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A creak overhead. Bulging eyes and a bloated purple face. A body hanging from a rope. Twelve year old Jongho wakes with a scream, heart thumping in his chest, bright red numbers on the alarm clock searing into his eyes. 12:06. Barely past midnight.

His parents, still up cleaning the house after Jongho’s birthday party, rush into the room to comfort him. They ask what’s wrong, what the nightmare was, but Jongho can’t find the words to describe it through his tears. He’s never experienced anything like it, never even seen it on television.

“It’s okay,” his mother tells him, shushing his sobs. “Whatever it was, it was just a dream. It’s not real. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Go on back to sleep, bud,” his father says. “I’m sure you’ll forget all about it by morning.”

But the dream doesn’t leave Jongho. Not ever. Night after night, the same dream. By the time he’s 23, he’s dreamt it over 4,000 times. The details never change, though he seems to focus on something different each night.

A little girl, her dark curls lifted by the breeze, clinging to her father’s shoulder as they walk along the sidewalk in front of Jongho. She’s probably no older than three. She smiles shyly at him and waves with one finger.

Smoke curling into the air from an old man’s pipe as he leans against the front of a cafe. A cloud of smoke has collected in the awning overhead. He tips his head and raises a paper coffee cup in greeting to another passerby.

A woman in a bright yellow rain slicker brushing past Jongho as she runs the opposite direction, her high heeled boots clacking against the concrete. It’s more than a little bump. She nearly knocks him down, really, she’s in such a rush.

Parents hurrying away from the scene, shielding their childrens’ faces from the swinging body.  The teary brown eyes of a young boy holding his distraught mother’s hand. The squeak of a man’s leather dress shoes that haven’t been broken in yet, and the man wearing them, his business suit neat but his thinning hair a mess atop his head.

And always the body, rough rope creaking under its weight. Brown loafers dangle above Jongho’s head, and when he lifts his eyes, the man’s neck is too long, his eyes red and face puffy and bluish purple. His tongue hangs out like a panting dog, but he’s not panting. He’s not breathing at all. He’s just swinging from the lightpost. Dead.

Waking up in a cold sweat is certainly nothing new to Jongho. Though his brain has adjusted to the nightmare over the years, his body seems to have missed the memo, responding much the same as it had when he was only a child. Racing heart, tears wetting his cheeks, and a scream that dies in his throat, swallowed back before it can escape.

It’s his birthday again. 24, it’s been twelve years. Half his life, and still he can’t escape the persistent dream. Jongho groans as he rolls out of bed, shuffling slowly into the bathroom to wash the tears from his face and shower away the sweat. He brushes his teeth and dresses for work. Waiting for coffee to brew might make him miss his bus, so he skips his morning caffeine fix and rushes out the door.

He knows exactly what today holds for him. Birthdays are cause for celebration, and his office never passes up an opportunity for cake. It will be a normal, quiet day until sometime after lunch when San or Mingi (or more likely both) will invite him to the breakroom for coffee. The whole office will be crammed into the tiny room, and they’ll shout surprise and sing at him. Off key, of course. Then they’ll pass around flimsy paper plates with too small slivers of bland, overly sweet cake before an office manager ushers everyone back to work.

Sure enough, San and Mingi arrive on cue a little after one, knocking on the wall of Jongho’s cubicle.

“How about an afternoon pick-me-up?” San suggests.

It’s not suspicious at all that every desk they pass is empty, Jongho sarcastically thinks as he follows San and Mingi. Their occupants are packed into the breakroom like sardines.

“Surprise!”

It’s louder than Jongho expected, and the singing is worse without him keeping everyone in the same key. The receptionist is holding the cake, blazing with what looks like more than 30 candles. They don’t even know how old he is.

He knows these people don’t actually care about him. They’re just here for the cake. San and Mingi care, at least. They hug Jongho and congratulate him on living almost a quarter of a century as someone doles out the plates to each employee. And then everyone files back to their desks with their miniscule mouthful of sugar.

Later that evening comes the real celebration, when San and Mingi take Jongho out to dinner and drinks. A couple of other friends join them, and by 7:00 there are five of them sitting at the table, sharing drinks and food and laughs.

The tradition of the group is joke gifts. Nothing expensive or meaningful allowed, so Jongho leaves the evening with a good memory to file away in his head and four small gift bags containing silly things like packages of bandages and vinyl gloves bought at the convenience store.

Jongho walks home alone, the street almost unfamiliar in the dark as he’s so seldom out this late at night, and well, he’ll admit he’s had maybe a bit more than he intended to drink tonight. He curses under his breath as he unlocks his door. The apartment is dark as well. He’d forgotten to leave a light on to find his way to the hall.

Flipping the switch in the bathroom, Jongho examines his face in the mirror, inspecting the dark circles under his eyes from years of interrupted rest. It’s not that he doesn’t sleep at all. Something makes certain he gets enough sleep to dream each night, at the very least, but it often takes a long time to succumb to slumber.

Jongho used to wonder: if he didn’t sleep, could he avoid the dream? But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t keep his eyes open all night. And yes, he’s consulted physicians. Psychologists and psychiatrists and sleep specialists. He’s suffered through numerous sleep studies, both in sleep clinics and in his own bed, with monitors and electrodes and other equipment that was supposed to be quiet but instead caused an unpleasant hum between Jongho’s ears.

He’s tried sleep medications, too, both prescription and over the counter ones. Even alcohol doesn’t help. He’s met with psychics and fortune tellers, searching for a meaning in the dream in hopes that knowing the why of the nightmare would eliminate it. More often than not the interpretations contradicted each other, and nothing has ever brought him relief.

So now, on the night of his 24th birthday, Jongho throws on clean pajamas and climbs into bed. With the blankets pulled all the way to his chin in the dark room, he lies there and stares at the ceiling. He makes a birthday wish, something he hasn’t even believed in since he was ten, that half his life is enough torture for the universe and tonight will be the night the dream finally abandons him for good.

The ring of the alarm barely registers at first. It breaks through the veil of sleep slowly, causing Jongho to roll away from the sound and cover his head with his pillow. He almost drifts off again before jerking upright with surprise.

He slept through the night. There’s no scream in his throat, no tears on his face, no sweat dampening his pajamas. The dream… it didn’t come.

Jongho is too practical to believe it’s gone forever. That would be a foolish expectation, but a one night reprieve is better than nothing. And he feels… good. He feels refreshed. He feels ready to take on the day.

This morning it seems appropriate to dance his way to the bathroom. He sings in the shower, too, and that lifts his mood so much that he continues humming as he dresses himself. He even takes the time to make himself a cup of coffee today, light on his feet as he moves around the kitchen, popping the K-cup into the machine and waiting for his travel mug to fill.

It also seems appropriate to skip the bus and walk to work. Jongho has never done it before, but it’s amazing how much more energy he has after a full night of rest, his first full night of rest since he was a child.

His walk takes him a different direction than the bus normally would, but Jongho enjoys the sunshine on his face and the lack of strange smells from the overcrowded vehicle. He waves to the little girl peeking over her father’s shoulder at him as he makes his way down the sidewalk. There’s something familiar about her eyes, but Jongho’s mood is too light to bother trying to figure out why.

The scent of pipe tobacco drifts his way, a sweet scent that Jongho has always loved. It reminds him of summer visits with his grandfather, afternoon teas and bedtime stories. Then there’s a flash of yellow as a woman pushes past him… bright and shiny. A rain slicker despite the beautiful sunny day.

Jongho’s gaze drifts back to the little girl. The wind ruffles her dark curls, lifting them away from her eyes, and her fingers bunch the fabric of her father’s shirt as she holds his shoulders tight. Jongho slows his pace as he crosses the street, noticing that traffic has slowed to a near standstill, and only seconds later he hears the screams.

He sees the red, wet eyes of the little boy with his mother, other parents blocking their childrens’ view of the next corner as they hurry them in the opposite direction. He sees brown loafers swinging and hears the creak of the rope, and for a moment he thinks this is just a new take on his dream. He hadn’t slept through the night after all. In fact, he’s still asleep, still in the dream, but that can’t be.

In the dream Jongho could always see and hear everything around him, but he could never smell or feel it. There was no scent of pipe tobacco, no physical bump of his shoulder as the woman in the rain slicker passed him. But everything is the same as the dream. The chaos surrounding him is the same. The body, with its too long neck and red eyes and swollen, bluish purple face is the same. Even the tongue is sticking out just like in his dream.

Only one thing isn’t right. There’s a man, a new man, someone Jongho has never seen before, in life or in his dream. He stands beneath the swinging body, staring up at it, captivated by it. He isn’t panicked or fleeing. In fact, he seems completely unbothered. By the look on his face Jongho would almost assume he’s enjoying a show, but Jongho’s mind rejects this. He must be in shock, that’s all. Who would enjoy the sight of a dead person?

Suddenly the man blinks and shifts his gaze to Jongho, tilting his head as their eyes meet. He smiles, gives a little wave of his fingers, and then the police arrive, swarming the sidewalk and pressing the crowd back against the surrounding buildings. An officer stands between Jongho and the man, blocking Jongho’s view, and when the officer moves further down the sidewalk, content that Jongho is far enough out of the way, the man is gone. He’s simply melted into the crowd and disappeared.

There’s no opportunity to chase the man. Jongho isn’t even able to walk the next block to his office. The police have arrived within seconds to detain as many witnesses as they can, Jongho included, and pin them down for questioning as paramedics rush in to cut the body down and carry it away.

Now that the body is gone, Jongho is sitting on the sidewalk with about twenty other witnesses, the old man with the pipe to his left and the man with the squeaky shoes to his right. Not all of the witnesses have stuck around, Jongho notices. The unfamiliar stranger has escaped, along with the woman in the raincoat and both of the children Jongho remembers from his dream, meaning their parents are gone as well.

“Who was it?” asks squeaky shoes.

“We don’t have an ID yet,” a young officer tells him. “Did he look familiar to you?”

“How could anyone recognize a person in that condition?” says the man with the pipe, shaking his head.

