Chapter Text
Jihoon could have sworn he had traveled back in time.
The bike of his childhood best friend, Lee Seokmin, failed at the same exact moment, same exact spot—when he came flying down a familiar slope in the center of the island, the main artery of the town, lined with weathered hanoks and leading straight to the dock where Jihoon had just stepped off the ferry that brought him back to what he called home as a child. Even Seokmin's greeting hadn't changed at all: "Jihoonieeee! Welcome back!"
Jihoon watched, unsurprised, as Seokmin failed to stop the bike and toppled straight into the water. This time, the first thing Jihoon did was take a moment to appreciate the lush green hills, the clear and vivid blue sky ahead, the sound of the ocean, the smell of the summer. He was alive.
Feeling that fact deep in his bones, Jihoon turned to the grown-up version of his childhood friend, but he didn't even bother moving his suitcase along with himself now. Instead, he stepped forward and extended a hand, the same way he felt he had already done before.
The last memory Jihoon had of Seokmin wasn't from their childhood. It wasn't their last ice cream together, or their tearful farewell on the same dock he was stepping on at the moment. It was of his death. Murdered—right here on this very island. By who? By Seokmin himself—no, a double of him. An exact copy.
Now, Seokmin surfaced from the water with a groan, soaked and sulking. "My bike wouldn't stop!" He whined, but Jihoon already knew—that Seokmin would say those four words and that, his bike, which was currently floating on the sun-soaked water, wouldn't stop in time.
But, for the moment, Jihoon's attention was taken, once again, by a dissonance he couldn't grow used to. Too cheerful—Seokmin was far too cheerful for someone whose little brother had just died. And yet, Jihoon could see the puffiness, the redness around his eyes, the bloodshot sclera, and he was certain that none of that had been caused by seawater entering his eyes.
Lee Chan was dead.
Jihoon had spent most of his childhood ignoring that name and whatever came with it. His bond had always been with Seokmin—his radiant, funny, emotional best friend, his world back then. Chan had just been the little brother tagging along, desperate to be included with the older kids, something that had always pulled the trigger and pushed past Jihoon's patience.
Still, Jihoon had returned to this island for the funeral. The thought of someone so young simply vanishing from the world—it felt unreal, like a chapter ripped too soon from a book. When the family reached out, asking him to return all the way to this place, how could he refuse? Grief had a gravity of its own, and he couldn't pretend to be untouched by it. It wasn't, exactly, the pain of losing Chan, but the one that reminded him that the world was unfair.
"You could have gotten yourself killed." Jihoon said, hauling Seokmin up from the water. The effort soaked him too, but he didn't mind. He had always liked water, anyway.
Seokmin muttered under his breath, wringing out his shirt. "What the hell is wrong with my bike…?"
Jihoon took in the person in front of him. The light tan—both from genetics and Seokmin relishing being outside—the sharp, refined nose, and that mole resting on his cheek. Seokmin was still Seokmin.
Had it been real?
Seokmin had died—stabbed in the mountains by someone that looked exactly like him. With the same skin tone, the thin nose, and that mole Jihoon recalled to find charming as a child.
And, before that happened, on that same spot at the top of the island, he and Seokmin—what Jihoon assumed was his Seokmin, the real one, his childhood friend—had found another man dead, close enough to be likely killed by... Seokmin, too. His exact copy, better said. Or whatever it was.
That dead man had come over on the same ferry as Jihoon.
Jihoon barely registered Seokmin's chatter. His eyes were fixed on the man, now walking away, black suitcase in hand. Around their age. Well carved, handsome. Tall, slim, with a sober facial expression. Eyes strangely both sharp and round at the same time, glued to his phone the entire trip over and even as he walked up the island's main slope.
And here he was, alive again.
Wait.
Jihoon had died too.
He had died. Had been killed by Seokmin. And then—just moments ago—he had opened his eyes to the sight of Seokmin barreling downhill on his bike, again, as if none of it had ever happened.
The memory was hazy, fragmented, like trying to grasp smoke. It didn't make sense, but Jihoon felt it. Deep in his bones, in the weight of his body. This wasn't a deja vu. And it wasn't a hallucination either. Something was different. He was different. But he couldn't manage to truly convince himself. What if the long journey had made him delirious?
Jihoon's eyes drifted to the bicycle now floating in the water, but Seokmin suddenly stepped in front of him, blocking his view with a too-bright grin. "It's been so long, hyungie! Longer hair suits you—looks like it grows fast!" He gave Jihoon a once-over, then added, "Well, not—"
Jihoon stepped to the side without a word, handed Seokmin his phone, and dove straight into the water.
"Hey!" Seokmin yelped, nearly fumbling the phone. "Aish—do you really miss the sea that much?"
Resurfacing with the bike, Jihoon dragged it toward the edge. "Shut up and pull it up" He mumbled, his words gruff, but the tone lighter than it had any right to be. The problem wasn't that he was trying to match Seokmin's mood, his friend's way of coping. What really troubled Jihoon was that his memories, the images of their murders, felt way too real.
