarely spoke. When he did, it was in murmurs, as though words were unfamiliar shapes in his mouth. Most days, he was calm, drifting between silence and soft hums, hands fidgeting with loose threads on his sleeves.

  But then there were other days. Days when something stirred inside him—something he didn’t understand. His breathing would grow ragged, his fingers clenching at his temples as if trying to hold his mind together. He would thrash, throw whatever he could grab, scream words that made no sense even to him. And then, as suddenly as it began, the storm would pass, leaving him small again, curled up in the corner like a child seeking shelter.

  They told him his name was Jang Ki Ho, and he repeated it when asked, but the words felt like borrowed clothes—ill-fitting, unfamiliar.

  He did not know where he came from.

  He did not know why he was here.

  He only knew the hospital, the white walls, the voices of doctors that blurred into one another.

  And the face of Mr. Jang—the only one who ever came to see him.

  Sometimes, when Kiho closed his eyes, shadows moved behind his eyelids—faces he should recognize but didn’t. He never spoke of them.

  Because if they were real, then maybe he was someone else.

  And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know who that person was.

  Jang Ki Ho lived in a world of routine.

  Morning rounds. Medication. Meal times. Therapy sessions that blurred together.

  He did not question it.

  The days passed in a haze, one identical to the next. His body obeyed the motions of life, but his mind floated somewhere above it—detached, weightless.

  The pills they gave him each morning sat heavy on his tongue before he swallowed them down with lukewarm water. He never knew what they were for, only that they made his thoughts slow, his limbs sluggish. They kept him calm. Kept the tantrums away. Kept the questions at bay.

  But night was different.

  When the hospital dimmed, when the voices faded, when the weight of the medication loosened its grip—his mind woke up.

  Memories flickered in and out like a signal struggling to tune in. Not clear enough to grasp, but too persistent to ignore.

  Some nights, he dreamt of pces he couldn’t name—cold marble floors, a room too big for a child, a looming figure with a voice that sent a chill through his bones.

  Other nights, the dreams weren’t pces. They were people.

  And one of them always returned.

  She came every evening, the soft click of her shoes on the linoleum floor signaling her arrival before she even spoke.

  “Good day, Kiho.”

  Nurse Oh Mi Rae.

  He did not know how he knew her, only that he did.

  She was the only person who ever spoke to him as if he mattered.

  She always entered quietly, her soft footsteps barely disturbing the silence of his room. She would kneel beside his bed, the dull glow of the mp casting warm light over her face as she pressed the familiar metal pill cup into his hands.

  “Here, Kiho,” she would say, her voice a steady anchor in the emptiness. “Take your medicine.”

  And he would. Not because he understood what the pills did, but because she asked him to.

  He liked her.

  He didn’t know why.

  Maybe it was the way she smoothed down his bnket when she thought he was asleep. Or how she never looked at him with pity, unlike the others.

  She was different from the others. The doctors spoke in clipped tones, their words full of rehearsed sympathy. The other nurses were efficient but distant. But Mi-rae… she spoke to him like a person.

  Her voice was steady, her words gentle. She never rushed him, never treated him like something broken.

  Kiho never responded. He never spoke to her, never looked at her directly.

  But he listened.

  And when she left, her presence lingered, like a warmth that refused to fade.

  There was something familiar about her, something that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand.

  All he knew was that he liked this woman.

  It made no sense. He was just a patient, barely capable of forming thoughts beyond the haze of medication.

  And yet—

  When she spoke to him, he felt older.

  She didn’t talk to him like he was a child.

  She talked to him like he was a man.

  But that couldn’t be right, could it?

  He was young. He had to be. At least that what he remembers.

  The First Words

  The air in the room was still, thick with the scent of antiseptic and something older—something that had settled into the walls over years of silence. The dim light above cast long, distorted shadows, stretching across the floor like unseen hands reaching for something just out of grasp.

  Jang Ki Ho sat motionless on the bed, his hands resting loosely on his p, fingers twitching ever so slightly. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, unblinking.

  Across from him, Mr. Jang stood, as composed as always. Dressed in his usual dark suit, he was the very picture of control—posture straight, expression unreadable. But tonight, there was something different.

  Something that didn’t belong.

  Hope.

  Mr. Jang studied the man before him with an unreadable gaze, his fingers ced together in front of him. Then, after a long moment, he finally spoke.

