The classroom buzzed with energy—whispers, chair legs scraping the floor, the flick of notebooks opening. But Yeon Sangwo wasn't hearing any of it.
He sat by the window in the third row, his pencil untouched, his textbook open but unread.
Jae.
The name pulsed in his head like a heartbeat. That face—the same face he saw in the dream, drenched in blood, eyes shadowed, unmoving. But here, in the real world, Jae smiled. Spoke. Laughed. He had perfect posture, clean hands, a voice that made people listen.
It didn't make sense.
Sangwo glanced sideways across the room.
There he was.
Jae sat in the front row, near the center. Even now, people subtly leaned toward him, like planets drawn to a star. He didn't talk much, but his silence had weight—every gesture, every blink, felt measured. Controlled. Dangerous.
Their homeroom teacher was droning on about upcoming exams, but Sangwo's eyes stayed on Jae.
Suddenly—Jae turned his head.
And looked straight at him.
For a second, everything went still.
Sangwo's stomach twisted. A chill ran down his spine. His pencil rolled off the desk and hit the floor with a sharp clatter.
Jae didn't smile.
He didn't blink.
He just watched.
And then, just as suddenly, he turned back to the front like nothing happened.
Sangwo's breath caught in his throat. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"Why me?" he thought. "Why did I see him before we ever met?"
---
After class, Sangwo packed up slowly, half-hoping to speak with him. Ask him something. Anything.
But when he looked again—Jae was gone.
No one saw him leave.
Even Donald had already vanished.
The hallway outside was strangely empty, the buzz of students distant now, like echoes in a cave.
Then he saw it.
A small piece of paper, slipped under his desk.
He picked it up, heart thudding.
One line, written in perfect red ink:
"You saw me before you were meant to."
Yeon Sangwo stared at the note.
The paper was thin, off-white, slightly crumpled—like it had been handled too many times. But what made his hands tremble wasn't the handwriting.
It was the blood.
Three small drops. Dark. Dried, but unmistakably real.
He rubbed his thumb across one. It flaked off like old paint.
His skin went cold.
> "You saw me before you were meant to."
Who was he?
Sangwo looked around the empty classroom. Chairs were tucked in, sunlight cast long shadows across the floor, and the hallway just outside hummed faintly with laughter and footsteps. The normal world was still turning.
But here, in this moment, Sangwo felt like he'd slipped into something else.
Something colder.
Something wrong.
He stuffed the note into his pocket and rushed out.
---
He caught up with Donald near the vending machines.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Donald said, cracking open a can of Coke.
"Did… anyone see Jae leave the classroom?"
Donald frowned. "Who?"
"The transfer student."
"Oh. Nah, he was gone when I turned around. Like a ghost. Maybe he floats." Donald grinned, but Sangwo didn't laugh.
He was still clutching the pocket where the note sat like a heartbeat.
---
That night, Sangwo couldn't sleep.
The note was on his desk now. He'd unfolded it, read it twenty times. The blood. The words. The way Jae had looked at him in class—like he knew something. Like he had been there, in that white place. Watching. Waiting.
Sangwo's body tensed.
He reached for the paper again—
And froze.
A second line had appeared.
It wasn't there before.
In the same red ink, just beneath the first:
"Do you still want to get closer?"
Sangwo didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment he was staring at the note, the words burned into his mind—
> "Do you still want to get closer?"
—
and the next, he was standing.
Alone.
In the white.
Again.
No wind this time. No echo of his steps. Just silence so thick it pressed against his skin like fog. The endless expanse around him pulsed faintly, like breath—alive, and watching.
Sangwo turned slowly.
Then he saw him.
Jae.
But not the one from school.
This version stood in the distance, blood once again soaking his uniform. His hands were dripping with it, the red smearing down his fingers like paint.
He wasn't moving.
Sangwo's chest tightened.
He didn't know why, but this time, he walked toward him.
One step.
Another.
The silence screamed louder with every footfall, his own heartbeat muffled and far away.
Jae lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly, Jae smiled.
Not the warm, charming smile he wore at school.
This smile was... broken. Sad. Almost tender.
"Why did you come back?" Jae's voice echoed—not spoken aloud, but inside Sangwo's head.
"I didn't choose to," Sangwo whispered.
"You did," Jae said, stepping forward now. Blood dripped from his chin. "You wanted to understand."
Sangwo's breath shook. "Understand what?"
Jae reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
It was the same note.
The same paper.
He held it out.
Sangwo took it.
But this time, a third line had been added in that sharp, red ink:
> "The closer you get, the more you bleed."
Sangwo looked up—but Jae was gone.
The white space cracked beneath his feet.
Crimson flooded in.
---
Sangwo woke up choking.
His sheets were damp with sweat, his chest heaving.
And on his desk—the note remained.
But this time, there were fresh blood smears on the corner.
And he hadn't touched it.
---