But he couldn't just say that out loud. Not yet. He couldn't say 'Hey, I had this weird dream in which we died' to the face of a guy who was teetering on the verge, who had just lost his little brother.
Maybe it was just a strange mix of deja vu and a bad dream—things like that happened, didn't they?
Jihoon had been sitting across from that mysterious, handsome guy on the ferry, after all. It made sense he would show up in a dream. And since he had been reading, he had probably dozed off while doing so, which would explain why everything after that felt like a blur and why he could have such weird, specific nightmares. Maybe he should buy a normal book from time to time.
Still…
He knew he was just trying to rationalize it. Trying to avoid what he felt. Or maybe he really had read too much fiction. He couldn't help it—his favorite author was Wen Junhui, and that chinese guy loved writing twisted horror stories.
But had it been truly a piece of fiction, of a dream?
There was something he couldn't have imagined. In his dream—or whatever it was—Seokmin hadn't been the boy from their childhood. He hadn't been some hazy, half-formed memory.
He had been this Seokmin. Grown. Present. Exactly as he looked now.
Seokmin finally hauled the dripping bicycle out of the water, shaking off the effort with a grin while Jihoon climbed out. "Seriously, you should come to my place and change first" He said, still smiling.
Jihoon groaned, going straight to his suitcase. "The things I have to do, jeez." He muttered, dragging it behind him as he started to walk.
Jihoon still remembered the path up to the Lee household—not just as some hazy childhood memory, but as something recent, lived. He had spent the night there not long ago. Now, retracing those same steps, a cold unease twisted in his stomach. They had already done this. This grief, this gathering, this goodbye—it was all happening again, and the familiarity of it made him feel ill.
Seokmin trailed behind him, humming, steering the bike. The unseen energies surrounding him had always made Jihoon comfortable, even after years of not seeing each other. His aura could compete with the sun, unchanged by the cloudiest days. Even when his little brother was now dead. "Chan would have loved to see you there, but he would have never admitted that outloud. Do you remember how he was? He was always the one pushing us to play, always up for anything."
Seokmin was still acting so carefree, Jihoon noted. How could this be the same Seokmin—the one who had killed him? The only difference between them had been the emptiness, the lack of this blinding aura around the body of that murderer.
Jihoon tilted his head back, gazing up at the sky—the very essence of summer. He let the moment settle into his skin, that quiet hum of being alive. A feeling Chan would never get to experience again. "Because we were the big kids at the time, he was always tagging along behind us. God, it was tiring."
"He would always try to hang out with us, but you would never let him" Seokmin pointed out, a half-smile ghosting his lips, as if Jihoon didn't remember that perfectly well. Not just because they had discussed it before, walking that same slope, but because Chan used to be so exhausting Jihoon couldn't possibly forget. "Still, he really respected you, though."
"He did?" Jihoon replied absently, eyes drifting to Seokmin's bike. The brakes were cut. "Gosh, he was so stubborn" He added, feigning surprise, though the shock had long since worn off. He had heard this before. Now, Seokmin would say—
"Yeah, he looked up to you, in secret. You were the cool one back then" Seokmin said with a nostalgic pride, like he was reminiscing about someone from another lifetime. Then, his smile widened completely, "You still are~"
Despite having heard it before, the compliment still made Jihoon flush. He ruffled Seokmin's hair, deliberately turning his gaze away. As he did, his eyes caught sight of a tall, handsome slim man standing at the end of a street, listening to something on his phone.
Seokmin chuckled, then suddenly sprinted up toward his home. It was a mix of a traditional hanok and a more modern house, like most in the island. Regular in size, enough for the three people that used to live in it, though maybe a bit big currently. The curved tiled roof, now sunbaked, was more worn than Jihoon remembered as a child, with edges trimmed with wind-chimed eaves that used to not be there.
Jihoon followed at a calm pace, moving his eyes to Seokmin—still acting like nothing had changed, like Chan's death hadn't happened. Jihoon made the quick theory that, maybe, he was in the midst of a derealization episode, trying to keep everything feeling normal for his own good.
When Jihoon reached the house's street, Seokmin was already waiting by the door, which had been left ajar. As Jihoon walked toward him, he turned to look over his shoulder. The odd man was gone. His gaze moved again, lingering on the yard. The yard…
He had seen Seokmin there before, at night, staring at the windows of his own house. But that couldn't be. Who—or what—was that? It had looked exactly like Seokmin, but…
"Hurry inside! You are soaked!"
Jihoon quickened his pace, stepping into the house. He was met with the sound of a forgotten old fan oscillating with a tired hum, framed photographs yellowing at the corners, and a wooden shoe rack with three rows. He contemplated the name 'Chan', carved by an obviously excited child, and the amount of shoes still in place. Under them, a pair of sandals were left just outside a shelf, as if someone had only just stepped out. If things were the same, Seokmin and Chan's dad wouldn't be home—and as he crossed the threshold to further step inside, that fact became clear. The bathroom door was open and, if that man wasn't in the kitchen, he wasn't anywhere else.