“How about you, sir? Did you recognize the victim?” another officer asks Jongho. The name badge clipped to his shirt reads PARK.

“Yes,” Jongho mumbles. “I mean, no,” he corrects himself. “I saw him,” every night for the past twelve years, “but I don’t know him.” The man as a person didn’t look familiar, of course, and Jongho knows better than to admit that he’s lived this entire scene in his dreams.

Pipe smoke wafts Jongho’s way, and any other time it wouldn’t bother him. Any other time it would be welcome, like earlier, before his nightmare came to life. Right now, it’s not welcome. Right now, the scent makes him feel dizzy and a little sick. Right now, it’s starting to give him a headache.

Jongho wishes the old man would put the pipe away, but Jongho sees the way the old man’s hand trembles as he raises the pipe to his lips and figures smoking is probably the only thing keeping the man from falling to pieces from stress. Jongho isn’t going to take it away from him now.

“Sir, did you hear me?” Officer Park snaps his fingers in front of Jongho’s face, and Jongho scowls up at him.

“What?” His tone is short. Officer Park raises his eyebrows at Jongho but patiently repeats the question.

“Did you see what happened or only the aftermath?”

“Uhh… The aftermath, I guess?”

“You guess?”

“Yes? I mean, how long does it take for a person’s face to look like… that?” Jongho’s voice trails off at the end. His skin prickles with the feeling of being watched, and when he glances around, all of the officers and witnesses within earshot are looking his way. “Well, how am I supposed to know something like that? I’m not a damn doctor!”

“It actually only takes a few minutes for that to happen in hangings,” the other officer says. His name badge says JUNG. “So, you probably could have arrived within as little as five minutes of him being hoisted up.”

Five minutes?

“How is that possible?” asks squeaky shoes. The officers share a look and Officer Park sighs.

“The rope puts pressure on the neck which clamps the jugular vein. Blood flows to the brain through the carotid artery but can’t flow away because the jugular is blocked. The pressure causes the face to swell. Smaller blood vessels burst, and the skin becomes discolored as the victim dies. It takes less than five minutes for all that to happen.”

“But who would do that?” The question comes from a woman in a rumpled dress. Jongho remembers her, too. In his dream she looked like a model, with her picture perfect curls and makeup, but she doesn’t look camera ready anymore. There are black tear tracks streaking through her blush, her hair is a tangled mess, and a paramedic is bent over her leg, tending to a scrape slowly oozing blood through a rip in her tights. She must have fallen over in the chaos. Even one of her pumps has lost its heel.

“Yeah, it’s broad daylight on a busy street,” squeaky shoes adds. “Why would someone risk being seen like that?”

“Did any of you see who did it?” the Officer Park asks.

“N-no,” squeaky shoes stutters.

“Someone bumped into me and I fell off the curb,” the model replies. “But I’m sure someone saw something.”

“Not everyone stuck around,” Jongho mumbles, and again, his skin prickles as everyone looks at him.

“What was that?” Officer Jung asks.

“I said, not everyone who was here when it happened is still here. There was a woman in a raincoat and some parents with their kids.” For some reason he doesn’t mention the man that wasn’t in his dream, maybe because he wasn’t in the dream.

“A raincoat?” Officer Park looks up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun. “On a beautiful day like today?”

“It was bright yellow,” Jongho shrugs. “Kinda hard to miss.”

“Did anyone else see a woman in a raincoat?”

All of the witnesses on the sidewalk glance around at each other, slowly shaking their heads. No one admits to having seen the woman in the raincoat. And just like that, Jongho realizes he’s probably a suspect.

Jongho doesn’t make it to work until nearly noon. On a day when his literal nightmare has come to life, he doesn’t have it in him to do any actual work, and he’s definitely not in the mood for socializing. When San and Mingi appear in his cubicle, he just wants to crawl under the desk and hide, but instead he sighs and looks up at their concerned faces.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, cutting Mingi off just before he can ask.

“We just thought you might want some coffee,” San shrugs, and Jongho is torn. Caffeine is probably the last thing he needs right now. His nerves are already on edge, and whether he’ll be able to get anything done or not, he does still have work to do. Missing the morning has put him behind. Then again, his travel mug had fallen somewhere on the street in the chaos, so he could use some coffee to make it through the rest of the day.

“Fine,” he says, “but no questions!”

San nods, but Mingi is suspiciously quiet as Jongho heaves himself out of his chair to follow them to the breakroom. At least this time the room is empty, no coworkers crammed inside waiting to ambush him with birthday wishes and offer him cake.

They each pour themselves a cup of the sludge that passes for coffee in this office. It has probably been sitting on the warmer for several hours. There’s no milk in the fridge, so Jongho settles for powdered creamer that refuses to stir into the liquid, instead floating on top like grated wax.

“Boss should have just let you go home,” Mingi says, and Jongho huffs at him, a warning to drop it.

“He doesn’t need to go home,” San says. “Work will keep him distracted.”

Jongho turns a glare toward San now.

“There’s nothing I need distracting from,” he grumbles, and as far as trauma from the incident this morning, that’s the truth. He’s seen it all so many times before that he’s numb to the man hanging from the lightpost, but he does have a lot on his mind. Like how did his dream become real, or maybe how did he have a twelve year premonition? Who was the man under the lightpost who hadn’t been in his dream, where did he vanish to, and why did he seem so calm?

“How about dinner tonight?” San offers. “We don’t have to go out. We could just bring over a pizza or something.”

“I’m sure you won’t want to be home alone, right?” Mingi adds.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I want,” Jongho tells them. “No dinner, no people, just me in my own space by myself.”

Mingi looks more than a little sad when he hears this. While Jongho knows San has no problem dealing with Jongho’s sometimes abrasive personality, Mingi can be a bit more sensitive. So, Jongho softens his approach. With a hand on Mingi’s shoulder, he says, “I appreciate the offer, bud, but I’m really okay. Besides, we just went out together last night.”

“I think he just needs some time to process everything,” San whispers to Mingi, and Jongho fights hard not to roll his eyes. He doesn’t need to process anything. He’s been processing this for over a decade, but there’s no point mentioning it.

“Oh. Yeah,” Mingi says, attempting to smile for Jongho. “Okay then.”

Thankfully the conversation is dropped after this. San and Mingi walk Jongho back to his cubicle and then they return to their own section of the office.

Jongho gets nothing done for the rest of the day. He sneaks away after spending an entire conference call completely zoned out and heads home early. 

It’s the middle of Saturday afternoon when Jongho’s phone startles him out of his nap. The dream returned last night, and it seemed that having just one day’s break had made the dream so much worse. It was more graphic, and that choked back scream even managed to pass his lips as he woke.

“Hello?” Jongho answers. It’s the police.

“Mr. Choi, so glad we reached you,” Officer Park says. “We have just a few more questions for you. I don’t suppose you could come down to the station, could you?”

He could. Jongho doesn’t have anything going on today aside from hopefully catching up on the sleep he missed last night. But for some reason he’s hesitant to agree so easily.

“I mean, I can come down there if I absolutely must, I guess. I’m not under arrest or anything, am I?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” It feels like there’s an implied yet. “We just want to get a more formal statement from you… And as I said, we have a few follow up questions. No big deal.”

Jongho sighs and rubs his eye. He checks his watch. 2:15. His nap has officially been interrupted. He might as well throw some clothes on and make an appearance at the station.

“You’re sure I’m not in trouble?” he asks one more time.

“Not at all,” Officer Park assures him, clearing his throat. “I’ll be honest, your statement at the scene doesn’t quite… harmonize with the other witnesses. We think you might have been a bit more perceptive, and you might have information that will help us that you don’t even know you know. You know?”

The lack of harmony with the other witness statements is disturbing, but it’s true that Jongho has more information. Even if it only leads to other witnesses that might have actual helpful information, Jongho knows he should share it.

“Fine, I’ll be there in half an hour. Just promise me you won’t lock me in some interrogation room like they do in crime dramas.”

“Don’t be silly,” Officer Park laughs. “We don’t really do that.”

Jongho doesn’t believe him, and when he walks into the station half an hour later, he finds his instinct was correct.

Detective Jung meets Jongho at the front desk and escorts him through an open office area with mostly empty desks to a small, square room containing only a table and a few folding chairs. There’s no two-way mirror like on television, or even any windows, but there is a camera pointed at the table, and when the door closes behind Detective Park as he joins them, Jongho feels very boxed in.

“So,” Detective Jung says, opening a file folder and flipping through some papers. “Why don’t we start by going over the statement you gave at the scene, and you can add any details you might have forgotten to mention yesterday.”

“I was just walking to work,” Jongho begins. “I usually take the bus, but it was a pretty morning and I was running a little early, so I walked instead.”

“And you said the route was unfamiliar?” Detective Park interjects.

“Yes, kind of. I know the route. I’ve been that way before, but never on my way to work. Usually in the afternoons on my way back from lunch or something.”

“Why did you take a different route?” Detective Jung asks, leaning his elbows on the table. His posture is probably meant to convey that he’s listening carefully, but for some reason it feels threatening, almost predatory. It makes Jongho stutter a bit with his explanation.

“I-I was- The bus brings me the other way. It was the most direct route to work on foot. I just- I was having a good morning and- I don’t know. I suppose I would have to chalk it up to coincidence that I chose a different route on the very day that something so horrible would happen.”

“Okay,” Detective Jung nods, leaning back in his seat again. “Okay, and remind me again what you saw as you approached the intersection.”

“The man with the pipe,” Jongho says, eyes closed as he visualizes the familiar scene. “And the other people you had lined up on the sidewalk with me. The pretty woman who fell and the businessman. I passed them on my way to the intersection. Then I saw the shoes. Of the victim. I glanced up from the sidewalk and saw feet swinging in the air. And then the… the body. The face.”

“Did you see anyone running away? You mentioned something…” Detective Park flips through the file folder Detective Jung had left on the table. “A raincoat. Bright yellow, you said.”

“A woman,” Jongho nods. “She passed me on the sidewalk before I saw the body. She was walking fast, but I wouldn’t say she was running away.”

