Haru stared at the username.
It was nothing special. Just a throwaway handle on an old forum: burnt-toast17.
But it was all he had.
He had screenshotted the comment and cross-referenced the post timestamp with the forum's public archive. The thread dated back seven years, long before Eclipse even existed.
He turned his laptop toward Seojun.
"This is them. They mentioned a girl who fainted during the spring evaluation. No name, but the year matches. And number seventeen was Minju."
Seojun leaned in. "Can you message them?"
Haru tried.
The inbox button blinked.
**"This user is no longer active."
He clicked again.
**"Account disabled."
He refreshed the page.
The comment was still there.
But the user was gone.
"Seriously?" Seojun muttered. "That can't be a coincidence."
Haru shook his head. "Someone doesn't want her remembered."
They spent hours trying to trace the digital footprint.
Old emails. Blog handles. IP-linked threads. A few possible clues led to dead ends. Others were deleted before they could load.
Finally, Seojun frowned at a blurred archive snapshot.
"Wait. This post. Same user. Different thread."
It was a topic titled: "Trauma Protocols at Trainee Centers"
Buried in the middle:
"Most companies bury medical incidents under performance notes. If someone collapses, they call it 'lack of endurance.' If someone breaks down, they say 'attitude issues.' That's how you make people disappear."
Haru sat back.
Minju hadn't just died.
She had been erased.
That night, Haru dreamed of the hallway again.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
Minju stood at the end of it.
Barefoot. Pale. Her reflection flashing across every mirror lining the walls.
She reached toward him. Mouth opening. But no sound.
Then, behind her — a shadow.
Someone watching.
The dream shattered.
He woke up gasping.
Minju still hadn't returned.
But he knew what she was trying to say.
She didn't just fade.
She was covered up.
Seojun sat across the room, already awake. Still in the same clothes. Still digging.
He looked up. "You had a dream?"
Haru nodded. "Someone else was there. In the hallway. Watching her."
"You think it was staff? A trainer?"
"I don't know. But I think someone saw it happen. Maybe even helped hide it."
He took a breath.
"I have to find who that was."
At the bottom of his inbox, a new email appeared.
No subject. No sender.
Just one sentence:
"You're getting too close. Stop."