  “You used to talk so much.” His voice was smooth, careful. Almost… nostalgic. “Do you remember that?”

  Kiho didn’t move.

  Mr. Jang took a slow step closer, the polished soles of his shoes barely making a sound against the linoleum floor. “When you were a child, you were always asking questions. Too many, sometimes. Always thinking, always trying to understand things beyond your years.”

  Still, Kiho remained silent.

  Mr. Jang sighed, his eyes flickering to Kiho’s hands. “You had a habit of pressing your fingernails into your palm when you got frustrated.” His voice was quieter now, almost coaxing. “You still do.”

  A flicker of movement. A twitch in Kiho’s fingers.

  Mr. Jang’s lips curved into something like a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “You liked stories,” he continued. “Fairy tales, especially. You once told me you liked the ones where the vilin won because they made more sense.”

  Kiho’s gaze remained locked onto the floor, unmoving, but something behind his eyes shifted.

  Mr. Jang exhaled softly, stepping even closer, until he stood just a breath away. “You don’t have to speak. I know it must be difficult. But I’ve been waiting, Kiho.” His voice dropped to something gentler, something almost pleading.

  “I’ve been waiting for the day you would talk to me again.”

  A long, stretching silence filled the room, thick with unspoken things.

  Then, barely above a whisper—

  “Waiting?”

  Mr. Jang stilled.

  The breath he hadn’t realized he was holding came out in a quiet, relieved sigh. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing. “Yes.”

  Kiho blinked, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, as if testing the sensation of movement.

  “You don’t have to force it,” Mr. Jang said carefully, his voice measured, gentle. “Just listen, hmm?”

  Slowly, he pulled up a chair and settled into it, crossing one leg over the other like a man preparing for a long conversation.

  “I remember the day I first met you,” he started, his voice taking on a tone of reminiscence. “You were stubborn. Difficult. But brilliant.” He tilted his head slightly, watching Kiho’s face for any sign of reaction.

  “You had this way of looking at people, like you could see something the rest of us couldn’t.”

  Kiho listened, but there was something about those words that felt... wrong.

  “You were different from the others, Kiho. Special.” Mr. Jang’s voice softened, his usual rigid tone ced with something gentler. “Not like they said you were. You weren’t… broken.”

  He leaned forward slightly, watching Kiho’s unmoving form.

  “That’s why I gave you another chance.”

  Another chance.

  Mr. Jang exhaled slowly. “People misunderstood you. They saw what they wanted to see. But I knew the truth.” His voice dropped lower, almost coaxing. “You were never the monster they made you out to be. Just a child. A troubled child, yes, but one who listened.”

  Kiho’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing absently into his palm.

  “You had a purpose, Kiho,” Mr. Jang continued, his voice measured yet firm. “Not the one they forced on you. Not the one they feared.”

  He let out a slow breath, his gaze steady.

  “You were just a child.” There was something almost mournful in his tone. “You didn’t have to be what they said you were. You still don’t.”

  The room felt smaller, the air dense, pressing in from all sides.

  “You can find a better purpose,” Mr. Jang said, quieter now, almost pleading. “You can be a better person.”

  Something flickered in Kiho’s gaze, but it was gone just as quickly.

  Kiho’s hands curled slightly, his nails pressing into his palm.

  Everything Mr. Jang said—his voice, his words—felt rehearsed, like lines from a story he had told a thousand times before. Carefully constructed. Designed to sound like the truth.

  But something inside Kiho twisted violently in protest.

  It wasn’t real.

  The Notebook of Truth

  The night felt heavier than usual.

  The air was thick, pressing against the psychiatric ward like an unseen force, muffling the distant sounds of shuffling footsteps, hushed conversations, and the occasional echo of a closing door.

  Jang Ki Ho sat in the dim glow of the overhead bulb, the weak light failing to push back the shadows creeping along the edges of his room. His fingers hovered over the notebook in front of him—Mr. Jang’s notebook.

  It shouldn’t be here. And yet, it was.

  The leather cover was worn, softened by years of use, and smelled faintly of ink and something metallic—like dried blood. It was unlocked. That alone was enough to send a flicker of unease through him.

  Mr. Jang never forgot things. Never left loose ends.

  Was this an accident? Or was it a test?

  Kiho felt his pulse hammering in his ears as he stared at the book, an overwhelming sense of wrongness settling in his gut.