“And parents with their children?”

“Right, there was a man walking in front of me with a little girl in his arms. A little boy holding a woman’s hand. Both before I saw the body. And after…” Jongho swallows hard. “After was confusion. I saw parents trying to shield their childrens’ eyes from the body, but I didn’t see where they went.”

Even in the dream, the after part always comes in flashes, almost like snapshots.

“Everyone looked horrified, and yes, they were running away, but not to escape capture. They just wanted to be away from the terrible sight of a body swinging from the lightpost.”

Everyone except the new stranger who wasn’t in the dream.

“I’m going to show you a photograph.” Detective Jung pulls a sheet of paper out of the file folder and places it on the table facing Jongho. “Can you tell me if you recognize this man?”

Jongho’s heart stops. Skips. Races. He’s not breathing, or maybe he’s breathing too fast. His head spins, and he thinks he might be about to pass out.

“Who-” he tries to ask, but his voice doesn’t work. It comes out as an odd-sounding breath. “Who is he?”

“His name is Kang Yeosang,” Detective Park supplies. “You know him?”

It’s more of an accusation than a question, and Jongho isn’t sure why Officer Park would be so sure of something like that. Jongho doesn’t know him. At least, he doesn’t know him. But he has seen him.

“He was there,” Jongho says. The detectives share a look.

“Yes. He was there,” Detective Jung says.

“On the street,” Jongho nods, deciding that if they know about him already, he might as well tell them. “He was standing under the body.”

“I’m sorry, did you say under the body?” Detective Park asks.

“Yes. He was standing there looking up at the body, and then he turned and walked away. Very calmly. He just walked into the crowd gathering in the street, and then he was gone.”

The detectives are looking at each other again. There’s something they’re not telling him. He starts to panic. Has he given them the wrong answer? He’s only telling the truth, exactly how he saw it.

“Mr. Choi, I’m going to ask you again,” Detective Jung says, very slowly, “Are you sure he was under the body? Standing on the sidewalk? Walking away?”

“Yes I’m sure!” Jongho insists. “You two might have seen him. You arrived only moments after he walked away. Didn’t you see him? Isn’t that why you’re asking about him? Did he kill that poor man?”

“Mr. Choi-”

“Please, call me Jongho,” Jongho tells Detective Park.

“Jongho, we didn’t see Kang Yeosang standing or walking anywhere. Kang Yeosang is the victim.”

So the police think Jongho is crazy. Or that, at the very least, he fancies himself as some kind of psychic or something.

They let him leave the station, promising that they’ll check in on him soon. To see if he remembers things differently by then. Or possibly to arrest him, Jongho supposes.

The thing is, in all the times Jongho has seen the face of the hanging body in his dreams, he’s never been able to get an idea of what the man would have looked like before he died. His face is too bloated, his neck too long, his skin too discolored.

Perhaps the new stranger that looks like he could be the victim’s twin (he’s not, Jongho did ask) could have been the victim’s ghost. That would explain why he seemed so calm. He’s dead, what does he have to worry about?

But that doesn’t make sense either, because besides the now prophetic dream, Jongho has never, to his knowledge, experienced anything paranormal. He’s never seen or even sensed a ghost. Even when his grandparents passed and he wished they would visit him from the afterlife, there was nothing.

Maybe Jongho is crazy.

He needs to talk to someone. He considers calling his parents, explaining to them that his nightmare came true, but then he realizes that would mean he’d have to tell them how suspiciously he’s behaved and how the police probably believe he caused that death he’s dreamt about so many times. His parents would support him, back him up if the police did decide to arrest him, but they would also judge him.

They have never truly believed him about the nightmare. He stopped telling them about it after he learned to control his reaction upon waking from it. When he stopped screaming in the middle of the night, they assumed the dream had gone for good.

So no, his parents are out of the question, for now, but the fact remains that if he doesn’t talk this whole thing through with someone rational enough to calm him down, he might actually lose it. So, he decides to call the first person that comes to mind. San.

San has no problem giving up his Saturday evening plans to come over, especially not after Jongho offers to order them dinner. He arrives with a feast worth of takeout from the curry place down the street, and he eyes Jongho with caution as they unpack everything onto the table.

“Everything okay?” San asks, and Jongho glares at him.

San knows damn well everything is not okay. What a stupid question. This was a stupid idea. Jongho should have called Yunho. Or better yet, Hongjoong. Yunho might have asked a stupid question like that, but Hongjoong would never. He’d talk about something completely unrelated until Jongho was ready to divulge his secrets.

But Jongho didn’t call Hongjoong. He called San, and San is already here, and despite the stupid question, San is probably one of the most level-headed people Jongho knows. San is the person Jongho trusts the most. San is the person with whom Jongho feels comfortable sharing this secret.

“You eat, I’ll talk,” Jongho says.

He starts with the full story of what happened yesterday. He tells San all about walking to work, about coming upon the scene of Kang Yeosang’s death. He leaves out the details of how the poor man looked in death, but he tells everything else. He doesn’t miss a single thing about the people on the sidewalk, even the new stranger standing under the body.

Then he backtracks to explain his dream, how he’s seen this same death every night since the day he turned twelve, and that’s why he has such a clear recollection of everything that happened yesterday.

And finally, he gets to today, to the police station, to the detectives showing him the picture of the victim and how he’s definitely the same man Jongho saw standing under the body.

San stops eating about halfway through. He’s too enthralled by the story to even chew.

“And they’re sure it’s not a twin?” San asks when Jongho finishes talking.

“According to Detective Park, he has a sister but no brothers. He’s definitely not a twin.”

“You don’t think you could have seen his ghost, do you?”

Jongho almost rolls his eyes, it sounds so absurd coming from someone else’s lips, but he can’t fault San for wondering. Jongho had asked himself the same question not more than a couple of hours ago.

“I’ve never seen a ghost before that I know of. I can’t imagine that’s a talent that would wait 24 years to show itself.”

“No, I suppose not,” San agrees. “Maybe it was a hallucination.”

“Great, now you think I’m losing my mind too.”

“No, no. I don’t think you’re crazy,” San backpedals. “I’m just saying, maybe the stress of your nightmare becoming reality caused you to hallucinate an image of the victim essentially saying goodbye to his… corporeal form.”

It wouldn’t be such a terrible suggestion except for one thing. “I never saw the victim alive. How would I have hallucinated an image of him pre-death when I didn’t know what he looked like?”

“Hmm,” San hums. “That’s tricky. Are you sure you’ve never seen him anywhere before? Maybe he works somewhere near us and your brain subconsciously made the connection between the dead body and a person you’ve seen when we were out getting lunch or something.”

Jongho really wants to believe it. It would explain just enough of what’s going on to let him rest easy for a night or two, provided that the dream will go away long enough for that. But there’s still the lingering problem of the dream.

“I don’t know, San,” Jongho sighs. He suddenly feels incredibly tired. His mind has been wound up so tight since he left the police station, and with San here, knowing everything and trying to help rationalize it, Jongho just doesn’t have the energy for it anymore. “None of it makes sense, and even if it made sense to me, I wouldn’t know how to explain it to the detectives without sounding like a lunatic.”

“I don’t think you have to, not right now, anyway. You can wait until they come to you, and when they do you can just tell them that you were mistaken. You must have seen him somewhere before and only thought you saw him on the street that day.”

“You mean I can lie.” Jongho groans, covering his face with his hands.

“I don’t think it’s a lie, Jjong. I think you’re too stressed to know what to think clearly right now, and when you’re less stressed, I’m sure you’ll figure out where you met this Yeosang guy.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Jongho says. He so desperately wants San to be right. “You won’t tell the others about any of this, will you?”

San smiles at Jongho, dimples dipping deep into his cheeks. “You think they could handle all of this? Mingi would insist on moving in with you to make sure you’re not alone when your nightmares wake you.”

Jongho smiles too. He’s definitely right about that.

When they’ve finally gotten to eat their food, San offers to stay the night, but Jongho turns him down. He needs some sleep, and he knows San has plans with Yunho in the morning. San promises to check on him later, and Jongho rolls his eyes and says they’ll see each other at work on Monday.

That night, in Jongho’s dream, Yeosang’s face is as it was in life. It’s not bloated or discolored, no bulging eyes or swollen tongue. He hangs from the rope as if he’s merely sleeping, and he stands in front of Jongho on the sidewalk, too.

The standing Yeosang stares up at his own form, a small smile on his lips that gradually twists until it becomes something terrifying. There are dozens of sharp teeth in his mouth, too many teeth to actually fit. They stick out in odd directions as blackness slowly seeps into his eyes until they look like deep, dark pits in his face.

He doesn’t look at Jongho, doesn’t seem to notice anyone else is even there. When he turns to walk away, Jongho tries to follow, but Yeosang walks right through the people like they don’t exist. Or maybe Yeosang doesn’t exist, because Jongho feels the bump of shoulders as he pushes past those same people, each one slowing him down in his pursuit.

The last thing Jongho sees before he wakes is Yeosang’s head disappearing behind a bright yellow rain slicker.

“Coffee?”

Mingi has, surprisingly, snuck up on Jongho. He’s alone, another surprise, and his eyes are large and pleading.

“Yeah, I have time for a cup before my next meeting,” Jongho agrees. “Where’s San?”

“Busy,” Mingi shrugs evasively. “I told him I’d bring him a cup on my way back. How was your weekend?”

“Busy,” Jongho grins up at Mingi. “No, actually it was pretty boring. I slept most of the day yesterday. What did you get up to?”

“Funny story, I was minding my own business yesterday, playing a game on my phone, when two detectives knocked on my door.”

Jongho freezes. He actually locks up, stops walking, and Mingi takes several more steps before realizing Jongho is no longer beside him.

“What did they want?”

“What do you think they wanted?” Mingi asks. For someone who is usually so easy to read, his face is annoyingly blank.

“Was it about me? About what happened to me on Friday, I mean?”

“It was,” Mingi nods. “And about what happened when they spoke to you this weekend. Is it true you knew the victim? Who was he?”

