It began slowly. The way storms do—disguised as a breeze.
Ji-ho stood behind the counter at Euncheonscription, attempting to remember how to smile. How to serve. How to be present. His apron strings felt too tight today. The air around him felt warped, like it was pressing down on him, whispering things he couldn't decipher.
He tried to pour a cup of coffee. His hands trembled.
He blinked, and for a split second, he was somewhere else.
Not the café.
A cold room. A metal chair. A small hand trying to reach for something. Someone yelling his name—not Ji-ho. Something else. Something that didn't belong here.
He dropped the cup. Porcelain shattered across the floor.
His coworkers gasped. One rushed toward him. "Ji-ho-ssi!"
But he didn't hear them. He was trying to remember how to breathe.
His chest tightened. His knees buckled.
The floor felt like it had vanished beneath him. Lights spun like sirens in the back of his skull. A name screamed through his bloodstream.
Jung Soo-min.
He collapsed.
The sound of his body hitting the tile echoed louder than the crash of the cup.
He woke up in the hospital, a steady beeping dragging him back into consciousness.
The lights were dim. Curtains half-drawn. His head was pounding.
There was a clipboard at the foot of the bed. His name—Yoon Ji-ho—was scrawled in bold.
But beside it, the nurse had written something else.
"Patient's former records flagged: Jung Soo-min?"
His vision blurred.
His lips parted, but his voice cracked before it could escape.
A nurse walked in. "You're awake—good. Just relax, you've had quite the episode."
Ji-ho tried to sit up. She gently pushed him back down.
"We've contacted your emergency contact, but there was no response. Your manager brought you in. Said you collapsed at work. They'll be back to check on you soon."
He swallowed. "Why… why did you write that name?"
The nurse hesitated. "When you were admitted, your ID didn't match the records we pulled from the national system. The name attached to your birth ID was flagged. Jung Soo-min. We assumed you'd legally changed your name but hadn't updated your medical data."
His mouth went dry. "That's impossible."
"I can double-check with records," she said gently, "but… are you telling me you've never heard that name before?"
He didn't answer.
Because his mind was screaming.
The dreams. The voice. The humming. The shadows that followed him in mirrors. The man who always stood outside the bakery. The man he'd come to call samchon.
No.
The man who had called him Soo-min.
The man who had never once flinched at the name.
His heart pounded so loudly it was hard to hear the nurse's footsteps leaving.
He gripped the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
What is happening to me?
He turned toward the window.
The city was still the same. Cars passed. Lights blinked. People walked.
But he had changed.
And somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, he felt it:
Something is about to go very, very wrong.
The sun had nearly set, but the light still clung stubbornly to the edges of the sky—like a memory refusing to fade. Hyun-seok moved quietly down the alleyway near the subway exit, a bundle of new flyers tucked beneath his arm. Each one bore the same face. Each one was a prayer disguised as a printout.
Missing: Jung Soo-min (goes by Yoon Ji-ho) . Missing: HaEun-ji (goes by Seo Yoon)
He had gone to the station to put up the last of them.
Each flyer was perfect, each one laminated against the threat of rain. Each one bore hope that someone, anyone, might still recognise the name. Might connect the dots. Might say, I saw them.
He had done this every week for the last 19 years.
Some people nodded. Most ignored him. A few scoffed.
But it never stopped him.
Because this wasn't about recognition anymore.
This was his ritual. His punishment. His promise.
He stepped into the alley shortcut, passing beneath a flickering sign. The walls were lined with old posters and peeling paint. Familiar. Too familiar. He should've taken the longer route.
But he didn't.
The Couple sat quietly in a black sedan, parked just at the far end of the alley.
No headlights.
No movement.
Just waiting.
They watched him step into view.
The woman adjusted her gloves.
"Don't you think he's trying to infiltrate Ji-ho with such bad thoughts?" she murmured.
The man nodded. "He's trying to undo what we tried to protect him from ."
Their tone wasn't angry. It wasn't even cold.
It was logical. Precise. Like doctors diagnosing an infection.
"Yeobo, he's going to take our Ji-ho away."
"We can't let him do that."
They moved like clockwork.
The back door opened without a sound.
He didn't hear them behind him.
Hyun-seok had just reached into his bag, pulling out a fresh roll of tape to post another flyer. He never got to stick it to the wall.
A gloved hand reached around his throat.
Another hand plunged the syringe into his neck.
He gasped. Tried to speak. The tape fell to the ground.
The world blurred instantly—not like sleep, not like sedation. It was sharp, sudden, like having the ground ripped from under him.
He reached up—grabbed someone's sleeve.
The man looked at him, dispassionate. "Shh."
The woman caught the falling flyers before they touched the ground.
The faces stared back at her.
Her lip curled just slightly.
"Ahjussi, you should've let him go, Uri Ji-ho (Our Ji-ho) is home now, stop trying to lie to him."
He tried to fight. His body twitched. His foot dragged across the concrete.
But it was too late.
His head fell against the woman's shoulder as the sedative took full effect.
She held him gently.
Like a mother. Like a nurse. Like a lie.
They loaded him into the van.