  For months, he had felt it—the weight of something he couldn’t name. The way the hospital staff avoided his gaze. The strange looks they exchanged when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. The hesitation in Mr. Jang’s voice whenever Kiho asked questions he shouldn’t be asking.

  Like they all knew something he didn’t.

  Like they were waiting for him to figure it out.

  He exhaled slowly and flipped open the notebook.

  The first few entries were ordinary—clinical logs, medication schedules, therapy notes. Nothing out of pce.

  Then—

  A page torn from the center. The jagged remains of paper clung to the binding.

  And beneath it—

  A single sentence, hastily scrawled.

  "He is starting to ask questions. What will I tell him?"

  Kiho’s grip on the notebook tightened, his knuckles turning white.

  His chest ached—a deep, sharp pain that didn’t come from his body, but from something buried deeper.

  Had Mr. Jang been writing about him?

  His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he flipped through the pages faster now, desperately searching for something—anything—that made sense.

  And then—

  A list.

  Name: Jang Ki Ho (Assigned Name)Birth Name: Choi Ji HoonGuardian: Choi Tae SungKiho froze.

  The room tilted.

  The letters blurred together for a second before snapping back into sharp focus.

  Choi Ji Hoon?

  His birth name?

  His real name?

  A roaring noise filled his ears, drowning out everything else. He clutched at his temples as something inside his mind cracked—a pressure he hadn’t even realized was there, shattering all at once.

  Erase everything connected to Choi Ji Hoon. No one must know. No one must remember.

  Kiho’s breath hitched.

  This wasn’t just a name change.

  This was erasure.

  His past, his identity—everything had been stripped from him. Rewritten.

  He wasn’t just a psychiatric patient.

  He was a ghost.

  A boy who had died.

  And for the first time, something in his mind—something they had buried—began to cw its way back.

  Fragments of the Forgotten

  The darkness churned.

  A fsh—

  Cold marble floors. An empty hall stretching endlessly in both directions. The silence was vast, swallowing everything. Too big. A home too big for a child.

  The chandelier above flickered, casting twisted shadows along the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. Steady. Unrelenting.

  Then—a voice.

  Deep. Commanding. A presence standing in the doorway, watching him with unreadable eyes.

  “Do you understand why you are here?”

  His throat tightened. He knew the answer. But his lips wouldn’t move.

  Another fsh—

  A different room. Smaller. Suffocating. Four walls pressing in like unseen hands.

  A desk. A chair. A psychiatrist sitting across from him, scribbling in a notebook, the scratch of pen against paper loud—too loud—in the sterile quiet.

  He was talking. About his mind. About impulses. About control.

  About violence.

  Another fsh—

  A cssroom.

  The air was too thick. The walls too bright.

  A boy’s face, twisted in pain.

  Blood seeped into the tiled floor. His own hands gripping something heavy. A sharp crack.

  Then—silence.

  The faces around him blurred. Some were screaming. Others were staring.

  Jihoon.

  Someone called his name. Not Kiho.

  Jihoon.

  The weight in his hands dropped. His chest heaved. The blood wouldn’t come off his fingers.

  The world spun—

  Water. Cold. Crushing.

  A riverbank. People shouting. Hands pulling at him. Dragging him to the surface.

  His name on their lips—

  Jihoon.

  Then—

  A shuddering gasp.

  His own ragged breathing yanked him back.

  Kiho sat upright in the darkness, chest rising and falling too fast.

  His room. The hospital. The nightmare clinging to him like a second skin.

  His fingers trembled as they brushed against something solid. The notebook. The truth.

  He was Choi Ji Hoon.

  He had killed before.

  And someone—they—had tried to make him forget.

  Then—

  A knock.

  Sharp. Sudden. Too real.

  Kiho’s head snapped up. His entire body went rigid.

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

  The notebook burned in his hands.

  Another knock. Harder.

  No.

  If they knew he had read it—if they knew he was remembering—

  His heart pounded in his skull. He had to hide it. Now.

  Kiho forced his limbs to move, shoving the notebook back into pce, arranging it exactly as he had found it. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he walked to his bed, every step too slow, too loud.

  He id down. Closed his eyes. Slowed his breathing.

  Pretended he was still the same silent, obedient patient.

  The door creaked open.

  Footsteps.

  Kiho fought to keep his breaths even as the presence loomed over him.

