After the doorbell rang, the convenience store fell silent again.
It wasn't the kind of silence that comes after a conversation ends, but more like someone pressing the sound down, as if suppressing it entirely.
The child stood still, not looking back.
He could feel someone enter behind him, but there were no footsteps. The air had changed density, as though something else had been added to it.
The woman lowered her head, continuing to sort through the account books, her actions exactly the same as before.
She didn't glance at him again.
"Go through the back door," she said.
Her voice was light but left no room for negotiation.
The child glanced toward the direction she pointed.
At the end of the shelf, a door had appeared.
It wasn't there earlier.
It was narrow, the same color as the wall, and if you didn't look for it specifically, you'd never notice it.
As he walked towards the door, a muffled breath came from behind him.
Very close.
It felt like someone was right behind him, confirming his presence.
He didn't turn around.
The moment he opened the door, the lights in the convenience store went out.
It wasn't a power outage.
It was as if they had all been extinguished at once.
The door closed behind him.
Outside, there was no sound.
He stood on a staircase.
It led downward.
The stairs were steep, each step a bit higher than usual, and each time his foot landed, his knee had to push harder.
The light above him illuminated the stairs, but didn't reach the bottom.
He counted a few steps.
By the time he reached the seventh step, he stopped.
Because he realized, he wasn't actually moving downward.
The stairs were shifting.
Not collapsing.
But a slow, almost imperceptible displacement.
He wasn't approaching the bottom.
He was being pulled away.
The child's breathing grew uneven.
He reached out to steady himself against the wall.
The wall was damp.
Not from water.
It felt more like something had repeatedly touched it, and the moisture hadn't yet dried.
"Don't stop," a voice whispered in his ear.
It wasn't the woman.
The voice was soft, with a slightly worn tone.
The child didn't ask who it was.
He continued down.
He didn't know how long he walked, but eventually, his feet landed on solid ground.
The lights came on.
It was a large room.
Much larger than the convenience store.
It resembled an underground parking lot or an abandoned waiting area.
The floor was marked with lines.
Not the kind used to direct people.
But lines that had been altered repeatedly, overlapping in a way that hid their original purpose.
There were people in the room.
Not many.
They stood scattered, each keeping their distance.
No one looked at him.
They were all looking elsewhere.
The child followed their gaze.
In the center of the room, there was a cleared area.
The floor was unnaturally clean.
There was nothing there.
But it made people hesitant to approach.
"She's been here," the voice from earlier spoke again.
The child turned his head.
A man was standing beside him.
He looked ageless.
His face was covered with many small scars, as if from old wounds.
"She searched for you here," the man said.
"Did she find me?" the child asked.
The man smiled.
It wasn't mocking.
It was more like exhaustion.
"She found many things," he said, "but none of them were right."
The child's gaze returned to the empty space.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"A place of failure," the man said.
"What do you mean?" the child asked.
The man didn't immediately answer.
He walked towards the empty space and stopped at the edge.
He didn't step into it.
"Every time she gets closer to you, she leaves something behind," he said.
"Not a trace."
"A deviation."
He crouched down and traced a line on the floor with his finger.
The child couldn't see any change.
But the man's movements were deliberate.
"She thought she was getting closer to the truth," the man continued, "but with every step, she's pushing things further away."
The child suddenly realized something.
"How do you know this?" he asked.
The man looked up at him.
"Because we're the part that was left behind," he said.
"What does that mean?" the child asked.
The man stood up.
He pointed to the other people in the room.
"When she searches wrong, it leaves a result," he said. "This result cannot survive, nor can it return."
"It can only stay here."
The child's chest tightened.
"What about me?" he asked.
The man didn't answer.
A low-frequency vibration suddenly filled the room.
It wasn't a sound.
It felt more like the building itself was reacting.
The empty space began to shift.
The floor slightly rose.
As if something was trying to push up from below.
The child instinctively stepped back.
Everyone's gaze focused on the area.
No one stopped.
No one approached.
"She's coming," someone whispered.
The child's heart dropped.
"Didn't she already turn into that thing?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"That was just the first stage," he said.
"She's still searching for you."
"As long as she's still looking, you'll never be safe."
The floor cracked open slowly.
Not with a crash.
But a gradual tearing.
Inside the crack, there was nothing.
Only a damp smell.
Like a space that had been sealed for a long time, now opened for the first time.
The child suddenly realized something.
"If she finds me, what will happen?" he asked.
The man looked at him.
His gaze was complex.
"Then you won't be you anymore," he said.
From within the crack, a faint breath sounded.
Familiar.
The child's body froze.
It was the sound from his memory, the one that had brushed against his ear at night.
A long time ago.
Before things had started to deform.
"She remembers your way has already gone wrong," the man whispered.
"But she won't stop."
The crack widened further.
People began to retreat.
Not out of panic.
But as if they already knew this would happen.
The child stood still.
He saw a hand slowly appear from the crack.
The fingers were long, the joints bending in reverse.
The skin had familiar lines.
It was the hand he remembered.
Only the proportions were wrong.
Like it had been stretched forcibly.
"You can't respond to her," the man whispered in his ear.
"She will call your name."
"She'll use the one you learned first."
From the crack, a voice came.
Soft.
With uncertainty.
Like practicing.
"...Come back."
The child's throat tightened.
The voice came again.
Closer this time.
"Come back."
This time, it was almost pressed against his consciousness.
The child suddenly understood the woman in the convenience store's words.
Once he responded.
Once he confirmed.
The replacement would happen.
He slowly stepped back.
His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty room.
The thing in the crack stopped.
As if calculating.
"Did you hear it?" the voice asked.
The child didn't answer.
The lights in the room began to flicker.
Someone muttered a curse.
"She realized something's wrong," the man said.
"Run," he said.
As the child turned, a sharp grinding sound came from behind him.
Like bones scraping across the floor.
He didn't look back.
He didn't know how long he ran.
But he knew—
This place was no longer the end she was searching for.
It was the starting point for her continued transformation.