No one saw.
The alley remained quiet.
The final flyer sat crumpled beside the drain. It read:
Have you seen my son? Have you seen her?
Please. Don't forget them.
But now someone would have to post a new one.
For him.
The The lights above flickered.
Not enough to make the room go dark. Just enough to unsettle the edges.
Ji-ho stirred in the hospital bed, his breath shallow and uneven. Sweat clung to his hairline, and the white blanket over him felt too heavy. A dull beep pulsed rhythmically beside him—steady, robotic. His eyelids fluttered open.
White ceiling. Antiseptic air. The sterile quiet of too much order.
A nurse entered with a clipboard, her expression calm but alert. She paused when she saw his eyes open.
"Ah, You're awake," she said gently.
Ji-ho blinked. The world was slow to register.
"Can you tell me your name?"
He licked his lips. Swallowed.
"Yoon... Ji-ho."
The nurse frowned slightly. Checked her notes.
"I see," she murmured, but her voice had changed. Just slightly. Too flat. Too careful.
She turned toward the machine and adjusted the IV.
"That's what you go by now, you said it earlier before you passed out"
Ji-ho furrowed his brow.
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated. Then held up the corner of the clipboard.
A sticky note was attached. In neat handwriting:
Patient ID conflict. Legal name: Jung Soo-min.
His heart thudded.
"That's... not possible."
The nurse softened, crouching slightly to his level.
"Like I mentioned to you earlier, your ID didn't match our records. When we scanned your fingerprints from the emergency intake, this came up. We thought maybe it was a clerical error. But..."
Ji-ho shook his head. Violently.
"No. I don't know that name. I'm not—"
But he stopped.
Because the words felt like glass in his throat.
His pulse quickened. He felt dizzy. The room felt off balance.
The nurse placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You don't have to panic. This sometimes happens when someone has gone through extreme trauma. Memory can distort. Identities can be changed. We're not accusing you of anything. We just want to help."
He stared at the clipboard.
The letters blurred.
J-u-n-g S-o-o-m-i-n.
His head pounded. His stomach turned.
"Can I... can I see the file? The... records?" he asked, voice thin.
"Of course. We'll get someone from administration to speak with you. But right now, you need to rest."
She smiled gently, but he saw it—the pity behind her eyes. The uncertainty.
"Does anyone know I'm here?"
"Your workplace manager brought you in. Said you collapsed. We tried to reach your emergency contact, but there wasn't any number listed".
Ji-ho's eyes widened.
"What name did he give?"
"Yoon Ji-ho," she said. "But the hospital's biometric system still flagged the legal ID."
Ji-ho turned his head away.
The lights above flickered again.
Outside, the hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
Inside, something shifted.
Because the name wasn't foreign anymore.
It was familiar.
It wasn't just a name.
It was a fracture.
And Ji-ho didn't know how many more fractures he could take before everything inside him shattered.
He was discharged before noon.
The hospital staff had insisted he stay longer. Rest. Hydrate. They used soft words like recovery, observation, and trauma-induced dissociation.
But Ji-ho couldn't breathe under those white lights any longer. The walls were too clean. Too still. He needed air. Movement. Something real to hold onto.
The ID band still clung to his wrist like a shackle. Jung Soo-min. He hadn't taken it off. Not yet. Not because he believed it. But because the weight of it frightened him. As if tearing it off would confirm something irreversible.
He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his legs numb. The nurse from earlier came in with a discharge form, hesitating when their eyes met.
"Your manager left some clothes for you," she said. "He said you'd want to change out of the gown."
Ji-ho nodded silently. He dressed slowly, fingers fumbling over the buttons of his shirt like he'd forgotten how to function. The hospital slippers felt like cement on his feet.
Before she left, the nurse handed him a small folder.
Inside: a printout. A copy of the biometric match result. A name he had never said aloud.
Legal Identity: Jung Soo-minMissing Person Report: Filed 17 years agoStatus: Case Closed (Runaway)
He stared at it.
Not the name.
The status.
Runaway.
A child doesn't run away.
A 7 year old child at that.
A child doesn't run away forever.
A child gets taken.
He clutched the folder and stood. His legs trembled under him. The corridor leading out of the hospital felt longer than any hallway he'd ever walked. Like the building itself was stretching. Mocking him.
He didn't stop at reception. He didn't ask for the full file. He didn't want to hear another apology. Another cautious explanation.
All he wanted to do was leave.
The sliding doors opened automatically.
Sunlight poured in.
Ji-ho squinted against it, stepping outside for the first time in two days.
His chest ached. His throat was tight. But the silence had returned.
The kind of silence that didn't come from absence.
It came from something missing.
He reached into his coat pocket. No phone.
Then remembered.
It had been shattered when he collapsed.
The hospital staff hadn't replaced it.
He looked around the street.
Buses. Cars. People. All moving. All unbothered.
He stepped onto the pavement, the folder gripped tight in one hand.
And that's when he felt it.
That eerie, gut-deep stillness.
Not just a feeling. Not just a tremor.
Something was gone.
And this time, it wasn't a memory.
It was someone real.