  Then—

  A voice. Familiar. Calm. Measured.

  Mr. Jang.

  But this time—

  Kiho didn’t just hear his voice.

  He listened.

  And beneath that unwavering, composed tone—

  There was fear.

  The rain had not stopped since dawn. It slithered down the windowpanes in silent streams, tracing patterns against the gss. The world outside was a smear of gray, muted and distant, as if it existed apart from this pce. The private ward.

  Unlike the other sections of the hospital, this room was silent. No murmuring patients. No shuffling footsteps. No voices drifting through the hall. Just the dull hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of rain tapping against the windows.

  Jang Ki Ho sat in the single chair positioned in the middle of the room, his fingers resting lightly on the armrest. His body was still, but inside, a storm raged.

  The notebook had never left his mind. He had tried to act as if he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t read the words that had rewritten everything he thought he knew. But it clung to him, whispering, digging into the space behind his ribs.

  He had been erased.

  He had been rewritten.

  And now, he wanted answers.

  The door creaked open, and Mr. Jang stepped in.

  His presence was unchanged—calm, unreadable. His suit was neatly pressed, his expression carefully controlled. He entered without hesitation, as he always did, as if nothing was wrong.

  Kiho watched him take his usual seat across from him.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Mr. Jang simply sat, hands folded in his p, waiting.

  Always waiting.

  Minutes passed. The rain outside filled the silence, an unbroken rhythm between them.

  Kiho finally inhaled, slow and deep.

  Then, he spoke.

  “Choi Ji Hoon.”

  It was not a question.

  Mr. Jang’s posture did not shift, his expression did not change.

  He remained utterly still.

  Kiho studied him, waiting for something—a twitch, a hesitation, a flicker of recognition. But there was nothing.

  Just silence.

  The air in the room grew heavier.

  Kiho tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Mr. Jang’s face. "That’s my real name, isn’t it?"

  Still, nothing.

  Mr. Jang did not answer.

  Of course, he wouldn’t.

  Kiho exhaled through his nose. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers gripping the armrest a little tighter. His voice remained calm, but something beneath it trembled. "You won’t even deny it?"

  Silence.

  Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Kiho’s lips curled slightly—something between a smirk and something much, much darker.

  “You’re not very good at this,” he murmured.

  Mr. Jang remained unreadable, unmoving, but Kiho could see it now—the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands had stiffened just slightly where they rested.

  For the first time, Kiho had control.

  And he wasn’t going to let it go.

  His fingers tapped against the chair. “You left your notebook behind.”

  Mr. Jang’s eyelids fluttered just a fraction too fast.

  Kiho smiled.

  There it is.

  “Funny thing,” Kiho continued, his voice almost conversational. “I never knew I could read. Never had the chance to prove it. But when I saw that notebook...” His fingers twitched slightly as he remembered the words, the weight of them sinking into his bones.

  He let out a slow breath. “Turns out, I can.”

  Mr. Jang finally moved. It was small, almost imperceptible—the way his fingers curled against his knee, the way his breathing deepened.

  Kiho’s gaze sharpened.

  “They erased me.”

  The words settled into the air like lead.

  Mr. Jang didn’t deny it.

  Didn’t fight it.

  Didn’t say anything at all.

  Kiho let the silence stretch between them, studying the man who had pyed a part in his erasure.

  Finally, he leaned forward, voice lowering to something almost dangerous.

  His breath came uneven, sharp gasps breaking the silence of his dimly lit room.

  “You knew,” his voice rasped, raw from disuse. “Didn’t you?”

  Mr. Jang, standing by the closed door, said nothing at first. His shoulders were rigid, his expression unreadable, but Kiho—no, Jihoon—could see it. The hesitation. The guilt. The fear.

  “Say something,” Jihoon demanded, his voice trembling as memories crawled to the surface like ghosts from a long-buried grave.

  A house too big for a child to feel safe in. A father who never looked at him the same way he did Lyn. The whispering of the household staff when he passed by. The suffocating weight of expectations and the cold, clinical voices of psychiatrists who came and went, their eyes always filled with something that looked suspiciously like fear.

  “You were never supposed to remember,” Mr. Jang finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Jihoon’s hands clenched into fists. “But I did.”

  The memories were fragmented, but they were real. His father’s voice, distant and commanding.

  "He is not like other children."

  "He was born different."