"I'm going to take a shower" Seokmin announced, starting to walk away. Then, his steps faltered. "Uh… You can use Chan's room. You remember where it is, right?"
Jihoon nodded and watched him disappear down the hallway, his gaze lingering.
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Lee Chan was dead.
This time, Jihoon dared to stare at his lifeless body, something he refused to do the first time he had stepped into the place where his funeral was held. Before, he couldn't even bring himself to glance at the photo that framed his farewell: with a blinding bright smile, strong eyes, sharp jaw and dyed blond hair, Chan would forever be remembered like that. Now, standing before him, it was undeniable. This wasn't the kid Jihoon had known. It was a man—grown, cold, and no longer alive.
The sharp sound of a camera flash broke through the cries and murmurs, making Jihoon snap his head around. He wasn't exactly surprised—it wasn't the first time he had heard it. Even the scolding that followed was the same: Seokmin and Chan's dad, brokenly warning: "Please do not take photos."
His memories were turning more and more clear, it felt almost overwhelming.
Before Jihoon could process any of it, he felt arms wrap around him from behind. Mingyu. Again. He was sobbing, desperately pulling Jihoon into an embrace. Jihoon groaned, gently moving him away.
"Jihoon hyung! You are back, but—but... Our Channie! He's gone!" Mingyu's voice cracked multiple times as he cried out, only to be pulled into Seungkwan's arms, both of them sobbing together.
Jihoon shifted his attention to Seungkwan, who clung to Mingyu, tears streaming down his face, hearing him say: "He was so brave…"
Jihoon hadn't asked about what those words meant before. But this time, as much as it felt wrong to ask, he dared to speak up. "What happened?"
What had happened to Chan, and what the hell was happening to him? Why was he living this day again, from over?
Jeonghan gently patted Jihoon's shoulder, prompting him to turn. "Chan, he..."
"He saved Wonwoo from drowning." Seungcheol interjected with an out-of-place shrug. Jihoon could tell he was trying to keep his grief contained, to be strong for everyone else, and yet, the tears wouldn't stop.
"Wonwoo hasn't spoken since" Joshua murmured, his voice almost gone.
Jihoon's gaze shifted to Wonwoo. They were right—he was staring off into the distance, silent. And like that, Jihoon realized he hadn't spoken to him, not once, in whatever day he had been stuck in before he was ended.
Jihoon turned back to Chan's lifeless body. The Chan he had known was weird. The bravest and the most cowardly of all children, a dangerous mix of white and black that resulted in a gray that made Jihoon uncomfortable and wish to stay away.
He tried to bring his mind back to their childhood, the moments spent around that both-mature-and-mischievous kid. Chan had always been too afraid to learn how to swim, and used to sit on the shore to play with the younger kids, watching from afar how Seokmin and Jihoon had the real fun. Jihoon had always thought that Chan, rather than respect him, envied him for how effortlessly he moved through the water. And still, that kid refused to learn—until the very end, it seemed.
Or not.
Among the crowd of people, Jihoon was the only one who dared to look at the body, an image he felt that would later return to him multiple nights.
Chan's hair was still almost as blond as in the photo, though his natural roots had begun to creep back in at some point. His sharp brown eyes that had been looking so full of life were unrecognizable while shut, and from what Jihoon could see, his skin was much paler. Focusing on that detail was what made him see it: beneath the sheet that covered Chan, something faint caught his eye, visible enough to make his breath catch.
Marks, around his neck.
Jihoon quickly pulled away, scanning the room in a rush, as if he would find the answer in the eyes of friends, family, neighbors. Not a single person would look in his direction, refusing to stare at the dead body of who they still called friend. But then, his gaze froze. He recognized someone in the crowd. Handsome, tall, mysterious and slim.
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Among all the clothes in his closet, Seokmin chose to wear the same he had the night before he was killed by his own hand.
Jihoon said nothing, but he could see the traces of tears on Seokmin's face while they sat down on the table at the Lee's house, finishing the dinner Seokmin had cooked with the expertise of the son of a chef.
Once he was done, Jihoon set his chopsticks down. "Thanks for the food. Haven't eaten this well in a while." The words were, kind of, a lie. The food was delicious, yes—just as it had been the night before everything went wrong.
"You are too focused on your studies, aren't you?" Seokmin said with a teasing tone, "I can't relate~"
Jihoon rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, knowing it would make Seokmin laugh. It did. "Yeah, yeah, you are perfectly content working with your dad while I lose my mind studying. Got it." His gaze drifted from his friend to his and Chan's father, sitting quietly nearby, watching TV.
He had a question to ask him.
