Hi, it's Raven. The star bringing you Rule 9.
I just hope Vicky stops annoying me about Nicky's memory. It's not like I can go into her mind, and honestly, even if I could, I wouldn't. She's technically in the undead class, and I learned a long time ago that going into undead minds is a bad idea. You don't just see flashes or feelings. You see everything. Every scream, every obsession, every thought they ever buried. And the whole time you're there, you have to stay invisible or risk getting trapped in something they remember—like a song, or a smell, or some old object they refuse to let go of.
And if you stay too long, you start seeing the flow—how their body turns into idea. That's when the mind stops being a place and starts becoming a realm. You catch glimpses of things you thought were myths—things that look back. When we say Peach Realms, it's not just because our world looks like some garden dream. It's because every realm is built like a peach—soft, layered, fibrous. Some parts are sweet and full of light, but others rot from the inside, slick with mold and memory. Touch the wrong layer, and you'll find it breathing.
That's the kind of horror no one warns you about—the quiet kind. The kind that smells like fruit right before it goes bad.
And look, I'm not like Nicky. Nor do I want to be. She's got that kind of power that burns everything around her, including herself. I'm fine where I'm at—comfortable in the middle tier. I get to see enough of the darkness to understand it, but not so deep that it starts whispering back.
Alright, alright. I won't play it off as plot convenience this time. You deserve an actual story. We were all young and dumb once, and I was pretty cocky for an idol.
Back then, there were three of us in the group. The other two didn't want to go back to their old lives. They said there was nothing left waiting for them outside the lights. Music was the only thing that made sense anymore, so we poured everything into it. We worked even when we didn't have to—kept busy so none of us had to think too hard about what came before.
That's how Pray 4 U was born. I produced that track for one of my own members. It was our first real piece that felt like more than performance—something honest, something bruised. We wanted to prove idols could sing about death and still keep their shine.
When the song dropped, it hit harder than we expected. Mortals cried to it. Immortals studied it. The lyrics crossed realms, playing in clubs, temples, and broadcast spells all at once. The living said it made them feel seen. The dead said it made them remember. It ended up winning awards from both sides—mortal music guilds and immortal houses alike.
It was the best track on the album, no contest—the kind of song that rewrites how people look at you. After that, the Order started taking us seriously. Until then, we'd just been the pretty trainees they sent out for recruitment posters. But once Pray 4 U started circulating through the realms, they realized we were more than faces. We were field potential.
We became the idols who hunted—the proof that even pop stars could bleed for the cause.
It was around that time I picked up a new skill from my folks back home—a mental ritual passed down through my bloodline, meant only for those who deal with the dead. We called it Salsim Cheongseo, the Book of the Deadmind. It lets you walk the pages of a dying thought, reading a person's final memories from the inside out.
I used it a few times, mostly on smaller cases, just to prove I was more than a performer. The results impressed people—too much. Power gets addictive when it keeps working. When my manager found out, they weren't thrilled. They specialized in mind-anchor therapy, the kind of work that keeps your soul from splintering under divine pressure. They told me flat out it wasn't clever. It was dangerous—the kind of dangerous that doesn't warn you before it eats what's left of your sanity.
I ignored them, like most people do when they're winning. Then the angel case came. I used Salsim Cheongseo again, trying to prove I could handle it. I dug too deep. The further I went, the less I understood. The light inside that mind wasn't holy. It was dissecting me thought by thought. My manager pulled me out before my consciousness broke apart completely.
When I woke up three days later, my hands were shaking, and there was blood under my nails. My notebook was filled with things I didn't remember writing. They sent me straight to rehab to recover. That was when I finally learned that Salsim Cheongseo isn't a power. It's a debt. Every time you open it, something on the other side collects payment.
When I finally came out of the clinic haze, the doctors sat me down to explain what happened. They said the purple-flame therapy worked, but only because my mind reacted well to it. Most people aren't that lucky. The treatment burns through corrupted memories until nothing dangerous is left, but it doesn't choose what stays. It only follows energy.
I asked how anyone could control something like that—how you could use it without losing half your mind in the process. They said some people train for it their whole lives, and others are just born with the ability. Like anything else in this world, it depends on how your energy is wired.
That was the first time I realized people like Nicky existed—the kind who don't just survive the flame, but live inside it. I don't have insight into her ability. I'd treat her if I could, but her level is way beyond the kind of therapy I went through. Mine was medical, clinical, grounded in control. Hers is something else entirely.
Even the doctors couldn't explain what someone like her might be capable of. They said if the flame ever bonded to a person's will instead of their pain, it would stop being therapy and start being evolution. I don't know if that's true. I just know Nicky makes it look easy—and that scares me more than anything I saw in that clinic.
After I left the clinic, I told myself I needed to up my game. No more falling apart mid-case. No more letting something out there get the better of me. I was a cocky little shit back then, convinced I could handle anything if I just learned fast enough.
So I threw myself into training. My manager saw that spark in me and decided to feed it. They were thrilled to have someone who actually cared about refining control instead of just running on instinct. They said power without precision is just noise, and they were right.