“No one,” Jongho says. “I didn’t know him. I only recognized his face, that’s all.” That’s right, stick to the story. Just like San said.

“Oh.” Mingi almost pouts. “The way they talked it sounded like you actually knew him.”

“Mingi, police are allowed to lie to people, you know. They’re allowed to imply things and lead you to believe whatever they want you to believe. But it doesn’t matter because I didn’t really know the guy, and I don’t think there’s any information they could get out of you that would make them believe I did.”

“That’s what I told them. Kinda. I said you didn’t tell me anything about it.”

“Which is true,” Jongho nods, but he can’t help thinking that answer would lead the police to think Jongho is hiding something from his friends.

“Right, but…” Mingi trails off as he pours his coffee, and for a second Jongho thinks he’s just focused on not spilling. Then he looks up at Jongho. “There’s nothing you should have told me, is there?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Jongho says. “Nothing important, anyway. A guy was killed, and I happened to be walking down the street when his body was found. That’s it.”

“Oh, good.” Mingi’s whole body seems to sag in relief.

“Were you really worried?”

“Well, yeah!” Mingi’s voice is too loud. Jongho shushes him as a few workers in the nearest cubicles peek over the walls. “Jjong, you never walk to work, and you never come that way. And then they said you knew the guy and I just thought… I thought-”

“That I had something to do with his death?” Jongho whispers.

“No! No,” Mingi immediately quiets himself again. “No, I didn’t think that, but-”

“What are you shouting about over here?” San asks as he squeezes past Jongho into the breakroom. “Mingi, I thought you were bringing me coffee?”

“I was. I am. I-”

“He just stopped by to check on me,” Jongho rescues him. “And I told him I’m fine but coffee would be nice. Is there cream today?”

Mingi stares at Jongho as San grabs the cream out of the fridge and passes it to Jongho.

“I thought we were going to leave Jongho alone to catch up on his work,” San teases, poking at Mingi’s side.

“We were. We are.”

“And I believe you have work to catch up on, too?”

“I do.”

“And we’ve all got our coffee now, so why are we still standing here in the breakroom?”

“Fine.” Mingi fully pouts now, picking a tiny straw out of a paper cup on the counter and stirring nothing into his coffee.

“Then come on, Mingi. Let’s go,” San says, tugging at Mingi’s sleeve. “See you at lunch, Jongho.”

San leads Mingi away, turning to give Jongho a wink over his shoulder. When Jongho gets back to his desk there are three new text messages on his phone from San.

From: San

Sry bout that

I told him to leave you be

Idk what those dets said to him but he got it in his head you were the intended vic or sth

Jongho can’t imagine what they would have said to give Mingi that impression either, but it is a relief to know his friend doesn’t suspect him of murder.

To: San

I wasn’t worried

It’s a lie. San will know it’s a lie based on the tense conversation he walked into, but Jongho can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

From: San

Does the dream persist?

To: San

Yes. Tell you later

From: San

K

This is something Jongho isn’t sure he wants to talk about yet, but since San already knows everything else, there’s no point in hiding it. He might as well have someone to help him make sense of everything, because the more he thinks about what happened on Friday, the more sure he is that the Yeosang standing on the sidewalk was not a hallucination or a ghost.

Before Friday, there was never any reason for his nightmare. Before Friday, Jongho never thought it was an actual event that would happen in his life. But now that it has, and with the dream still playing in his sleep every night like clockwork, Jongho thinks there must be a reason for it. He thinks that maybe the reason is so he can somehow help the police catch the person who killed Yeosang.

“So, there’s something to tell? You’re still dreaming the same dream, but now it’s changed?” San asks as he hangs his coat on a hook by Jongho’s door.

“Yeah, but I don’t really understand it.”

“Ooh, maybe I can help.” San is far too excited about this. Jongho momentarily regrets telling him anything. He momentarily considers not telling him anything else, as well. But then he’ll be stuck trying to figure things out on his own, and so far that’s been a disaster.

“The Yeosang I saw when it happened in real life is in the dream now,” Jongho divulges. “The one who was standing under the body.”

“He wasn’t there before?”

“No, I had never seen him until Friday morning. And in the dream, at first he looks just like the picture the police showed me. His hair is black and kinda longish. He’s got a wide nose and his ears stick out a little, but he also looks… dainty? He’s pretty. Small hands, small features. He looks really soft.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a crush on him,” San laughs, but he stops and clears his throat when Jongho frowns at him. “You said at first. What changes?”

“He transforms.”

“Like into an animal or something?”

“No,” Jongho shakes his head. “More like a demon. His eyes go completely black, and when he smiles his teeth look like… like Pennywise after you realize he’s fully evil. They’re all sharp.”

“Well that’s creepy.”

“Tell me about it,” Jongho says. “Then he walks away, like he did in real life, but you’ll never guess who’s with him.”

“Raincoat girl!”

Jongho gasps. “How did you know?”

“It had to be raincoat girl,” San says, like it should be obvious to Jongho. “Everyone else in your dream is just so normal. Raincoat girl is weird. It wouldn’t be suspicious for a kid to wear a raincoat on a beautiful sunny day, but a grown ass adult? Raincoats aren’t even fashionable, especially standard bright yellow ones. So, what do you know about raincoat girl?”

“Not much,” Jongho admits. He’s never paid too much attention to her. She’s always been there, but he never really notices her until she’s already passing him. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure her hood is always up, blocking her face.

Last night was different, though. When Yeosang joined up with her the hood was down. 

“I might be able to tell you something about her tomorrow,” he finally says. “If I focus on her tonight instead of Yeosang, I should be able to tell you at least what she looks like. All I know right now is she’s slender and has dark hair, but that describes about 70% of the female population here.”

“Do you think they killed the guy together?” San’s voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to think about the death part of the situation at all. He’s intrigued by the mystery, but he’s trying to separate the murder from it.

“I don’t know. Maybe. You’re right about one thing, though. Her presence in my dream has always been weird.”

“And as strange as it is that you’re seeing a living version of Yeosang, it’s possible she’s the key to all of this.”

That night Jongho tries his hardest to focus on raincoat girl. He’s never been in control of this dream, so he’s not even sure it will work, and sure enough, it doesn’t.

He sees Yeosang standing on the sidewalk, looking normal and pretty and alive, staring up at his own body. Tonight the dream moves slower, probably because of all the effort Jongho is putting into seeing raincoat girl.

Yeosang’s hair lifts away from his eyes with the breeze, and Jongho watches his pupils widen little by little until they completely overtake the irises and then the whites. His lips part, and his teeth are blessedly normal if slightly werewolfish, but his grin isn’t pleasant by any means. It’s a cruel smile, almost a sneer.

His dark hair fans out as he turns, and sure enough, he’s walking through the crowd like a ghost, passing straight through everyone he encounters. They don’t even seem to notice him, but Jongho certainly notices the way Yeosang’s veins darken under his skin, like there’s tar running through them.

Raincoat girl joins Yeosang, but she’s already turned away from Jongho, and he’s having a hard time keeping up as he weaves through the oncoming pedestrian traffic. All he can see is long, dark hair and lean calves above the top of her boots.

Together, Yeosang and raincoat girl reach the sidewalk across the street, and Yeosang glances over his shoulder, meeting Jongho’s eyes with his blacked out ones. His face is criss-crossed with dark lines that look like cracks in his perfectly smooth skin. The sharp teeth are out now, that cruel smile distorted around them, and he winks at Jongho before both of them just blink out of sight. One second they’re there, and the next they’re not.

Chaos erupts as the sound that had been muted until now surges to full volume around Jongho. Ambulance and police sirens blare and people scream. Jongho turns, and for the first time gets a glimpse of the scene from the outskirts.

He sees the model, who apparently wasn’t so much bumped as she was pushed right into the street by a man fleeing with his hand over his mouth like he’s about to be sick. The body, which seemed to be swaying in all the previous dreams, is barely moving from this distance, and while the face still looks terrible from here, it’s not quite so grotesque as it is up close.

The paramedics run in to cut the body down. Several uniformed officers wrangle the crowd up onto the sidewalk and line the witnesses up against the front of the buildings. Jongho watches a few people slipping away in either direction before the police can catch up with them, but he can tell none of them are important to what happened.

And then he sees himself, standing between the pipe smoking man and squeaky shoes, looking significantly less disturbed than everyone else. His skin isn’t pale like the pipe smoking man or clammy like squeaky shoes. He isn’t in need of medical assistance like the model. He’s just standing calmly, seemingly too distracted to answer questions for the police.

He does look suspicious, he decides. He understands why the detectives wanted to question him again. But does he actually look like a murderer?

Detective Jung calls again while Jongho is at work the next day. The voicemail he leaves when Jongho is unable to answer doesn’t give any clue as to what the detectives’ theories might be.

“Mr. Choi, I mean Jongho, this is Detective Jung. We were wondering if we could talk to you again. It doesn’t have to be at the station. If you want to meet us somewhere, or we could come to your office. Whatever works for you. Call me back and let me know, please.”

At least there’s less risk of him being arrested if he’s not in that interrogation room, but the last thing Jongho wants is the police meeting him at his office. He’s only two cubicles away from the office gossip, Suzi, and if she sees him talking to a pair of detectives it’ll only be minutes before most of the office knows.

Jongho calls Detective Jung back and arranges to meet them at a sandwich shop during lunch, then he texts San to let him know they won’t be able to have lunch together today.

To: San

I gotta do a thing during lunch

Call me tonight and I’ll tell you how it goes

From: San

Sure thing. Mingi says he’ll miss you

Speaking of Mingi, he’s the last person Jongho wants to know about him talking to the police again. They seem to have really scared him when they questioned him, and according to San it wasn’t just that Mingi thought Jongho might have been the intended victim. He had the crazy idea in his head that Jongho might have been in a relationship with Yeosang, which was only exacerbated by the detectives’ slight suggestion that Jongho might be hiding something from him. A secret relationship would be like a stab in the back to Mingi who wanted his friends to feel comfortable sharing every detail of their lives with him.