But first, he waited for Seokmin to leave. At some point of their casual chatter through the night, Seokmin seemed to grow out of energy sooner than usual. Jihoon couldn't blame him—he was probably exhausted from all the crying he must have gone through alone. He watched him retreat to his room, obviously still dressed in the same clothes. Jihoon stared out the window for a moment, noticing there was no one outside. Yet.
As he made his way toward Seokmin's father, who was still sitting in front of the TV, Jihoon realized he had a knot in his throat. He wasn't someone who would set up scenarios ahead of time, usually preferring to just wait and see what life threw at him, but if he had to acknowledge one thing, it was that the nausea in his stomach felt very much real. "Sir, may I ask you a question?"
Seokmin's father glanced away from the screen, his gaze shifting to the remote control to lower the volume, and then to Jihoon. "What is it, Jihoonie?" Besides the initial greeting, this was their first time talking after years. This man was just like his son: tried to carry on, kept it all inside. But still, his eyes were void of life, and he had refused to have a bite. "Make yourself at home. You have come from far away."
Jihoon hesitated, shifting on his feet. He felt a pang of guilt for even asking. "Was an autopsy performed on Chan?"
Jihoon expected an awkward silence to follow. Instead, the old man lowered his head, shaking it slowly, and decided to answer. "No. My son, Wonwoo, Soonyoung, and Hansol—they saw everything. By the time Hansol managed to get him out of the water, it was too late."
Soonyoung? Who the hell was that?
"I see… makes sense." Jihoon's voice faltered as discomfort settled in his chest for asking such a thing. He quickly excused himself, retreating to what would be his room for his time staying on the island.
It was modest in size, or at least that was the impression it gave with the added desk below the window and the low table in the middle of the space, wasting room. A good point was that the light yellow walls Jihoon remembered from childhood remained the same. And yet, the happiness the color should transmit was lost during the way.
Untouched and unalive: that was what the room was. Not just empty, but paused—like time had stepped out and would never come back. But there was a faint, stubborn scent lingering in the air—a reminder of someone, probably Chan.
The walls held his ghost in photographs, scattered like breadcrumbs of a life once loud and bright. Most of them showed him with that bleached blond hair, grinning like he had the whole world fooled—like nothing could touch him. And yet, that would be his most remembered look, but only because there wouldn't be a single one more. Jihoon stood still, a weight in his chest sinking lower and lower, until it settled, cold, in his stomach. He turned to the window, not to see, but to look away—because facing the absence was starting to hurt more than he thought it would.
Seokmin.
Seokmin was standing outside, staring at a point of the house without a blink. He was wearing different clothes than the ones Jihoon had seen him in earlier, more like an uniform.
And Seokmin was holding a knife.
Jihoon's heart skipped a beat, the sickness at the end of his stomach screaming. He quickly stepped back from the window, feet moving fast as he made his way toward Seokmin's room. But when he reached the door, he froze.
Seokmin was crying inside.
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Morning, inevitably, arrived. Jihoon had hoped to lull himself to sleep with one of Wen Junhui's books, but it had the opposite effect. He had barely made it past the first few pages when the story opened with a scene that sent chills through him: the main character's friend being devoured by someone they had just met in a strange new place. It was sickening, and his mind snapped back to the image of Chan's body—cold, still, would never move again.
That hollow ache returned, curling deep inside Jihoon's chest like a scab on the skin that couldn't be peeled off. And then came the rest—frustration, disbelief, a bitter kind of fury that turned his thoughts raw. He had known death, in theory. He had read about it, studied it, absorbed countless stories until he thought himself numb to it. Detached. Immune. He grew up understanding that people left—just like the Lee family had once lost their mother. But knowing and feeling were oceans apart.
The truth was, he had always understood death with the mind, never the heart. The idea that someone he once saw as a newborn, argued with, reprimanded, met often, could just… stop—stop speaking, breathing, existing—had always felt like a distant myth. Something that happened to other people, in other lives.
But now? Now that the silence was personal, now that the absence had a name and a face and a laugh Jihoon could still hear if he closed his eyes—it burned. It wasn't his grief, he knew that. But it was the injustice what hurt. Chan had been too young. His death wasn't just sad. It was wrong. It was wrong in a way that made Jihoon want to scream into the walls of a world that dared to keep turning without him.
Why? What were those marks? Faint, almost hidden beneath the sheet, but definitely there if you looked closely. Hadn't the police seen them? A doctor? Or had they appeared after?
And that figure outside the house—who the hell was that? Jihoon had tried to reason with himself: if the pattern held its form, nothing happened during night, so he could just go to sleep and let Seokmin rest instead of having him worry about things Jihoon couldn't even explain. Everything would remain still. But even so, he hadn't felt safe through the night. Not at all.
Jihoon got up from Chan's bed and, sorry not sorry, looked through his things. Clothes that someone who was trying too hard to impress would buy. More photos tucked in drawers, with a few drawings from childhood here and there. Books and half-filled notebooks. A phone—locked, of course—but Jihoon slipped it silently into his pocket. In the closet, he found magazines about dancing, men with little clothes, and… survival guides?