After a few months, I reached what they called basic green flame level. It wasn't much, but it was mine. The green flame doesn't hurt things that are truly living, which is harder than it sounds, but I figured out how to make it work on the undead.
It became my specialty—stabilizing what's half-gone without finishing the job. I can burn corruption off spirits or calm a revenant's fractured memory long enough for them to remember who they were. It's not flashy. It's quiet work. But quiet doesn't mean weak.
Okay, I know we've been getting a lot of lore in these stories, but without the lore, how the hell am I supposed to give you the horror? You can't have one without the other.
Hahaha… yeah, I heard that sigh. Don't worry, I'm almost done—well, kind of.
Anyway, back to the point—oh, wait.
I think something's outside your window right now.
The wind's picking up. You hear that? That little scrape at the edge of the glass? That's the sound it makes right before it decides to come in. The kind of wind that doesn't howl—it listens.
It's just waiting to go… booom.
And that, my dear listeners, is where our real story starts.
You remember how the rules go, right? They're not laws. They're survival notes—things we learned so the next idiot doesn't have to die figuring them out.
Rule 9 is simple: If your reflection blinks first, run.
It was almost the end of the vacation. I'll admit it—I'm going to miss this place a little. Not a lot, but enough to feel it. The air was soft, the nights were loud, and for a minute, it almost felt like we got to live instead of just survive. But here we are, standing on the second-to-last rule. And by now, you know how this goes. The quiet never stays quiet for long.
That's the funny thing about getaways. Everyone comes chasing rest or nostalgia, pretending a new view can erase old ghosts. But this world doesn't forget. It remembers where you walked, what you touched, what you tried to leave behind.
And that's where Rule 9 really begins.
If objects ever had souls, windows would be the ones that talk the most. Not the walls—walls just keep secrets. But windows watch. They see who comes, who goes, who changes when they think no one's looking.
So when the first window blinked back at me, I didn't panic. I just sighed and thought, Figures. We're almost done, and the glass wants to talk now.
I picked up my cane and went to the sunroom. It had that cold kind of beauty you only find in winter—quiet, polished, and a little cruel. Every wall was a window, tall and pale, edged with fake frost. The room was built to sell people the illusion of a winter wedding, even when the world outside was burning hot. Everything about it was artifice—white roses sprayed with mist, glass dusted to look like snow, air vents whispering borrowed chill.
I walked through the stillness, the air sharp with the scent of perfume and metal. You could almost hear the echo of laughter, the kind that sounds rehearsed.
It's funny, isn't it? How slashers and victims always end up sharing the same rhythm. They just don't know it. Both chase something already gone. Victims fight like hell to keep a heartbeat that's already spent. Slashers chase that sound like it's applause. One ends up in the ground, the other just keeps digging.
I guess that's why I don't buy the usual kind of horror. For me, it isn't the scream or the silence. It's that little moment before—when the world forgets to move, and everything feels too still, too polite. That's when you know something's watching. That's when it's already decided what you are.
That's when I saw her.
At first, I thought the shimmer in the far window was just heat bouncing off the glass. But then it moved—slow, deliberate, like a breath pressed against the other side. The colors deepened, softening into the shape of a woman.
She stood inside the glass, not behind it. The frost around her frame melted in slow trails, and the light bent closer, as if drawn to her. She held a crow in her hands—small, black, trembling—but she stroked it gently, like something precious instead of doomed.
When she lifted it toward her lips, I heard her humming.
It wasn't eerie. It wasn't sharp. It was warm. The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you when you've spent too long in the cold. The sound filled the air like breath against glass—steady, soft, and far too kind for a room like this. The crow tilted its head, soothed by something I couldn't name. Its wings lowered, its body went still, and then the light claimed it.
The bird's shadow sank into the windowpane and disappeared. The colors in the glass deepened, shifting from pale winter light to something darker—like blood behind ice. The panes trembled, soft ripples running through the frost as if the window itself had started to breathe.
The woman pressed her hand against the glass. Where her palm touched, the frost melted clear. The crow's silhouette spread along her arm, its wings dissolving into her reflection until feathers and light fused with her skin. Then, with a quiet crack, she stepped forward.
The glass didn't shatter—it parted. She walked out of the color itself, leaving no footprints, only a faint shimmer where the frost refused to settle.
The room changed with her. The fake chill from the vents dimmed, replaced by something real—a cold that felt alive. I should've felt numb, but instead the air turned warmer the closer she came. My breath still fogged, but it was like standing near a flame that didn't burn.
She stopped an arm's length away and smiled. The warmth in her face made the rest of the world look brittle.
"Do you know why I came back?" she asked. Her voice was low, steady, too kind to trust. "Every story needs a dance."
She held out her hand.
I didn't think; I just moved. Her fingers were warm—shockingly so. The kind of warmth that slides under your ribs and convinces you to stay.
When our hands met, the hum started. The frost on the windows flared into pale roses, and unseen music filled the air, slow and patient as falling snow.
We began to dance.