When lunchtime comes, Jongho pushes his chair away from his desk and heads out of the office. He feels eyes on him, but he writes it off as paranoia and reminds himself that no one has any reason to suspect he’s doing anything other than stepping out for a bite to eat. Just like he does every day, except without his constant shadows of San and Mingi today.

Detective Park is already sitting at a table when Jongho arrives, and Detective Jung is standing at the counter ordering their sandwiches. He calls Jongho over and insists on buying his lunch as well, joking loudly that Jongho can pick up the tab the next time they go out. Which is ridiculous but makes it look to other diners like they’re just friends having lunch together rather than what they really are, a pair of cops trying to pin a murder on an innocent man.

That might be a bit over the top. They’re not outright framing him or anything, but Jongho still has the feeling he’s their prime suspect.

“How is work?” Detective Park asks when they’re all seated at the table. “I hope we didn’t cause you to get too far behind Friday.”

“Not at all,” Jongho lies. It’s kind of a test, to see if they can tell when he’s lying, because thus far he’s always told them the truth, even if it was slightly incomplete.

“Oh, come on,” Detective Jung says. “I know you were at least a few hours late. That would have put me half a day behind on my paperwork, and half a day behind takes a whole week to catch up on.”

“Not everyone procrastinates like you,” Detective Park laughs, elbowing Detective Jung in the side. “I’m sure Jongho is very proficient at his job. What is it that you do again? All I remember is that you’re ‘not a damn doctor’ to put it in your own words.”

“I’m a financial analyst,” Jongho says. “It’s very boring. And actually, I don’t meet directly with clients or investors. I’m the behind the scenes guy. I run the numbers and write the financial reports and someone else handles the clients and investors.”

“Kind of like the paralegal of the financial world,” Detective Park nods. “You do the research and someone else gets to take credit for it.”

“Kind of, yes, although I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about my job.”

“No, we didn’t.” Detective Jung speaks with his mouth full, a huge bite of his sandwich shoved into his cheek. He looks a bit like a chipmunk packing away nuts. “We were trying to track down those witnesses you mentioned, so we pulled the street surveillance surrounding the scene. We can’t find any trace of a woman in a yellow rain slicker.”

“Well she was there,” Jongho insists. “I saw her. I felt her. She bumped into me as she passed. Is it possible she just dodged the cameras?”

“I don’t think so,” Detective Park says. “We’ve pulled footage from multiple businesses on either side of the scene, and we see you, walking behind a man carrying a little girl just like you said, but no one matching the description of this woman you mentioned is anywhere near you. We didn’t even see anyone bump you as they passed.”

That’s almost a relief. If they have footage of Jongho approaching the scene, they can’t possibly still think he had anything to do with Yeosang’s murder anymore. That surveillance footage is proof that he wasn’t anywhere near the lightpost when Yeosang was hoisted up. And then it occurs to Jongho, if they have footage from every business…

“Did you see who did it?”

“Pardon?” Detective Park’s eyebrows quirk up.

“The footage, does it show who killed him?”

Detective Jung sets his sandwich down and swallows his bite, somberly blinking at Jongho across the table.

“Sorry, Jongho. The footage from the only camera facing the lightpost is… compromised.”

“Compromised how?”

Both detectives do that annoying thing where they look at each other and seem to communicate silently before Detective Park speaks for both of them.

“It seems the camera was working right before and right after, but during the time when Yeosang was killed there was some kind of interference. The video is nothing but flashes of people passing directly in front of the camera, blocking the view, between bouts of static.”

“The picture only clears again as we arrive on scene,” Detective Jung adds.

“Well then someone must have caught it on their phone,” Jongho insists. “Everyone is always videoing everything nowadays.”

“It’s possible,” Detective Jung agrees, “but so far no one has come forward with that particular evidence. The media is appealing to anyone who was in the area at the time of the murder who might have caught even a background image of it to turn it over to us, but it’s a longshot.”

“So what do we do now?” Jongho realizes almost immediately that he’s lumped himself in with the detectives, and he is probably showing far too much interest in the investigation. He lowers his eyes to his food and stuffs a handful of potato chips in his mouth to quiet himself.

“We were hoping you could help with that,” Detective Park says. “Do you have any more information about the man you saw standing under the body or the woman in the raincoat?”

Jongho shakes his head. He doesn’t, not really. Any information he has is tainted by the fact that it came to him in a dream, and it’s not likely they’ll believe him once he starts describing blacked out eyes and pointy teeth and black veins.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” he says. “The woman in the raincoat bumped me, and the man who looked just like the victim walked away and disappeared.”

“Into the crowd?” Detective Jung confirms.

“Yes. He passed some people and then I couldn’t see him anymore. And then you guys showed up.”

“Well,” Detective Park says, balling up his trash and sweeping some crumbs off the table, “you’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry we couldn’t confirm what you said in your statement, but I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that the video footage of you approaching the scene means that you’re not a suspect.”

“Was I a suspect?” Jongho asks, already knowing the answer. The detectives share another look and don’t bother giving a response, telling Jongho everything he needs to know.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing you again,” Detective Jung says as he stands and lets Detective Park out of the booth, “but if you think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to call us.”

“Enjoy your lunch, Jongho,” Detective Park says, and he waves as they leave Jongho alone at the table.

Despite the relief of knowing he’s no longer a suspect, because he knows he definitely was, Jongho doesn’t feel any better. 

“What do you mean the footage was distorted?”

Jongho sighs. He’s not the type to gossip or share drama with anyone, so all of this retelling with San is starting to get tiring.

“They said it was mostly static with a few flashes of people passing directly in front of the scene. They couldn’t see anything on it.”

“But you’re cleared, right? The other cameras place you far away from the murder as it was happening.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t show raincoat girl at all, which makes me look a bit mad for insisting she was there.”

“She had to be there,” San argues. “You felt her. You’ve seen her in that dream every night. You’re still seeing her in your dreams.”

“According to the detectives, there’s no footage of me being bumped by anyone and no yellow rain slicker in sight. I don’t know, San. Maybe I just believed she was there because of the dream.”

Jongho knows this isn’t true. The woman in the yellow rain slicker was there. She was the reason he realized his dream was playing out in real life. When she bumped him, it all clicked in his head, how he recognized the little girl on her father’s shoulder and all the other people on the street around him. Something else could have caused that to all click into place had she not been there, but he distinctly remembers the bump being the moment the click happened.

“I still think she has something to do with this,” San shakes his head. “She’s been in your dreams all along, now she’s meeting up with the living Yeosang as he walks away from you. She’s definitely a key component here.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, I just don’t know what to do about it. If the footage shows she wasn’t there, she wasn’t there.”

“I can’t believe the footage doesn’t corroborate your story about meeting Yeosang on the street that morning, either. When you said there was video, I was so sure they’d seen him. And maybe he walked toward the camera and they would have seen his face.”

“I thought so too.”

San sits silent for a moment, shaking his head as he considers all the new information before suggesting what might be the most ridiculous theory since ghosts. “What if the victim isn’t Yeosang? What if Yeosang killed someone else to fake his death?”

“That’s crazy,” Jongho rejects the idea. “They identified the victim. It’s Yeosang.”

“But how did they identify him. His face wasn’t recognizable. Did they run the DNA? Or did they identify him by his belongings? If they only checked for an ID in his wallet or a work badge or found jewelry on him that belonged to Yeosang, how can they be sure the identification is accurate?”

Okay, maybe not so ridiculous after all.

“I don’t know, actually. I didn’t ask.”

“Maybe you should.”

Jongho groans. He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to have anything more to do with the investigation if he doesn’t have to. He’s still curious, sure, and the continuing dreams aren’t helping matters, but he’s only just ducked out from under the cloud of suspicion. It would be weird to call and ask about the identification process. It might put eyes back on him, even with video proof of his alibi.

“You definitely should ask,” San continues. “You kind of have to. What if it’s not Yeosang, and some other family is missing a loved one?”

“And what if the police think I know more about Yeosang and the murder because I’m suggesting it? I can’t, San. I can’t do that. Besides, I’m sure the detectives are doing their jobs properly. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t use DNA to identify him. Or fingerprints or dental records. They wouldn’t just go off of belongings found on the body nowadays.”

“Fine,” San pouts. “But if anything else suspicious pops up, I’m going to make you call them.”

Jongho doesn’t doubt that one bit.

Yeosang stands under the lightpost again, but there’s no body this time, and almost no people at all. The sidewalk is nearly empty.

He’s checking a pocket watch, an absurd object for him to even have. Who carries a pocket watch anymore? Jongho watches as Yeosang paces around the lightpost and checks and rechecks the time, wondering what he’s waiting for.

Then she appears, the woman in the raincoat. Some of her dark hair escapes from under her hood, and he black boots click as she approaches Yeosang.

“You’re late,” he says, clucking his tongue.

“You’re early. I’m right on time. Are you sure this is where you want to do this?”

Her voice is deep and rich, for a woman, and as she speaks she tosses her hood back, revealing her face. Her cheeks are round, and her lips curl up at the corners like a cat. Under the rain slicker she’s wearing a simple, black dress that hugs her curves. Even Jongho is captivated by her body, but Yeosang’s eyes never stray from her face.

“I’ve been planning this for a long time, Yubin. It has to be here. You know that.”

“I’m just saying, it would be easier somewhere more private. You know how good a fire is for eliminating evidence, and you know we can create a fire that burns hot enough to destroy every last bit. They won’t even be able to tell who it is.”

“I said no.”

Somehow, Jongho is surprised to hear that tone in Yeosang’s voice. This whole time he’s been imagining Yeosang speaking softly, sweetly. Even with that mouthful of sharp teeth, Jongho hadn’t expected his words to sound so sharp.

“Fine, fine,” Yubin says, waving a dainty hand sporting multiple silver rings. “Have it your way, but you won’t be able to stick around long, at least not around here.”

“I won’t need to.”

The dream skips to where it usually begins as if Jongho is experiencing several hours of time in fast forward. The sun is bright when time finally returns to normal, and Jongho is walking behind the man holding the little girl.

