We were on our way home. The sky, once stained with the orange glow of dusk, had fully surrendered to the night. The shadows were thicker than usual, as if the world had forgotten to breathe.
"Can we talk when we get home?" I asked, without turning my head.
"Mmm? Okay."
"Good…"
There was tension. Silent but palpable, like a taut rope barely holding steady.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that couldn't be resolved.
Or so I thought.
Suddenly, reality gave way. As if someone had flipped a switch in my mind. Everything went black.
Absolute darkness.
It wasn't the kind of darkness you get when you close your eyes. This had weight, density. The ground beneath my feet was damp, but not cold. Like walking on stagnant water with no visible bottom.
"You seem fine," a voice said.
I recognized it instantly. It was too familiar. Not because I heard it often… but because it was mine.
"Hyung-Seok? Me?"
"Wow. Eight years, and you've already forgotten your old self. Some things never change, huh?"
The form in front of me coalesced from a gray mist. It had the appearance I once had… back when I still went by that name.
"What the hell…?"
"Don't freak out. I'm just a consciousness. A part of you that chose to stay behind. A buried voice. Though, I'll admit, it's weird seeing you smile out there, pretending everything's fine."
"What do you want?"
"Want? Nothing in particular. I'm just… here. Resurfaced, I guess. Maybe because you're finally letting go of me. You've noticed certain impulses fading, haven't you? All that… morbid inclination."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."
He was right. As much as I hated to admit it, something had changed in me. That dark, rancid, insidious part… it had started to vanish.
"Where am I?"
"I told you. In your consciousness. Or something like that. Technically, this shouldn't be happening. But here we are. I'm what you left behind. A version of you that you chose to bury."
I looked at him more closely.
Blond hair. Green eyes. A past version of myself I'd rather forget. Not because of how it looked, but because of what it represented.
"You disgust yourself, don't you?"
I didn't answer.
"I get it. I don't judge. You were aware of what you were. And still, you walked that path. Who knows? Maybe I'm your punishment."
"Let me go."
"What? I can't. Not yet. It's not up to me. You have to do it."
He pointed upward. Instinctively, I looked.
And then I heard her.
Isolde's voice, crying. Muffled by distance, as if separated by an invisible wall.
She was sobbing. No one was comforting her. No adult was coming to her aid.
Why was she crying? What was happening out there?
I didn't know.
But if she was crying, it meant something was wrong. Very wrong.
And I… I was trapped here. With myself.
"How long am I stuck here? I need to get out," I said, urgency barely restrained beneath a thin layer of control.
"Why? To comfort her?" His voice was mocking, probing, each word a dagger wrapped in velvet. "As I recall, you didn't show a shred of remorse back then. And now, look at you, falling apart over a crying little girl. You've gone soft."
"You don't know anything. She's my sister. It's my duty to protect her."
"Your duty? How convenient that you remember that now. I wish you'd had that same clarity when you invited those girls to the house. Don't you think they deserved to be protected too?"
His tone wasn't accusatory. It didn't need to be. It was worse: it was logical. Cold. Impossible to refute without tripping over moral contradictions.
I stayed silent. Because I knew he was right.
Standing before me wasn't just a projection of my childhood. It was a living—yet ironically dead—reminder of who I'd been. A killer.
Twenty-five? Thirty? Maybe more.
The number didn't matter anymore, not because it was irrelevant, but because what mattered had been lost long before: meaning.
The "WANTED" posters plastered on damp, crumbling walls… they used to spark a sick kind of satisfaction in me. A twisted sense of power.
Seeing their faces printed on cheap, smudged paper was like looking at trophies. I knew their bodies were still where I'd left them. With me.
"Well… looks like my time's up."
"What?"
"You're about to wake up. We'll see each other again, though."
"What do you mean by that…?"
I didn't finish. Or maybe I did, but I couldn't hear myself. That's when I noticed: it wasn't him pulling away… it was me being dragged. An invisible, silent force was yanking me downward, as if the very water of my subconscious had decided to spit me back into the world that had forgotten how to breathe.
And I woke up.
Air rushed into my lungs with the violence of someone forcibly brought back to life. I coughed. I felt the weight of my body, the dull ache in my chest, and the lingering pressure of what I shouldn't remember.
"Lucy!" Isolde's voice trembled, and even with my eyes half-open, I could hear the knot in her throat. It was unmistakable. Pure pain.
My eyelids were heavy, but I managed to focus on her. Her cheeks were streaked with fresh tears, and her hands gripped me as if letting go would shatter the world completely.
I looked around.
No adults. Not a single concerned face. Just the silence of the evening, broken by the sobs of a little girl.
Maybe that's why no one helped her? Maybe the world ignores what it doesn't understand… or what it simply doesn't care to see?
"Lucy! Are you okay?!"
I tried to answer, but my throat was a raw wound. Words wouldn't come, only a hoarse murmur scraped from within.
"What…? I'm… fine…" I lied, with an effort that felt pointless, as if my body still doubted it could keep going.
But I wasn't. Not really.
Isolde hugged me tightly, burying her face in my chest. Her crying continued, raw, unrestrained.