He paused.
Survival guides? Why would Chan have those?
Jihoon frowned, trying to reason it away. Maybe it was just a passing interest, he didn't actually know this man.
With a tsk of frustration, he left the room to find the bathroom, which was, luckily, empty. He took a step forward, stopping by the sink. Catching his reflection in the mirror for the first time in what felt like days, he froze. Yeah, he looked exhausted. But something else was off.
His right eye.
It was lighter. Still brown, but closer to hazel now, with a subtle swirl in the iris—like the pattern had changed.
Fantastic. Something was definitely happening.
Jihoon forgot whatever he was about to do and stepped out of the bathroom, nearly bumping into Seokmin, who was standing just outside. His eyes were red—genuinely red. So he had indeed cried last night. That wasn't some recorded sobbing. Maybe his childhood friend wasn't a knife-wielding psychopath after all.
"Hey" Seokmin said quietly, smiling gently. "Do you want to go up the mountain with me? I was thinking of making an offering before I head to help dad."
Jihoon knew exactly what not to do, and going up the mountain with Seokmin was at the top of that list. Still, if everything was playing out the same, someone might be in danger again. He couldn't risk staying passive. "You should go straight to work" Jihoon said instead, deciding for a comforting tone. "Starting early is the best distraction, trust me."
Seokmin's gaze drifted away, looking as if he had been caught stealing, before nodding slowly. "You are right. It's the only thing that stops me from thinking too much."
"Go ahead. I will catch up after I look around the island for a bit. Want to see what changed while I wasn't around." Jihoon said with a faint smile, patting Seokmin's shoulder gently.
He watched him walk away, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the moment he died. Jihoon looked around until he found a new clock that replaced the one that used to decorate the Lee's house—about two hours before it happened. Had he just changed Seokmin's fate?
No.
He couldn't afford to let his guard down. That thing—that copy of Seokmin—had been ready to kill not just Seokmin, but him, and that mysterious guy too.
For now, Seokmin would be safe. The restaurant was public, and his father would be there. That bought Jihoon time.
He had to find that stranger before he made it to the mountain.
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Jihoon absentmindedly fidgeted with the clasp-knife in his pocket as he wandered through the island, repeating what was starting to feel like the million-won question: "Have you seen a guy—kind of mysterious, kind of addicted to his phone?"
It did take him a good while before he heard something else than a nonchalant "No. By the way, did you use to live there?", and also a change of description to get what he was waiting for.
"A slim handsome weird guy who wears a black suit?" Seungcheol looked up from his phone, squinting slightly at Jihoon. "Yeah. He's staying at my mom's hostel."
Jihoon's eyes went wide, and he took a step closer to the guy who had been crying his eyes out yesterday. "Like, right now?"
Seungcheol crossed his arms, eyeing Jihoon curiously. "Probably, why? You know such a weird guy?"
"No." Jihoon shook his head. He hadn't spoken to him more than a simple hi as he sat down in front of him in the ferry. And, yet, he had seen him die. What was that man doing up the mountains? "But I do have to talk to you about something."
Seungcheol's expression shifted, cautious. "Is it… about Chan?"
"No."
There was a moment of silence in which Jihoon wondered: could he say it? It was just Seungcheol, one of his childhood friends, someone who he used to trust for safety. But was it really him?
What if this wasn't his Seungcheol, the one who spoke for him when he forgot how to say no? What if he had a copy too? He couldn't tell him the whole truth, at least not yet.
"Do you think doppelgängers exist?" Jihoon worded it carefully, weaving a casual, unconcerned tone—just a harmless question. Just curiosity.
"Oh. Hmm..." Seungcheol tilted his head, then shifted on his feet, causing Jihoon's grip on the clasp-knife in his pocket to tighten. "I don't know. But I think Wonwoo does."
Jihoon was the one to tilt his head this time. "Wonwoo? Why?" His mind flashed back to the image of his lifeless expression at Chan's funeral, his lack of interaction with the environment. He was devastated.
Seungcheol shrugged slightly, but his gaze was sharp. "I'm not sure how long ago it was—maybe a week, maybe more—but he told me he saw someone who looked exactly like him. A double." His eyes locked onto Jihoon's. "Why do you ask?"
"I have to go now" Jihoon said quickly, cutting him off. "I will tell you later."
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Just as Jihoon was about to step into Seungcheol's mom's hostel, he spotted a black suited guy leaving the building, his sharp-but-round eyes keeping their firm aspect. Their gazes briefly met as the man walked past him, but Jihoon couldn't help himself and grabbed his wrist.
"Wait" Jihoon said, trying to keep his voice steady even as, adding to his frustration, nausea and rage, panic also threatened to rise in his chest. He didn't know this guy, he had no way of getting him to trust him, but he couldn't let him leave. "I—uh—I wanted to ask you something."