He keeps his eyes straight ahead, not watching the little girl wave or the old man smoke his pipe. He’s watching for the woman in the raincoat, Yubin, and when she appears, it’s out of absolutely nowhere.

She doesn’t step around another person or come out from behind a vehicle. She just flashes into existence right in front of Jongho, shoulder checks him as she passes, and when Jongho turns to see where she’s going, she’s already gone. He stops and looks up and down the sidewalk and then across the street where a massive white van blocks his view of any businesses on the other side.

That’s why the video didn’t show her, he thinks. If she was only on the sidewalk behind that van, no camera would have caught her.

People are already screaming and scrambling when Jongho’s attention returns to the rest of the dream. He isn’t in his usual position, standing nearly directly in front of the lightpost, so he sees Yeosang when he starts to cross the street. Jongho moves to intercept him, running across the street without even thinking first. He steps out from behind the van, and hears a short blast of a car horn before the whole world flips upside down.

Jongho’s vision fades to black as he watches feet gather around him. He hears panicked voices calling for an ambulance and distantly thinks it’s funny because there’s already one there. It’s pulling up as they speak, but it’s not just here for Yeosang. It’s here for Jongho, too.

This time, Jongho wakes with a gasp, breathing in the breath he’d been trying to take since the car in his dream tossed him across the pavement. He feels phantom pain all over his body from the crash. His joints are so stiff he struggles to even sit up, and standing is completely out of the question.

The sun is already streaking across his bed, his alarm set to ring any minute, but he damn sure isn’t going to work feeling like this. The stretch to reach his phone on the bedside table sends sparks of pain down his spine, and once he has it in hand, he collapses back against the pillows again.

To: San

Not working today

Calling in now

Jongho does exactly that. He calls his boss and makes up an excuse, pinching his nose halfway closed so he sounds stuffy. Thankfully Jongho isn’t the type to take days off all that often, only when he’s really incapable of working, so his boss doesn’t give him a hard time about it. He tells Jongho to feel better soon and says if he’s up to it in the afternoon he can sit in on a conference call. Jongho won’t be feeling up to it, but he says he’ll try anyway.

From: San

Sick? You were fine last night

Jongho groans. He should have known better than to tell San. Now San will worry, and that will make Mingi worry.

To: San

Not sick just not working

From: San

Is it the dream?

To: San

Yes

“But not for the reason you think,” Jongho adds out loud.

To: San

Tell Mingi not to freak out please

From: San

You can text him too ya know

Kidding I’ll tell him

He says you can text him too ya know

Jonhgo makes the mistake of laughing, causing his entire chest to throb. It’s unbelievable that an accident in a dream could cause him this much pain. It’s worse than when he wrecked his bike into a tree, worse than that time he fell off the top of the fence climbing into the playground after hours, worse than any injury he can remember.

Gingerly rolling over, he attempts to go back to sleep, but no matter how hard he tries, his eyes won’t stay shut. He usually has no trouble sleeping once the sun is up. The dream only comes at night, and it always leaves him tired. Naps are essential to catch up on the sleep he misses at night, and very little disturbs his naps, not even bright lights and loud noises.

He finally gives up after over an hour of lying in bed and carefully moves himself to the couch where he can pull up Netflix. Three episodes into some trashy reality show his phone buzzes at the same time someone knocks on his door. He decides to answer the phone first.

“Let me in,” Mingi says before Jongho can even say hello.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at your door.” He knocks again. “Let me in.”

“I’m coming. Patience, please. I’m moving pretty slow.”

“What happened to you?” Mingi asks as soon as the door swings open. He checks Jongho’s body, not so gently, running his hands from Jongho’s shoulders down to his wrists and then placing them on both sides of Jongho’s face to look into his eyes. “Boss said you were sick but San says you’re fine. What’s going on?”

“I fell out of bed,” Jongho makes up a lie on the spot. “I’m just sore is all. Really, really sore, so if you’re done manhandling me, can I please sit back down?”

“Oh my gosh, of course. Did you hit your face on the floor?”

“No, why?”

“Your eyes are all bruised.”

“What?” Jongho opens the camera on his phone as he lowers himself back onto the couch, and sure enough, he’s got two black eyes. “What the hell?”

They’re not incredibly noticeable. They’re just a tad too dark to be mistaken for dark circles from lack of sleep, but they’re definitely bruises.

“Are you okay?” Mingi asks. “It doesn’t look that bad, Jjong.”

“I know. I’m fine, Mingi. Don’t worry so much about me.”

“I can’t help it,” Mingi shrugs. “You’re like my kid brother.”

“I’m barely a year younger than you.” Jongho laughs and then wheezes in pain. “Ow. So sore. I think it’s time for some painkillers.” He gets up and makes his way to the kitchen as Mingi takes over the whole couch, stretching his giant body out across all three cushions.

“What are you watching?” Mingi hollers over the back of the couch.

“I have no idea, really. I just kinda picked something random for background noise. You can change it if you want. We could watch a movie.”

“I can’t stay, I’m only on lunch.”

Right. Everyone else is still working today. Jongho takes so few sick days that he’d forgotten this isn’t a normal holiday.

“Fine, abandon me,” he sighs dramatically. “Can I have my couch back now?” Jongho would love to kick the bottom of Mingi’s shoes until he puts his feet on the floor again, but it wouldn’t be worth the pain it would cause.

“I guess.” Mingi stands and holds his arms out like he’s asking for a hug. “I should probably be getting back now. Do you need anything before I go?”

“Nope. And don’t hug me, it’ll hurt. Tell San I said hi and I really am fine, and don’t mention any of this to anyone else at work. Boss thinks I have a cold.”

“Got it. I’ll lock the door so you don’t have to get back up.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

After Mingi leaves, Jongho flips through Netflix until the painkillers kick in. He starts feeling drowsy, and once his eyes close, they don’t open again for hours.

From: San

Open up I have food

San gasps when Jongho opens the door.

“Mingi said you had two black eyes, but he didn’t tell me you had bruises all over! Are they on your stomach too?”

Jongho nearly trips as he backs away from San and his hands as he tries to lift Jongho’s shirt.

“Seriously, Jjong! They’re all over your back, too! Were you hit by a bus?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Jongho replies weakly. The painkillers he took earlier had dulled all the aches, but now that they’ve worn off, everything hurts ten times worse. “Only it wasn’t a bus. I think it was a car.”

“You’re joking. When did you get hit by a car? Have you been to the hospital? Do you have any broken bones?”

“It’s fine,” Jongho tells him as he sinks back into the couch again. “I’m okay. It was part of my dream last night. I’ve never felt anything in my dreams before. I never realized something like this could happen.”

“Nothing like this is supposed to happen. Normal people don’t wake up from nightmares with bruises and pain from the nightmare, Jongho.”

“I know, okay? But we both know this isn’t any normal nightmare.”

San sighs and drops a paper bag full of takeout on the table and sits next to Jongho on the couch.

“This is getting dangerous. I’m really worried about you.”

Jongho is worried, too. He studies his own arms and the deep red splotches covering his skin. The bruises are streaked across his left thigh in stripes from the grill of the car that hit him, and when he checks on his phone camera again, his eyes look a lot worse than they had when Mingi visited.

“I’m not sure I can go to work again until all of these heal,” he says. “People will ask questions.”

“Jongho, I have questions. Maybe you should take the rest of the week off. Everything should have healed by Monday, or at least enough that you can cover it with makeup. I’ll help. I learned a lot about color correcting in my acting classes.”

Jongho has to agree, it’s probably the best idea. He has a feeling the pain will only get worse before it gets better.

“Boss said to bring you some soup. He’s under the impression you have a cold?”

“I couldn’t very well say I was hit by a car in my dream.”

“Fair enough,” San almost laughs. “There’s also katsu curry in there for both of us. I figured since you’re not really sick you’d want something more substantial than soup.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Jongho says as he tears open the bag. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Mingi said he offered to get you something.”

“He did,” Jongho nods. “But I told him I was fine and then I fell asleep before I could order myself something. This smells amazing, thank you.”

They’re quiet as they eat. The television is still playing whatever show Jongho landed on before he fell asleep (at least it’s not another reality show), but Jongho can hardly hear it over the imagined sound of San’s brain trying to process how Jongho injured himself.

“Go ahead and ask,” Jongho says when he can’t take it any longer. “I know you’re dying to hear about my dream.”

“It’s just, there’s never been a car before. What were you doing?”

“Trying to intercept Yeosang. Everything was different last night. I thought it might be my only chance to catch him and ask some questions. I didn’t look before I crossed the street.”

“Did you at least learn something new?”

Lots of things, Jongho thinks as he considers where to start.

“Yeosang definitely killed the victim, and raincoat girl helped him. Yeosang called her Yubin. She suggested fire, but Yeosang said he’d been planning this for a long time and wanted to do it his way.”

“Then that means the victim can’t be the real Yeosang. Have you told the police?”

Jongho honestly hasn’t even thought about it. He’s been in so much pain he hasn’t had the energy to consider the next steps.

“Not yet, but I guess I have to now.”

“What do you know about Yubin besides her name?”

“About as much as I know about Yeosang,” Jongho admits. “I haven’t looked them up or anything. I know why she wasn’t on the camera footage. She popped up right in front of me and disappeared as soon as she passed me, all while we were blocked from view by a big van. I saw her face, though, so I could recognize her if I came across a picture of her. She said something about a fire that would consume every trace of evidence.”

“So something hotter than your standard fire. Like a cremation. A crematorium furnace burns a lot hotter than most fires.”

“I was thinking something a little more supernatural,” Jongho says. “Like hellfire. I get the feeling neither of them are supposed to be topside.”

“Demons?”

“It makes sense, right?” Jongho sets his empty container aside and turns to face San. “The black eyes, the teeth, the way he just walks right through people. It might even explain why the surveillance footage was so distorted.”

“Yeah, but…” San hesitates. “Jongho, please don’t take this the wrong way, but this is all based on what you’ve seen in your dreams. It’s far more likely they’re both perfectly normal, if evil, people who killed another perfectly normal person.”

