Do-yoon didn't move.
For a few seconds, the apartment became unbearably quiet.
The woman sitting on the floor stared at him in confusion.
“Who?”
Do-yoon raised one finger.
Quiet.
There was no sound outside the door anymore.
No knocking. No footsteps. No elevator stopping on their floor.
Only the hum of the AC and the faint sounds of the city beyond the window.
Do-yoon kept staring at the door.
Then he sighed.
“Okay.”
The woman waited.
“Looks like tonight really isn’t a good night.”
“Why?”
“I’ve already worked past my hours.”
The woman frowned.
“You have working hours?”
“Everyone does.”
“You’re a shaman.”
“That’s exactly why I have working hours.”
He glanced at the clock on his phone.
1:43.
“My shift ends at one.”
The woman looked at him as if she had just realized she might have asked the wrong person for help.
Do-yoon didn't blame her.
He often felt the same way himself.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocking came again.
The woman immediately turned her head.
Do-yoon raised a hand.
“Don’t answer.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you see who’s outside?”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I’m hoping I can’t.”
He stood up from the sofa.
There was nothing casual left in his movements.
Do-yoon walked toward the door but didn't open it. He stopped a few steps short of the doorknob and stared at the wooden surface as if he could see whatever was on the other side.
There was a presence.
It wasn't like the female spirit who had been sitting in the living room this whole time.
This one was different.
Heavier.
Closer.
And, most disturbing of all—
it felt familiar.
“Who knows you’re still here?” Do-yoon asked.
The woman shook her head.
“No one.”
“Think again.”
“I really don’t know.”
Do-yoon didn't answer.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The third round of knocking came.
This time, a voice from outside followed.
“Do-yoon.”
His body tensed.
The woman stared at him.
“You know them?”
Do-yoon stayed silent.
There were voices we could forget after years.
And then there were voices that stayed in our heads like songs we hated but could never quite erase.
This was the second kind.
“Do-yoon.”
The voice came again.
Softer.
Closer.
Do-yoon took a step back.
“Don’t open the door.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever’s knocking isn’t here for you.”
BANG.
The door shook.
The woman screamed.
Do-yoon immediately stepped in front of her.
“Calm down.”
“They’re trying to get in!”
“I know.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
Do-yoon turned his head.
“I’m not calm.”
“Your face looks calm.”
“It’s an expensive face.”
The woman stared at him in disbelief.
Under different circumstances, Do-yoon might have laughed.
Not now.
He raised his hand.
The gesture was simple, but his expression changed.
The tired look in his eyes suddenly turned sharp.
Do-yoon's voice dropped several notes.
“Go away.”
The apartment suddenly turned cold.
The living-room light flickered.
The woman behind him fell silent.
Do-yoon didn't move.
“Go away.”
There was no answer.
Then the voice outside the door laughed.
Softly.
It wasn't a human laugh.
“Still pretending you’re tough.”
Do-yoon lowered his hand.
His expression changed.
“Fuck.”
It was the only word that came out.
He knew that voice.
Far too well.
And that should have been impossible.
Three hours later, Park Do-yoon was buying an iced Americano.
There was no obvious connection between the two events.
That was just how his life worked.
At 4:51 in the morning, he stood in front of a convenience store wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, with messy hair and a face that suggested he'd been making bad decisions since birth.
The clerk stared at him from behind the register.
“The usual?”
“Americano.”
“Large?”
“Yeah.”
“Cigarettes?”
“I don’t smoke.”
The clerk nodded.
“Sorry.”
Do-yoon accepted his coffee.
“Do I look like a smoker?”
The clerk took in the tattoo on his neck, the earrings in both ears, his messy hair, and finally the designer shoes that probably cost more than the clerk's monthly salary.
“A little.”
Do-yoon nodded.
Fair.
His phone vibrated.
JAE-HYUN Bro. Alive?
Do-yoon typed back.
Unfortunately.
The reply came less than five seconds later.
Party tonight?
Do-yoon checked the time.
4:52 in the morning.
He took a sip of coffee.
Then typed:
Sure.
His phone immediately buzzed again.
Knew it.
Do-yoon smiled faintly.
That was the problem with friends.
They knew us too well to believe we were ever going to change.
At 1:16 p.m., Park Jung-woo stared at his son from across the dining table.
“You just wake up?”
Do-yoon yawned.
“Yeah.”
“At one?”
“It’s still technically morning.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His father set down his chopsticks.
“Where were you last night?”
“Working.”
Jung-woo stared at him.
Do-yoon stared back.
Neither of them said anything.
Finally, his father said, “Working?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of work?”
“Freelance.”
“Freelance what?”
“A little of everything.”
“‘A little of everything’ isn’t a job.”
“If it pays, it’s a job.”
“Do-yoon.”
That tone.
He knew it well.
The tone of a father who had repeated the same question for years and was starting to consider the possibility that his son simply couldn't be saved.
Do-yoon ate calmly.
Jung-woo sighed.
“You’re twenty-four.”
“I know.”
“You can’t live like this forever.”
“I know that too.”
“Then when are you going to get serious?”
Do-yoon stopped eating.
The question was simple.
Too simple.
He could answer with a thousand jokes.
He could say next week.
He could say after he got rich.
He could say after he got married.
He could say after the apocalypse.
Usually, he did one of those.
But this time, he only said,
“When someone dies.”
His father immediately shot him a sharp look.
“Don’t joke about that.”
Do-yoon lowered his head.
His spoon stopped over the bowl.
For a moment, there was no humor.
No TikTok.
No clubs.
No spirits.
Just two people who had both lost someone and had never learned how to talk about it.
Jung-woo picked up his chopsticks again.
“Eat.”
Do-yoon nodded.
“Yeah.”
His phone vibrated on the table.
One notification.
TikTok.
Do-yoon glanced at the screen.
@dooyoonpark is LIVE now.
He frowned.
“That’s weird.”
“What?”
“I’m not live.”
His father didn't answer.
Do-yoon opened the notification.
The livestream was already underway.
12,847 viewers.
The comments were moving so fast they were almost impossible to read.
who's behind you???
Another comment appeared.
BRO THERE'S SOMEONE BEHIND YOU
Then:
who's that girl?
Do-yoon stopped breathing.
On the screen was the apartment he'd visited last night.
And behind him—
stood a woman.
A woman who had been dead for three weeks.
Do-yoon slowly lowered his phone.
His father stared at him.
“What’s wrong?”
Do-yoon didn't answer.
Because on the screen, the woman was smiling.
Then she raised her hand toward the camera.
One finger moved slowly through the air.
As if writing on invisible glass.
Letter by letter, the words appeared.
DON’T TRUST HIM.
The screen suddenly went black.
The live ended.
Do-yoon was still staring at his phone.
For the first time since that morning, he forgot to think about the party that night.
And in Do-yoon's experience, that was usually a very bad sign.