  "We must control it before it’s too te."

  Jihoon’s stomach twisted. He remembered now—the appointments, the tests, the endless questioning. He remembered the accident in seventh grade, the boy whose lifeless eyes stared back at him from the floor. He remembered the rumors, the hushed conversations about how it had been an accident.

  But he also remembered the truth.

  He had done it.

  The realization made his breath hitch. He had killed before.

  And his father knew.

  “They sent me away,” Jihoon whispered. “Didn’t they?”

  Mr. Jang lowered his gaze. “Your father wanted to protect the family. You were becoming… unpredictable. Dangerous. He tried to manage it at first, keeping you in the mansion, bringing in specialists. But after what happened in school—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “It was no longer safe. For anyone.”

  Jihoon swallowed hard. “So they killed me instead.”

  “You knew,” Kiho said, his voice low, but ced with fury. “You knew what I was.”

  Mr. Jang exhaled slowly, setting down the pen he had been holding. He didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked… resigned.

  “Yes.”

  Kiho let out a bitter ugh, his grip tightening. “And you never thought to tell me? That I’m not Jang Ki Ho? That I’m Choi Ji Hoon?”

  “What good would it have done?” Mr. Jang’s voice was calm, steady. “You were given a second chance, Kiho. You are a better person now.”

  “A better person?” Kiho’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”

  Mr. Jang stood, his gaze unwavering. “It means you are not the boy who once carried so much darkness. It means you are not bound to the name that nearly destroyed you.” He sighed. “You only need a few more therapies, and you can truly be free of that past. You can be Jang Ki Ho—a simple man, with a simple life.”

  A simple life.

  The words should have been comforting, but all they did was make Kiho feel hollow. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to let this identity wrap around him like a shield, to erase everything before it. But deep down, he knew the truth.

  He was still Choi Ji Hoon. And the past never stayed buried forever.

  “Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital,” Jihoon muttered, realization settling into his bones like ice.

  “You were given a new identity, new records. Jang Ki Ho was born that day.”

  Jihoon ran a shaking hand through his hair, his breath shallow as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had been living a lie for twenty five years. A forgotten shadow of a name that was never meant to resurface.

  And yet, here he was.

  Alive.

  Remembering.

  The Choi Ji Hoon that should have drowned that night wasn’t dead after all.

  He was right here, staring at the man who had spent years keeping his secret.

  Jihoon exhaled, his gaze drifting to the barred window, the world outside stretching vast and untouchable beyond the gss.

  Choi Ji Hoon was back.

  Twenty-five years ago, Choi Ji Hoon died.

  Or so the world believed.

  The river had been unusually quiet that evening, the water still and bck under the weight of the fading sun. The search sted for hours, desperate hands reaching into the cold depths, searching for a boy who was no longer there. When his body was finally pulled from the current, it was bloated, motionless. Lifeless.

  President Choi had arrived in the dead of night, standing on the riverbank, his face unreadable as he gazed upon his son’s lifeless form. No tears, no grief—only silence. The same silence that followed when the authorities ruled his death an accident. No autopsy. No further questions.

  At fifteen years old, Choi Ji Hoon was pronounced dead.

  But the truth was far more complicated.

  Jang Ki Ho had spent most of his life as a name that wasn’t his own. A patient locked away behind white walls, where time stood still and memories faded into nothingness. But the past had a way of cwing itself back, no matter how deeply buried it was.

  He had once been Choi Ji Hoon.

  A child reported dead at the age of fifteen, drowned in a river. The eldest son of President Choi, heir to an empire that never wanted him. A troubled child. A dangerous child. A child who had been erased.

  The memories came in fragments, scattered like shattered gss. At first, they were mere flickers in the dark—faces he couldn’t name, a house he didn’t recognize, blood on his hands that he didn’t understand. Then, after nights of restless dreaming, the truth began to take shape.

  He was ten years old when he first showed signs of what they called an “illness.” It was the coldness in his gaze, the way he never cried, never flinched, never hesitated. A child who could watch an animal suffer without blinking. A child who had once wrapped his small hands around another boy’s throat in the middle of the schoolyard. The boy had lived, but just barely. That was when the whispers started. That was when his father decided something had to be done.