“Definitely not,” Jongho shakes his head firmly. “The only way she dodged that camera was by some kind of magic. She wasn’t there, and then she was, and then she passed me and was gone. Where did she come from? Where did she go?”

“Devil’s advocate, it could have been a perspective thing. Maybe she was behind someone else before you saw her and ducked into a building after she passed.”

“But the camera-”

“Could have been a similar fluke. Maybe there’s no footage that covers the area between where she entered the sidewalk and left. I know what you think you saw, but it’s just not rational. We’re trying not to paint you as crazy here.”

He’s right. If Jongho calls the detectives and starts talking about demons they’ll probably lock him up for his own safety. He sighs, frowning.

“Then what do I do?”

“Start by asking them about the ID. If that’s a dead end, we’ll regroup. Jongho, you’re my friend, and I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t want anyone else thinking that either.”

That night Jongho witnesses Yeosang’s transformation from man to demon in slow motion again. He sees the eyes go black and the teeth emerge. He watches the dark veins creep across Yeosang’s skin as he walks through oncoming bodies.

That night, Jongho instinctively knows which way to go to dodge the traffic. He almost catches up. He’s nearly close enough to reach out and grab Yeosang when Yubin appears at his side.

That night, Yubin turns on him. Her teeth are as sharp as Yeosang’s, her eyes as black as his. Her face is covered in the same dark veins, and when she looks at him, she hisses like an angry cat before taking Yeosang’s hand.

That night, they both blink out of existence right before Jongho’s eyes, and he realizes that Yubin knows he’s onto them. He has a feeling his dreams are about to get much more dangerous.

“Jongho, how are you?” Detective Park answers on the second ring. “I didn’t think we’d be hearing from you again.”

“I didn’t think you would either, but I actually have some questions for you. I understand if you can’t answer them, open investigation and all, but I just can’t seem to make sense of something.”

“It is an open investigation, but if it might lead to a break in the case, I’ll try to answer if I can. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s about the identification of the victim. Is there any possible way it’s not Yeosang?”

“It is definitely, without a doubt, Kang Yeosang.”

“Right, okay. How do you know?”

Jongho holds his breath as he hears a chair creak on the other end of the line. He imagines Detective Park leaning back from his desk.

“Jongho, you know you were cleared, right? I’m not saying this question could make you a suspect, but it’s not exactly innocent behavior.”

“Right, I understand that. Like I said, if you can’t answer, I get it, but there’s something about this that’s really bugging me. If you used DNA or fingerprints, I’ll let it go.” He won’t, but he’ll have to talk to San about it again. “If not…”

Papers shuffle as he waits for a reply. Detective Park clears his throat and mumbles something to himself, then he says, “All I can say is that the identification is unquestionable. The victim is Kang Yeosang. This is confirmed by the medical examiner. We are absolutely sure of the identity of the victim.”

“Okay,” Jongho sighs. “I guess there’s no arguing with that. Thank you for your time.”

“Wait, Jongho. Can I ask why you’re so concerned about this? Is there something we should know about Yeosang?”

Jongho almost breaks, almost tells Detective Park that there’s no way it could be Yeosang because, based on Jongho’s dreams, Yeosang is alive. Then he imagines himself sitting in the day room of a mental ward, wearing pajamas and slippers and so overmedicated that he can do nothing but stare into space.

“It’s nothing. I just had a theory. Armchair detective stuff. I watch a lot of true crime documentaries.”

“Ah, that’s pretty common lately. Honestly, those armchair detectives have some pretty good theories when they’re not fighting anonymously amongst themselves online or flat out interfering with investigations. If you come up with something good, don’t hesitate to share it with us. We might find it useful.”

“I will,” Jongho agrees. This is the best outcome he could have hoped for. He’s successfully convinced the detective that his interest in the investigation is normal. “Thank you again. Goodbye, Detective.”

“That was smart thinking,” San says, sounding unreasonably impressed with Jongho’s lie.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t explain how there are two Yoesangs. You might not believe that Yeosang is a demon, but I know for sure I saw him at the scene. In real life, not just in my dreams.”

“You’re right, but I’ve been thinking about that. What if the real Yeosang was killed and someone had plastic surgery to steal his identity.”

This is San’s dumbest suggestion yet.

“Why kill him like that, in public, in broad daylight, leaving the body in a condition where it can be easily identified? You can’t steal the identity of a dead man, especially not if the dead man is the center of an investigation like this. What if someone who knew Yeosang sees him? And all of his documentation would list him as deceased.”

San looks slightly dejected. He must have been really proud of this idea. Jongho hates to burst his bubble, but it makes zero sense.

“Okay, what if…” San pauses, squinting up at the ceiling. “I’ve got nothing. That was my best idea.”

“And I’ve got nothing either unless you’re willing to consider supernatural options now.”

“I guess we don’t have a choice. What’s your best theory?”

Jongho thinks for a moment. He doesn’t have any good theories, really. He strongly suspects that Yeosang the human died and that Yeosang the demon is still alive, but he can’t figure out why the demon would kill his human doppelganger.

And where does Yubin figure in? Is she just his assistant? Did he even need an assistant? If he’s a demon, he probably could have snapped his fingers and the human Yeosang would instantly be hanging up on that lightpost. He wouldn’t even need to tie the rope.

“I don’t have one,” Jongho admits. “I have some half ideas with lots of questions, but nothing solid.”

“That’s what a theory is,” San says, flicking Jongho in the forehead before remembering he’s currently fragile with all the bruises. “Sorry, you okay?”

“I’m fine, you missed the really tender spots. So what should we do?”

“Research,” San says, pulling up Google on his phone. “I’ll search for Yubin, you do Yeosang, and we’ll see what we find.”

Jongho doesn’t come up with much. There’s an obituary for the human Yeosang and a few professional listings for him. He didn’t seem to have a social media presence, no Twitter or Instagram in his name, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t online under some nickname. As far as images, Jongho finds the photo posted with the obituary, multiple pictures of another man named Kang Yeosang who is twice the age of the Yeosang that Jongho is looking for, and a couple of memes that don’t seem to have any real connection to Yeosang.

He’s about to tell San it’s a bust when San gasps and turns his phone to face Jongho.

“You said you’d recognize her. Is this her? Is this the raincoat girl from your dreams?”

“Yeah,” Jongho breathes, taking the phone from San. “Yeah, that’s her.”

The woman on the screen has the same rounded cheeks and curved lips as the Yubin in his dreams, except her hair is short and dyed a pretty silver color. And she’s smiling, an expression Jongho couldn’t have pictured on the face of dream Yubin.

“She’s dead too,” San says. “Or, technically I guess she’s missing, but she hasn’t been seen in over five years. She disappeared from a little town all the way across the country from here. That photo is from a missing person post.”

“She won’t be found.” Jongho is certain of this. The Yubin in his dream has a fondness for fire that destroys evidence. The real Yubin is probably nothing but ash. “I think I know what’s going on.”

For the second time that day, Jongho calls Detective Park, this time with his speaker phone on and San listening in.

“Jongho, I have Detective Jung here with me. Did you think of something else?”

“I think so, but I’m going to need you to trust me because this is going to sound absolutely insane.”

“Whether I trust you or not is going to depend on what you say. Can you trust me?”

“I really hope so. Do you know about the disappearance of a Lee Yubin?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar. Look it up, Wooyoung.”

Fingers clack against a keyboard in the background as Detective Jung pulls up the case.

“Missing five years. This is way out of our jurisdiction. What does she have to do with Yeosang?”

“She was there the day Yeosang was killed. She’s the woman who bumped into me. The woman in the yellow rain slicker.”

“That is crazy,” Detective Park says. “You’ve located a missing person.”

“Not quite, and that’s not the crazy part. Here’s where my theory gets bumpy, but please just hear me out. The Yubin that I saw is not the woman who went missing. She’s a demon who has taken the form of the missing woman. The demon killed the real Yubin, and I think the same thing happened to Yeosang. I think a demon killed him to take his form.”

There’s a long silence as the detectives process what Jongho is telling them. Detective Jung is the first one to speak up.

“Mr. Choi, I think there’s been some mistake. We are legitimate detectives investigating a real murder. We don’t go after demons, we arrest human criminals.”

“Demons do not exist,” Detective Park adds. “Nor do ghosts or witches or any other imaginary, made-up beings. I know I told you that if you came up with something good that you should share it with us, but at this point I’d have to say your armchair detective work is interfering with our real investigation.”

San’s eyes look so sad as he watches Jongho take all this in. This is exactly what they were both worried about. The detectives now think Jongho is completely off his rocker. They won’t entertain his ideas or questions anymore after this, and Yeosang and Yubin’s killers will never be caught.

Jongho isn’t sure why he thought the detectives would be able to do anything. What could they do? Arrest a pair of demons? Unlikely. Even more unlikely that they would be able to track them down in the first place, but still, Jongho had held onto the tiny hope that they could do something.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Jongho says. “I’m thinking way too outside the box here. I got a little carried away.”

“Jongho,” Detective Jung says before Jongho can say goodbye and hang up. “If you really did see Yubin-”

“No, you’re probably right. I was mistaken,” Jongho interrupts. “She wasn’t on the surveillance footage. I was in shock when I gave my original statement, and my imagination must have gone into overdrive.”

“Are you okay?” Detective Park asks. “Do you need to talk to someone? We can drop by if you want, or we can offer a list of resources-”

“No. No thank you. I’ll just call my friend over.” He glances up at San. “Goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” San says when Jongho ends the call.

“It’s okay. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it probably should have been exactly that. I feel a little foolish though.”

“You’re not. It’s a good theory given what you know that the detectives don’t.”

“Yeah, but that dream… I should probably just accept that it’s just a dream. It’s a horrible dream that I’ll probably have to live with forever, but it’s not reality.”

“It was reality. For a day,” San says. “Do you want me to stay?”

Jongho gives him a look, and San just nods. Obviously Jongho wants to be alone.

“Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

Jongho nods and watches San leave. He flashes his sad eyes at Jongho once more before the door closes behind him, and Jongho gets up to limp his way to bed.

“Is he asleep yet?”

“He’s here, isn’t he? He’d have to be asleep to be here.”

When Jongho opens his eyes, he’s standing stock still in the middle of the street where Yeosang died, but it’s dark and completely deserted aside from two blurry figures just on the edges of his vision. He can’t turn his head to see them. He can’t move at all. His whole body is locked in place.

“We’ll have to move again.” Jongho can hear the pout in Yubin’s voice.

“We have to move anyway,” Yeosang replies. “I can’t very well stay here with this face.”

“I told you fire is more effective. You should have listened to me. After all these years together, don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, pet, but you know how I feel about fire.”

“Awww, poor baby,” she mocks him. “Who ever heard of a demon afraid of flames?”

“Shut up, Yubin. He’s here now. Whatever you’re going to do, do it now. Before he wakes up.”

The figures approach Jongho, and this time, he wants to run away. There’s no more mystery to solve here. Catching the demons in his dream won’t do any good.

“We know everything, you know,” Yubin says as she steps under the lightpost. It lights up like a spotlight over her, showing that she’s in her human form. “Yeosang has been in your head since you were just a little boy. That’s right,” she nods, and the left side of her mouth twitches up in a half grin. “He’s the one who planted that dream, and we can make it so. Much. Worse. We can make you see anything, and anything you see here can happen in the waking world.”

Yubin lifts her right hand and Jongho’s mother appears in front of him. When Yubin snaps, his mother bursts into flames, and she screams and screams until Yeosang steps forward and snaps again to make her disappear.

“Really, Yubin? After we just talked about the fire thing?”

“I’m proving a point, sweetheart. Don’t take all the fun out of it.”

Next, she lifts her left hand, and San appears. When she snaps, his flesh begins to slowly melt away from his bones until he’s just a skeleton standing in a puddle of goo.

“Do you understand?” she asks.

Jongho tries to nod, but he still can’t move. He can’t speak. He just stands there, silent and still as Yubin’s lips push into a pout.

“Guess not. You must need another demonstration.”

This time it’s Mingi who appears in front of her. He looks confused and scared. Another snap, and hundreds of insects crawl up his body from the ground. His screams and cries drown out the clicking noises they make as they cover him from head to toe, biting and stinging until Yeosang snaps him away.

“He gets the picture, Yubin. Get to the point.”

Yes. Yes, Jongho very much gets the picture that Yeosang, and apparently also Yubin, are completely in control of pretty much everything.

“We know all about those silly little detectives you spoke to and how useless they are, but here’s the thing, there are people out there who aren’t useless, and we can’t have you trying to contact them.”

I won’t, he thinks. For the love of everything holy, I understand! He screams it inside his head, hoping that Yeosang hears it and they let him go. He thinks he’s gotten through to Yeosang when the dream begins to fade around him. He’s waking up.

“One last thing before we let you go.” Yubin’s smile is the most evil thing he’s ever seen on her human face.

Neither she nor Yeosang moves, but Jongho can almost immediately feel whatever Yubin is doing to him. His whole body starts to overheat, and then he’s enveloped in a brightness he’s never experienced before as flames dance in front of his eyes.

Yeosang snaps again, and Jongho sits up in his bed as a scream rips from his throat with such force that Jongho is sure he’ll never speak again.

He looks at the clock as he catches his breath. 12:06. He won’t be getting anymore sleep tonight.

“How are you doing?” San asks when he calls the next day.

“Fine,” Jongho croaks. His voice sounds horrendous.

“And the dream?”

“Gone,” Jongho lies. It’s not gone, but he’s done sharing it with San. He can’t something happening to the people he loves. San gives him a disbelieving huff, but he doesn’t push it further.

“Do you need anything? You sound like you could use some tea.”

“Tea would be nice,” Jongho agrees, “but I can go out and get it myself.”

His body is healing. His bruises and black eyes are starting to fade, turning blue tinged with green. Even the aches are receding.

“Mingi says hi and he misses you, but I’m sure you’ve already had about a dozen text messages from him.”

He has. Mingi is incredibly co-dependent. He can hardly get through a day without his friends in the office.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I can bring dinner tonight. We can just relax and watch a movie.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather-”

“Be alone. I know,” San laughs. “I’m here if you need me.”

“I know.”

“Oh, there you are,” Detective Park says when he nearly runs into Jongho as he’s leaving to make a grocery run.

“Yes,” Jongho says, keeping it short to protect his voice.

Detective Park doesn’t say anything for a long moment, like he’s waiting for Jongho to ask why he’s here, and when the question doesn’t come, he clears his throat and scratches the back of his head before saying, “I just wanted to let you know that Yeosang’s death investigation has been back burnered for the time being. There just aren’t any leads to follow.”

Jongho frowns at him. There is a lead to follow, they just refuse to believe it.

“I just know how invested you were in this case, and… Yeah. I thought you should know.”

“Okay.”

He pushes past the detective to get to the sidewalk, fully intending to just walk away, but Detective Park falls into step beside him.

“I believe you, you know,” he says, his voice low. “That’s what I really wanted to tell you. My partner is a total skeptic, and I’ll admit I doubted you myself last night, but he’d never believe me if I told him… I actually saw Yeosang and Yubin today.”

Jongho turns to look at him again.

“It was just for a second. I almost didn’t believe it myself, but Yeosang looked… He looked right at me, and he was identical to the guy they cut down from that lightpost. And then I noticed Yubin right next to him, and then they turned and walked off into a crowd of people.”

“Okay,” Jongho repeats.

“So I know they exist. I know you’re right, that they’re still out there, and they’ll probably do this again in another however many years when they need a new identity, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Even if I had the ability to hunt down a pair of shapeshifting demons, I’d have to do it alone. I believe you, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Jongho sighs. “I figured.”

“I realize it’s probably not a huge comfort, but I didn’t want you thinking you were all alone in this.”

“You’re right. It helps. Thank you.”

Detective Park nods and gives him a half smile before waving and turning to walk the other direction.

It helps.

“Just do it already, before he wakes up.”

Another dream, Jongho thinks. He can’t help wondering what more Yeosang could have to say to him after last night.

“No, I want him to see me first. I want him to know exactly what’s happening and that it’s his fault.”

That’s odd, though. He knows that voice, and it’s not Yubin’s. It’s his own.

“Stop pretending to be a sadist,” Yeosang says. “Besides your affinity for fire, I know you don’t like to let them suffer.”

“Not him. He’s different.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“The others are innocents. He’s a threat,” Jongho’s own voice spits.

“He’s not a threat, he’s a human.”

“A human who knows too much.”

“Because you told him everything! Those detectives thought he was crazy. You could have just let it go.”

“Shut up, he’s listening.”

Listening, yes, and hearing one of the most disorienting things he’s ever heard in his life. When he finally manages to peel his eyes open he immediately wishes he hadn’t. The brightness of the sun through the open window in front of him is blinding and painful. He can’t move, but it’s not the same as when he couldn’t move in his dream. He can feel the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles. It cuts into his skin when he tries to jerk his arms free. He’s awake.

“Finally,” his voice says from behind him. “I thought you’d never come to. I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

Before Jongho can respond, the chair beneath him spins around so that he’s facing away from the window. He doesn’t even get a chance to feel relief, because standing in front of him is an exact copy of himself, right down to the mole on his neck. If the copy were also bound to a chair, Jongho would believe he was looking in a mirror.

“I knew you’d like it,” the copy trills. “I’m quite pleased with it myself. You do have a lovely body. Very… strong.”

“Get on with it, pet,” Yeosang says from somewhere off to the side. “We need to get out of here.”

“Quiet!” Jongho’s copy shouts. “Don’t rush me. He hasn’t even seen the best part yet.”

With that, the demonic blackness begins filling copy Jongho’s eyes, and when he opens his mouth, all of his sharp teeth are exposed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He smiles, and Jongho sees a drop of black liquid drip from his copy’s lips where his teeth poke them. “Difficult getting used to a new body when I’ve had the same one for so long, but I’ll break it in.”

“Why?” is all Jongho can think to say. “Why do you look like me?”

“Because she is you,” Yeosang replies.

That’s when it hits Jongho, this is Yubin standing in front of him. Or, it’s the demon who formerly took the form of Yubin. Now, she is he, and Jongho knows what that must mean for him.

“We were so happy as Yeosang and Yubin, Jongho,” the copy frowns. “You couldn’t possibly comprehend how wonderful we were together, but Yubin cannot be anymore, and there can’t be two of me running around out there. It’s time for you to pay.”

“For what?” Jongho asks, tears gathering in his eyes and blurring his vision. It’s a blessing, really. Seeing his own face with those demonic features makes him feel sick.

“For being such a fucking smarty pants.”

Jongho closes his eyes, mentally kicking himself for letting himself get wrapped up in the mystery of Yeosang’s death while also hoping that burning alive isn’t as horrible as it had felt in his dream as surely that’s what’s about to happen.

“Goodbye, Choi Jongho.” The copy waves at him, and with each movement of his hand the temperature around Jongho rises. Like in his dream the night before, it’s only a matter of seconds before the flames erupt, and the last thing Jongho ever hears is a loud clap.

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me enjoy that,” Jongho says to Yeosang. His pout isn’t as cute as Yubin’s was, but he’s still got a little baby fat in his cheeks that squishes when he smiles. He likes the way it looks.

“You would have done the same thing the moment he started screaming,” Yeosang tells him, touching Jongho’s jutting lip with his finger. “You don’t actually have the stomach for torture.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this body?” Jongho asks. He’s always a little insecure in a new body until he gets used to it. Yubin’s body had been a huge change from his previous body with its too long limbs. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to move once his arms and legs were a reasonable size again.

“More than okay,” Yeosang promises, wrapping his arms around Jongho’s waist and pulling him closer. “I’ll miss you being shorter than me, but it doesn’t matter what form you take. You’re always beautiful. Always, my pet.”