At first, it was only movement—one step, one turn, my cane gliding across the glass floor. The warmth between us deepened, spreading through my limbs until the cold couldn't find me anymore. The rhythm felt familiar, almost human. Almost.
But with each turn, the heat pressed harder, too steady, too strong. My pulse stumbled trying to match it. And somewhere between one breath and the next, I realized: the warmth wasn't comfort.
It was hunger.
The warmth pressed closer, sinking into my skin. I tried to step back, but she moved with me, leading now. Her smile never changed—it stayed soft, patient, almost loving.
That was when I saw them.
At first, I thought the shimmer in her dress was just the glass catching light. But as we turned, faces bloomed inside the folds of her reflection—soft, blurred, shifting with each motion. The closer I looked, the clearer they became.
They weren't just faces. They were people. Couples. Dancing.
When we spun again, I realized the figures weren't trapped in her; they were moving through her. Each face turned toward another, hands clasping, bodies pressed close in rhythm that didn't belong to the living. Their smiles were gentle, tired, endless.
She noticed me watching. Her hand slid up to the back of my neck, her touch warm enough to feel like a promise.
"Do you see them?" she asked, voice a whisper inside the music. "They all found their partners here. That's all any story really wants—a rhythm to end on."
I glanced at the mirrored floor. The reflections below us echoed her words: dozens of dancers circling in silent time, never breaking step.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she said, eyes glinting like thawed ice. "They were so afraid when they first came. But the dance... it teaches you to stop running."
Her words brushed close to my ear, sweet and heavy.
"Would you like to stop running, too?"
I didn't answer. I just kept moving, my steps tightening, matching hers. The warmth spread further, seeping past my clothes, curling beneath my ribs.
For a second, I almost believed her. Would it be so bad to stop running? The thought crept in slow, warm, and heavy. It would be nice, wouldn't it? Just to melt into the music, forget the work, the noise, the blood. To let someone else lead for once. The warmth whispered, stay, and for a heartbeat, I almost did. But instinct's louder than comfort. I shifted my weight, lifted just enough, and kicked—hard. My boot slammed into her chest, the sound cracking through the glass like thunder. She staggered back, light shattering across her body in jagged ripples. I planted my cane between us, heat rising to my face before I could stop it. "Nah, bitch," I said, voice catching just slightly—and damn it, that blush burned hotter than the room. I sighed, half-grinning. "Ugh. It really does sound better when Nicky says it."
Cinderella's expression shifted—no rage, no malice. Just that small, tired sadness killers get when the story stops going their way. Then her reflection fractured, and the first crow tore free.
It wasn't a bird so much as a shape of sound—wings carved from mirror, talons of light. It came straight for my throat. I pivoted, brought the cane up in one clean swing, and the glass shattered into dust. Before I could reset, another came. Then another.
She was generating them in rhythm with her breath. Every exhale a creature, every inhale a pause before the next attack.
I adjusted my stance, sliding one foot behind the other. Keep the rhythm steady, don't overcommit. The cane's weight felt right in my hands, balanced between counter and strike. I parried two more, broke one against the floor, but the sound didn't stop—it rose.
She started to sing.
It wasn't music. It was pressure—pure resonance. A high, perfect note that pushed against the inside of my skull until the world blurred. The air trembled; the windows screamed. Each new pitch launched shards of glass through the room like bullets.
I ducked behind one of the marble columns. The impact hit seconds later, peppering the floor with fragments. Too close.
"Okay," I muttered under my breath. "So you sing, I bleed. Let's even that out."
I touched the head of my cane, whispering into the metal. "Moonlings… time to party."
The response was instant. A low hum vibrated through the glass beneath my boots, and light pooled outward in slow spirals. Shapes began to form—faint outlines rising from the frost, faces half remembered, half imagined. My fans. My ghosts. The voices that always came back when I called.
They moved without sound, circling her in a slow orbit. The moment she inhaled to sing again, the air folded inward, their presence bending her resonance out of tune. Her glass wings twitched, faltered. The next note cracked in her throat, bleeding into silence.
I stepped out from behind the column. "That's better," I said quietly.
She struggled, shards breaking off her shoulders like flaking ice. The hum around her built again, pressing her to her knees.
I closed the distance, cane raised, the light from the broken glass cutting across her face.
The air shook itself apart. My ghosts tightened the circle, their glow pressing against the fractured light. Cinderella's song broke in her throat, scattering into shards of sound that never finished their notes.
I braced, both hands on the cane, heat crawling up my spine. One step forward. A breath. The pulse of the room hit like a drumbeat beneath my ribs. I lifted the cane high and swung down with everything I had.
"규칙 아홉, 년아!"
The sound hit first. A sharp, clean crack that made the whole ballroom stutter. Glass split from the ceiling to the floor, reflections shattering in perfect symmetry. Then silence—deep, stunned, absolute.
I exhaled, the hum still trembling in my bones. For a second, I just stood there, letting the quiet settle like dust.
Then I laughed. Couldn't help it.
And yeah, before you ask, that was Korean. It means Rule Nine, hoe.
Sometimes you have to say it with your whole chest, or the world doesn't listen.