  At first, there were private psychiatrists—men and women who visited the Choi Mansion, speaking to him in soft tones, prescribing medication, observing him like he was something to be studied. But it wasn’t enough. No matter what they did, the darkness remained. Then, in seventh grade, there had been an accident. A cssmate was found at the bottom of a stairwell, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The school ruled it a tragic fall. But President Choi knew better.

  The decision was made.

  Jihoon would disappear.

  The news reported him missing. His body was found days ter in a river, swollen, lifeless. His funeral was held in a grand hall, white flowers draped over his framed portrait. His name was whispered in mourning, then gradually, not at all.

  Choi Ji Hoon had died.

  And Jang Ki Ho had been born.

  The notebook had been the first crack in the lie. Mr. Jang had given it to him, the only man who had never lied to him outright. But this time, even his silence felt like betrayal.

  The Nurse

  There were small things about Jang Ki Ho that didn’t sit right with Oh Mi Rae.

  At first, they were fleeting moments—too insignificant to dwell on. The way his gaze would sharpen for a split second before dulling again, as if something deep inside him had momentarily surfaced only to be forcibly pushed back down. The way he carried himself, his posture too straight, too deliberate, for someone who had spent years inside these sterile walls. The way he spoke—not the fragmented, disoriented manner of a long-term patient, but as if he was always measuring his words, choosing what to say.

  It unsettled her.

  This wasn’t the Jang Ki Ho she had known for the past year.

  It wasn’t just that he seemed different. It was as if he had always been someone else entirely.

  Mi-rae found herself observing him more carefully. Watching the way his fingers twitched slightly when certain names were mentioned, the way he tensed ever so subtly at the sight of specific staff members. These were reactions born out of familiarity, not confusion.

  But the real turning point came when she saw him writing.

  Jang Ki Ho never wrote. He wasn’t the type to journal, and the hospital records stated that his ability to recall past memories was limited, fragmented at best. But two nights ago, as she passed by his room, she saw him hunched over his desk, pen gliding swiftly across paper, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

  And that wasn’t what unsettled her most.

  What unsettled her was his handwriting.

  It was precise, sharp—too refined for a man whose mind was supposed to be fractured.

  She had gone to Mr. Jang the next day.

  She found him just as he was leaving the doctor’s office. His face was unreadable, but there was a tension in his stance—one she had never seen before.

  “Mr. Jang,” she called, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her stomach.

  He paused, barely sparing her a gnce as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “Miss Oh, shouldn’t you be making your rounds?”

  Mi-rae ignored the deflection. “Something’s changed with Kiho.”

  Mr. Jang’s expression remained indifferent, but his fingers twitched—a small, almost imperceptible movement. “Patients have phases,” he said smoothly. “He’ll revert soon enough.”

  It was a lie.

  Mr. Jang was lying to her.

  And then she made the mistake of mentioning the woman in red.

  The change in him was immediate.

  His jaw tightened, his posture stiffened. For the first time, something real broke through his carefully constructed indifference.

  “You saw her?”

  Mi-rae nodded. “She visited him. He expected her.”

  Mr. Jang inhaled sharply, looking away for a moment as if gathering himself. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, urgent.

  “Don’t let her in again.”

  Mi-rae frowned. “What? Who is she?”

  He didn’t answer.

  He only looked at her—really looked at her—and said,

  “Be careful, Mi-rae.”

  Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

  The Boy’s Photo

  Mi-rae hadn’t meant to see it.

  She had only come into the doctor’s office to collect the patient files, her mind occupied with routine tasks, with the weight of another long shift pressing on her shoulders. But as she reached for the stack of reports, her fingers hesitated. Among the scattered paperwork, something stood out—a notebook, its leather-bound cover worn at the edges, its pages slightly creased from frequent handling.

  Mr. Jang’s notebook.

  It had been left behind in his rush, abandoned in the midst of patient evaluations and unread reports. She reached for it, intending only to set it aside, nothing more.

  But the moment she lifted it—

  A photograph slipped free.

  It fluttered to the floor, nding face-up.

  Mi-rae stared.

  A boy.

  He couldn’t have been older than ten, his features sharp yet strangely distant, as if the camera had captured more than just his face—something deeper, something unsettling. His dark eyes bore into her, piercing, unreadable. He wasn’t smiling. There was no warmth in his expression, no trace of innocence that children were supposed to have.

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

  Slowly, as if compelled by something beyond her, she turned the photograph over.

  A name was written on the back in neat, precise cursive.

  Choi Ji Hoon.