Before Jihoon could even form the words, the man spoke first. "You were on the ferry too. What's your name?"
Jihoon blinked, thrown aback.
"I'm Jihoon. Lee Jihoon" He said, struggling to hold that confusing, steady gaze.
An awkward silence settled in.
Jihoon wondered what he had said wrong, what was going through this guy's mind for him to just stare back while wearing that unreadable expression on his face. Slowly, the man pulled his wrist away from his hold and retrieved his phone from his pocket.
Jihoon watched in silence as the man tapped on the screen, before holding the phone to his ear. After a few seconds, he passed it to Jihoon, who took it without thinking.
"What about it?" Jihoon asked, glancing between the phone and the man.
"Press play."
Jihoon hesitated for a moment, but he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to distract this guy from his own possible death. He pressed the button and brought the phone to his ear.
"Minghao, it's Jihoon. You have to return to Ulleungmo, we need you."
The world dimmed, and Jihoon's limbs turned numb. He felt his heart falter—then fall completely still. But in that final quiet, something stirred. A strange, weightless sensation bloomed behind his right eye—an airy presence, neither a warning nor a threat. More like... an announcement. Foreign, yet familiar. Wordless, yet understood. And when breath returned to his lungs, when life dragged him back again, Jihoon exhaled in a whisper, "That's...my voice."
"I'm Minghao," The man said, his foreign accent more obvious the more he spoke. "You are Jihoon. Yet, we don't really know each other, do we? At least, I don't remember you, except because I saw you on our way here."
"I don't even know who you are" Jihoon muttered, his mind racing. How could he record such message in a phone that wasn't his? "The only thing I know is—" Shit. This guy—Minghao—was going to die in less than thirty minutes. And so was Jihoon, if they repeated the same steps.
"What?" Minghao's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly, the roundness disappearing almost completely. "You know something you aren't telling me?"
"You are going to go up the mountain," Jihoon said quickly but firmly, before he could lose this guy's trust completely, "and you shouldn't."
Minghao took a few steps back, frowning. "How do you know I was about to do that?"
"I saw it."
Minghao took his phone back when Jihoon handed it, but his eyes didn't leave him during any of his movements. "You saw it." He repeated.
"I..." Jihoon swallowed hard, knowing he was about to sound very stupid. "I actually saw us dying up there."
The silence that followed crushed Jihoon's heart, as heavy and as awkward as it could be. Minghao's pupils reacted, and Jihoon felt so foolish for speaking that openly to someone he barely knew.
Minghao slid his phone back into his pocket. "Precognition?" He asked simply.
Jihoon shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. His mind drifted back to the moment—the pain, the blood. He had never seen wounds like that before, not in real life. "No. It happened. I—I actually felt it. The pain. You are probably going to think I'm crazy, but—"
"So you can go back in time" Minghao noted. Just as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jihoon's heart pounded, his throat tightening as he struggled to grasp the meaning of those words. "Look, that sounds insane. But what sounds even crazier is that the person who did it was… like a copy of my friend. A friend who also died there, like, he was killed by himself, and—"
"How old are you?" Minghao interrupted suddenly.
"Eh?" Jihoon blinked, caught off guard. "I'm... turning 23 this year. Why?" He frowned, wondering if it had something to do with all this.
"Hyung," Oh, it seemed like it didn't have anything to do with all this. "There's a shadow of your friend."
A shadow?
Jihoon's mind raced for answers, trying to place the term. He had read about it somewhere, but now wasn't the time to remember. "What... what do you mean? Why so sure?"
"I was here, on this island, a few years ago," Minghao said, his tone disarmingly calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made Jihoon's instincts recoil. Every nerve in his body screamed that something was off, deeply off. Minghao's fingers tapped lightly against the phone in his pocket. "I must have told you about it before, in another timeline."
Jihoon stared at him, unsure whether Minghao was completely out of touch with reality, he was an extreme believer of these type of events, or if there was something much stranger going on. The alarm bells in Jihoon's head rang louder, insistent. It wasn't disbelief that made him uneasy. It was the way Minghao said it like it was normal. Like time unraveling itself on this island was just a minor detail. Something had happened to him here, something strange enough to make madness sound like fact.
"Minghao," Jihoon's voice wavered this time, the weight of the situation finally starting to hit. "I need you to tell me what a shadow is for you. What do you mean?"
Minghao sighed, adjusting the watch that hid beneath his black suit. "They are... well, as you say, you could call them copies of people," He started to explain, looking back up, "A shadow scans a person and creates a new shadow. But these copies can't live for long if the original owner, the person that was copied—scanned—isn't dead. There can only be one."
Jihoon took a few steps back. The brakes of Seokmin's bike. Seokmin with a knife in hand outside the house. Their deaths at the mountain. "My friend is... destined to die?"
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Jihoon had no appetite for breakfast, but he still made his way to Seokmin's family restaurant.