  A chill ran through her.

  The name tugged at something in her memory, a distant whisper she couldn’t quite grasp. Where had she heard it before? Why did it feel like it had been lurking just at the edge of her consciousness, waiting for this exact moment to resurface?

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the photograph back over, her eyes locking onto the boy’s stare once more.

  Cold.

  Unforgiving.

  Too knowing.

  A slow, crawling sensation skittered up the back of Mi-rae’s neck, ice-cold and deliberate, sinking its phantom cws into her skin.

  A warning.

  The unmistakable, suffocating weight of being watched.

  Her breath hitched, a sharp and involuntary catch in her throat. The air in the room shifted, thickening like unseen hands pressing down on her shoulders, urging her not to look.

  Don’t look. Don’t look.

  But something—something—drew her in, as if a force beyond her own will had already decided for her.

  Slowly, unwillingly, she lifted her gaze.

  Her reflection wavered in the gss of the small window overlooking the courtyard, the fluorescent glow from the ceiling casting a dim, sickly pallor over her face.

  Then—movement.

  A shadow beyond the courtyard. A presence where there shouldn’t be one.

  Her pulse smmed against her ribs as her gaze shifted upward—toward the second floor.

  Toward Room 405.

  A figure stood behind the barred window, barely illuminated by the weak spill of hallway light. The window wasn’t open. The gss was thick. But still—she felt him.

  Jang Ki \Ho was staring directly at her.

  Mi-rae’s stomach plummeted.

  Her body went rigid, frozen, trapped beneath the weight of that gaze.

  His face was a blur of shadow and pale light, but his eyes—his eyes pierced through the darkness like twin bdes, too sharp, too focused. They tched onto her with an intensity that made her blood feel thick and sluggish in her veins, like something was coiling inside her, wrapping around her ribs, squeezing—

  The weight of it crushed her breath.

  A shudder ripped through her body, cold and deep, as though something ancient and unseen had just whispered across her spine.

  The air pressed heavier. The room felt smaller. The walls felt closer.

  Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

  That wasn’t the stare of a sedated patient.

  It wasn’t the empty gaze of someone lost in a medicated fog.

  It was knowing.

  It was too knowing.

  Mi-rae tore her gaze away, the effort nearly physical, like breaking free from something that had hooked itself into her.

  Her breath rushed out of her in uneven gasps. Her heart thundered in her chest, erratic and desperate, fighting against the awful stillness that had wrapped itself around her like a second skin.

  With trembling fingers, she shoved the photograph back into the notebook.

  The notebook burned.

  Not literally. But in her hands, in her grip, it felt as if it pulsed—alive with something forbidden, dangerous.

  Something she was never meant to see.

  She had to return it. She had to.

  But deep in her gut, in the coldest part of her, she knew—

  It was already too te.

  The Confrontation

  Mi-rae hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

  She had only been passing through, making her usual rounds, when the sharp, hushed voices cut through the silence of the dimly lit corridor. The sound came from the st room at the end of the hall—a pce usually wrapped in eerie stillness. Something about the tone of the conversation made her hesitate, her footsteps faltering against the polished floor.

  Urgency.

  Laced with something darker.

  Anger. Desperation.

  She gnced around. The hall was empty, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Visiting hours had ended, and most of the staff had retreated to the break room or the on-call quarters, leaving the ward in its usual nighttime quiet. But despite the emptiness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trespassing.

  And yet, she didn’t move.

  The door ahead was ajar—just enough for a sliver of light to bleed into the hallway, illuminating the edges of the floor. Just enough for her to see the faint outline of two figures standing close, their shadows flickering against the walls.

  She knew she shouldn’t be here.

  She knew she should turn away.

  But she didn’t.

  Because then—

  She heard his voice.

  Jang Ki Ho.

  It wasn’t the quiet, lost murmur of a psychiatric patient. It wasn’t the sluggish tone of someone sedated, drugged into compcency.

  No—this voice was different.

  Clear. Sharp. Controlled.

  And for the first time since she had known him, it sent a chill through her bones.

  “They erased me.”

  The words settled into the air like lead.

  Mr. Jang didn’t deny it. Didn’t fight it. Didn’t say anything at all.

  Kiho let the silence stretch between them, studying the man who had pyed a part in his erasure.

  Finally, he leaned forward, voice lowering to something almost dangerous.

  His breath came uneven, sharp gasps breaking the silence of his dimly lit room.

  “You knew,” his voice rasped, raw from disuse. “Didn’t you?”

  Mi-rae’s fingers curled against the doorframe. Her breath caught in her throat. Erased? What was he talking about?

  “Say something,” Kiho demanded, his voice trembling as memories crawled to the surface like ghosts from a long-buried grave.

  “You were never supposed to remember,” Mr. Jang finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Jihoon’s hands clenched into fists. “But I did.”

  Mi-rae’s stomach twisted.

  She wanted to stop listening. She wanted to leave. But her feet wouldn’t move.

  Jihoon’s breath hitched. “They sent me away,” he whispered. “Didn’t they?”

  Mr. Jang lowered his gaze. “Your father wanted to protect the family. You were becoming… unpredictable. Dangerous. He tried to manage it at first, keeping you in the mansion, bringing in specialists. But after what happened in school—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “It was no longer safe. For anyone.”

  Jihoon swallowed hard. “So they killed me instead.”

  Mi-rae’s breath shuddered. Killed?

  A suffocating silence stretched between them.

  Then Kiho’s voice dropped, the fury curling around his words like smoke.

  “You knew.”

  A pause. Then, slower, each word deliberate—

  “You knew what I was.”

  Mr. Jang exhaled slowly, “Yes.”

  Kiho let out a bitter ugh, his grip tightening. “And you never thought to tell me? That I’m not Jang Kiho? That I’m Choi Ji Hoon?”

  Mi-rae’s fingers dug into her palm. Choi Ji Hoon? Mi-rae’s pulse quickened. Jihoon. Why was he calling himself that?

  “What good would it have done?” Mr. Jang’s voice was calm, steady. “You were given a second chance, Kiho. You are a better person now.”

  “A better person?” Kiho’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”

  Mr. Jang stood, his gaze unwavering. “It means you are not the boy who once carried so much darkness. It means you are not bound to the name that nearly destroyed you.” He sighed. “You only need a few more therapies, and you can truly be free of that past. You can be Jang Ki Ho—a simple man, with a simple life.”

  Mi-rae felt a chill creep up her spine. This wasn’t just about therapy.

  Kiho was breathing heavily now. His fingers curled against the desk. The air in the room shifted—like something fragile on the verge of shattering.

  “Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital,” Jihoon muttered, realization settling into his bones like ice.

  “You were given a new identity, new records. Jang Ki Ho was born that day.”

  Mi-rae barely held in her gasp, her breath caught in her throat. Her pulse thundered in her ears, so loud she was certain they would hear it.

  She had to move—now—before it was too te.

  But then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming straight for the door.

  Her blood turned cold. She turned to leave, but—

  The door swung open. A figure stepped out, casting a shadow over her.

  Mr. Jang.

  His sharp gaze locked onto her instantly. He didn’t look surprised. He looked worried.

  Mi-rae’s breath hitched, every muscle in her body going rigid. Behind him, Kiho stood motionless in the room, his back turned, shoulders stiff. He hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he was too far gone to care.

  For a long, unbearable moment, neither she nor Mr. Jang spoke. The dim hallway lights flickered faintly, stretching his expression into something unreadable.

  Then—without a word—he stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

  The lock clicked into pce.

  Mi-rae took a shaky step back. The hallway felt too narrow, the air too thin.

  Mr. Jang exhaled slowly, but his eyes—dark, steady—never left hers.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Miss Oh.” His voice was calm. Too calm. A practiced calm. The kind that concealed something far worse beneath.

  Mi-rae swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I—I wasn’t—”

  His expression didn’t change. His head tilted ever so slightly, watching her. Calcuting.

  “Be careful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Be very careful with what you think you know.”

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Then, as quickly as he had appeared, Mr. Jang turned and slipped back into the room.

  The door closed softly behind him, sealing Kiho inside once more.

  Mi-rae stood frozen in pce, her legs trembling, her fingers still curled into the fabric of her sleeve. The moment she regained control of herself, she spun on her heel and walked away.

  Fast. Not running. But fast.

  She didn’t dare look back.

  She didn’t know what she had just stumbled upon.

  But she knew one thing for certain.

  Jang Ki Ho was never Jang Ki Ho.

  And whatever this truth was—

  It was something she was never meant to know.

  END OF CHAPTER 10