He had to protect him—Seokmin, the one who still glowed like morning sun, bright and open in a world that was steadily going dark. Someone like that didn't deserve the weight creeping toward him. Jihoon wanted to scream the truth to the whole island, to beg them to act before it was too late. But who would believe him? He barely believed himself. Shadows, copies—he sounded insane.
Minghao had sworn not to go near the mountain, and then vanished in the exact opposite direction, chasing after more pieces of this unraveling puzzle. Jihoon didn't blame him. Not really. Everything was falling apart, and they were all grasping at what little control they had left.
Now, more than ever, Jihoon had to hold on to one thing: keeping Seokmin safe. No matter the cost.
He stepped inside the restaurant, warmth and red ambient light spilling across polished wood and loud chatter. The smell of grilled food barely registered over his nerves. Then—
A hand landed firmly on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "Hey," Jeonghan said, voice hushed, "Have you seen Wonwoo?"
Jihoon blinked, eyes still fixed on Seokmin across the room, watching as the man served customers with a tender smile. "No. Why?"
"His whole family disappeared" Joshua whispered from nearby.
Disappeared. And Wonwoo… had seen a copy of himself.
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Jihoon had made sure Seokmin stayed behind—tucked safely inside the restaurant, surrounded by people, laughter, and light. It wasn't a fortress, but it was the best Jihoon could do for now. He set off, alone, toward the place he remembered as Wonwoo's house, and a few police officers lingering nearby confirmed his memory still held up under pressure.
But he wasn't really looking for Wonwoo—he knew he wouldn't find him there. He was searching for someone else. Someone who wasn't built to be alone, so he could trust him more than ever right now.
Even as a kid, Mingyu had been the kind of person who couldn't help but care. A textbook people pleaser, some had teased. But Jihoon had always found comfort in that steady kindness. If anyone could help anchor this mess, it was him. He could only hope that he hadn't changed over the years.
When Mingyu finally stepped away from his father—the officer leading the investigation of Wonwoo's family's disappearance—Jihoon approached him cautiously.
"Hey, Gyu," Jihoon mumbled a nickname he hadn't forgotten, looking between the house of the Jeon family and the man who used to be smaller than him. "Any news?"
Mingyu shook his head silently, his expression more grim this time, the tears from yesterday forgotten. He didn't seem to be in the mood to talk.
Mingyu had already looked wrecked at the funeral—shoulders bowed, only lifting with sobs, eyes red-rimmed like he hadn't slept in days. He was the kind of person who carried other people's pain like it was his own, and Jihoon hated the thought of adding to that burden. But still… if there was anyone who would listen without brushing him off, who would take even the strangest truth with grave seriousness, it was Mingyu.
That was the cruel part of it: Jihoon needed him. Even if it meant breaking him a little more. But if this ended soon, if this ended well, he could only hope that justice would invade his heart and bring some peace.
"Actually... I wanted to ask about something Wonwoo had said before" Jihoon began, and Mingyu's head lifted instantly, as if he had been waiting—desperate—for any mention of his friend. "He said he saw a... copy of himself? Do you remember when that was?"
"That?" Mingyu drew in a slow breath, his gaze moving away for a moment. "Probably a few days before what happened at... the beach."
The mention of the incident sent an involuntary pull through Jihoon's chest. He couldn't help but remember how inseparable Mingyu and Chan used to be—even when they bickered and fought for attention, it was the kind of closeness that never really cracked. Their bond had always felt permanent. Unshakable.
Jihoon hesitated, grounding himself before his voice broke. "I… I think I saw one too. A copy. Of Seokmin."
"What?" Mingyu's expression changed in an instant—he glanced across the street, where his father was talking to one of the officers, then turned back. Without a word, he grabbed Jihoon's arm and pulled him away from the noise, the uniforms, the watching eyes. "Hyung, are you sure about that?"
"Very, very sure," Jihoon sighed. He needed Mingyu to feel the weight of this. "We need to get in that house and search for any clue. I need your help for that, Mingyu."
Mingyu, again, glanced toward his father, who was still busy. "That's impossible. The place is full of police—the two entrances are guarded."
Jihoon clenched his fists. "Have they found anything? Anything strange?"
Mingyu's eyes fell. Jihoon took another step toward him, making sure that whatever he would respond, would be only heard by them.
"Marks. On the ground."
That definitely took Jihoon's attention. "What type of marks?"
"Like, two faint black marks, stains with the shape of humans."
Shadows.
"Don't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you if you don't trust that person... or know if it's truly them."
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Since the issue with Wonwoo's shadow had started even before Chan died, Jihoon found himself wondering how he had managed to stay safe for that long. Maybe he had just been incredibly lucky—or maybe it was because he was, seemingly, someone who knew how to put up a fight. Those muscles weren't for nothing.
"Hyung, you will join at the festival tomorrow, right?" Seokmin asked, placing a steaming bowl in front of him.
Jihoon had been glued to his friend's side all day— watching, waiting—yet nothing had happened. And now? Now what? He couldn't protect everyone like this—trailing after them, waiting outside the door when they entered the bathroom—not even Seokmin. Not forever.
Seokmin continued to settle the table, looking as unaffected as he could look, but Jihoon could see through it. It seemed like Seokmin had cried during his last toilet break. "Chan was really excited about it, counting the days and all... I wonder what he would think of you being there."
Jihoon shifted in his seat. The discomfort he had been carrying all day—or was it two?—and that had stubbornly settled in his chest now mingled with a frustration that increased too rapidly to fit only that one word. At this point, he was almost certain—Chan hadn't just died. He had been murdered.
Why would someone who never learned to swim leap into the water to save another? It made no sense. And yet, it was Chan—always the selfless hero, the kid who swallowed his own fears to carry everyone else's. Back then, Jihoon found that need to please too irritating—the difference with Mingyu's was that Chan added that awkward, dangerous, stubborn factor—but now, it crushed him. A raw, unbearable ache that made him want to fight against the cruelty of it all.
Why did things turn out this way? Didn't Chan use a float? So how had he drowned with it on? Something didn't sit right, but now, Jihoon had to respond to his friend and eat, not cause more panic.
"I don't think he would have cared. We weren't friends" Jihoon said, the words landing heavier than he expected. He wasn't sure if it sounded too blunt, but sugarcoating wouldn't help. He didn't want Seokmin holding on to some false hope that Chan might have been excited to see him. The truth was, Jihoon doubted he crossed Chan's mind more than once a year—if that.
"Hmm. I guess that's right" Seokmin finished setting the table and slid into the seat across from him. Even in silence, Jihoon could tell—he was gearing up for a joke, the kind that tried to soften grief around the edges. "I don't think you two would be friends even now."
Jihoon let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Doubt it."
"Hyung."
Jihoon's hand froze mid-reach, fingers just brushing the edge of his chopsticks. Something in Seokmin's voice had changed. The warmth had drained from it, leaving behind something measured, too serious. A quiet knot formed in Jihoon's throat as he lifted his gaze from the food, slowly, cautiously. "Yeah?" He murmured, not sure who he was answering. Which Seokmin was this?
Seokmin's eyes didn't quite meet his. "I think I should talk to the priest tomorrow," He said quietly. "After the festival ends. Can you… go with me?"
Jihoon's eyes flicked toward the front door. A strange unease crawled down his spine. It wasn't time for Seokmin's dad to be home, and the house was dead quiet. They were alone. "Why?" He asked, looking at Seokmin's shadow—was there actually a way he could tell he was the real?
Seokmin smiled brightly, the heaviness in the room thinning like mist. "Just promise me already, jeez!"
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Jihoon jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. He was still alive. He sat up, admiring the summer air, catching a deep breath. No knife. No shadow. Just the quiet morning light filtering through the window of Chan's room. Stepping out of the unbearable space, he saw Seokmin moving around the house, seeming perfectly fine. He allowed the minimum relief possible to wash over him for a moment, but he couldn't waste his time. He had to find Minghao.
He was soon at the hostel of Seungcheol's mother, his eyes meeting Minghao at the snack bar, quietly sipping tea, glued to his phone. Jihoon didn't bother with small talk. He slid into the seat across from him, breath still a little uneven.
"Hey—last night, I was trying to read myself to sleep," Jihoon said, reaching into his bag. "And something clicked. This situation… it reminded me of something." He placed a book on the table. "It's by a chinese author. Do you know this book?"
Minghao nearly choked on his tea, hastily setting the cup down with a soft clink. He leaned in over the table, voice lowered to a whisper. "I wrote it."
Jihoon froze. His spine went stiff, fingers curling around the book. No way.
He brushed a hand over the cover, tapping the author's name. "But… this says Wen Junhui. And you are Minghao—unless that's a lie."
"Yes. I'm Xu Minghao," Minghao was a bit shy now, rubbing his hands together. "I write using my friend's name."
Jihoon blinked, brain stalling for a second. This was his favorite author. And now he was just sitting here, trying not to lose his mind, but it was too late. His nervous system suddenly went into overdrive, screaming at him to make a good impression. And so, he joked lightly: "Can you do that? Use someone's name? Does this person agree with that?"
Minghao leaned forward, his fingers brushing lightly over Jihoon's shadow on the table. "He's just this now" He murmured, eyes locked on the silhouette. Then, he added, "You are real, hyung."
Jihoon blinked at the insinuation, not knowing what should surprise him more. So that was what happened to Xu Minghao years back, when he came to visit this island? But then, how much did he know? "You can actually tell I'm not a copy—a shadow?"
Minghao nodded. "And I can tell more," He took a sip of his tea first, "I ran into Jeon Wonwoo yesterday," He said, pausing just long enough for the weight of the name to settle. "Not him exactly—his shadow. And I think… I might know how to get rid of them."
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