He forced his aching limbs out of bed, his legs unsteady. The floor was cold, the kind of cold that stuck to your skin. As he trudged to the bathroom, a headache bloomed at the base of his skull, dull but persistent.
The shower was warm at first. Comforting. Familiar. The hiss of water filled the space, the steam curling around the mirror. Kun let out a soft sigh as he scrubbed shampoo into his hair, closing his eyes.
Then—
Click.
The sound was subtle. Almost like the faucet being turned. But the water stopped.
He stood there, blind and dripping, shampoo still thick across his scalp.
“What the—?”
Kun blinked through the sting in his eyes, reaching for the faucet handle. He turned it one way, then the other. Nothing. Not even a drop.
Annoyed, he rubbed the soap from his face with the towel hanging over the glass divider. But the moment he lifted his head—
There was a face in the wall.
Dark hair hung like seaweed, slick and unmoving. Skin pale like rotted paper, and eyes—those eyes were hollow, endless pits that bore straight into him. Its mouth opened slowly, stretching farther than it should, as if mid-scream… though no sound came from it.
Kun’s breath shattered into a scream.
He slipped backward on the wet tiles. His legs flew out from under him, and with a bone-jarring thud, he crashed onto his side. Pain shot up from his hip like fire. It knocked the breath out of him. A strangled cry escaped his throat as he curled up, clutching his side.
Footsteps thundered outside the bathroom.
“Kun?!”
His mother burst through the door, her eyes wide with panic. She found him half-naked, slumped against the tiled wall, water now cascading from the shower head again—as if it had never stopped.
“Kun! What happened?!” she cried, kneeling beside him, her hands trembling as she tried to lift him.
“I—I slipped—” Kun whimpered, tears hot on his face. “It hurts, Mom—it hurts so bad—”
His hip was already bruising, swollen and discolored. She wrapped a towel around him, trying not to jostle him too much as she helped him hobble back to bed.
Kun lay in his sheets, every movement sending shocks of pain through his side. His mother dressed him with care, her face strained with worry.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she said with firm resolve, grabbing her phone from the bedside.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He bit into the pillow, muffling the sobs he couldn’t hold in.
The phone buzzed. She stared at the screen—eyes narrowing, her body freezing mid-step.
“Pick it up, Mom,” Kun whispered, his voice raw.
Her brows furrowed. “No. This isn’t—”
“It’s work,” Kun said quietly. “It’s always work.”
She looked away.
“I can handle it,” he added. “Really. Just go.”
Her hand tightened on the phone. “I won’t be long. Just a short meeting, then I’ll bring you in. I swear.”
Kun nodded, but the tears didn’t stop. His mother kissed his forehead, and Kun tried to smile for her, but it was warped by pain.
Outside the room, she answered the call. Her boss’s voice was loud enough to be heard through the thin walls. Angry. Demanding. She reasoned, begged—but they gave her an ultimatum. Show up, or don’t come back.
She leaned against the hallway wall, staring down at the floor.
Inside, Kun lay alone.
The ceiling stared back at him like a blank face. The silence of the house was eerie now, oppressive. He winced with every breath, but something else was gnawing at him—a feeling of being watched.
His mother returned, eyes glassy. “I’ll be back after the meeting. I promise.”
Kun nodded weakly. “I’ll wait.”
And she left.
He was alone.
The hallway clock ticked loudly. Tick. Tick. Tick.
In the silence that followed, Kun closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, the face in the wall burned itself into memory. That wasn’t a trick of the light. That wasn’t his imagination.
It had really been there—that face, looming in the wall, as if it wanted to swallow him whole.
But now, all that remained was the cold hush of the house... and the fact that his mom was really running late. She’d said she would be back after her meeting, but it was already afternoon.
“Maybe she forgot again,” Kun murmured to himself with a defeated sigh, a small smile tugging at his lips.
The sky had begun to shift to a muted amber when the doorbell rang.
Kun lay half-asleep under his blanket, the pain was sharp. His body ached, but worse was the feeling that had settled in his chest since that morning—a gnawing dread, like something had been scraped open inside him. The memory of the face in the wall wouldn’t fade. He kept hearing water dripping, even though the bathroom faucet had stopped long ago.
Ding-dong.
The chime echoed through the hallway.
Kun’s brows furrowed. He struggled to sit up, wincing. “Mom?”
No answer. He’d almost forgotten—she wasn’t back yet.
Another ring followed. A little longer this time.
Slowly, painfully, Kun pulled himself out of bed. The crutches his mother had set beside him were still leaning against the nightstand, but he didn’t reach for them. He moved stiffly toward the living room, favoring his uninjured side.
He opened the door—and there, standing against the hazy afternoon light, was Sai.
“Kun,” Sai said softly. “You didn’t come to school today.”
Kun stared at him, caught off guard. Sai looked exactly the same—uniform slightly wrinkled, long black hair falling into his eyes, a small plastic bag clutched in one hand. His voice held no malice, only concern.
But something in Kun’s stomach twisted.
“I was worried,” Sai added.
Kun blinked, trying to find words. “I… I had an accident.”
Sai tilted his head. “Oh no. Are you okay?”
Kun hesitated. “Yeah. I mean… not really. I fell in the bathroom this morning. My hip’s… bad.”
A moment passed. Sai stepped forward.
“I brought something for you,” he said, lifting the bag. “Snacks. And those grape drinks you like.”
“Thanks, Sai. You’re the first one to visit,” Kun said with a small smile and a quiet sigh.
He stepped aside slowly. “You can come in."
Sai smiled again. “Thanks”
He stepped inside without hesitation.
Kun led him back to his room with slow, shuffling steps. The pain made his breaths short. Sai didn’t speak as they walked—he only watched. Not the way a friend watches out of concern, but the way a cat watches a bird limp on a broken wing.
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Back in his room, Kun climbed into bed with a wince. Sai placed the snacks on the nightstand and sat quietly on the floor, legs folded neatly.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Sai said after a long pause. “Falling. That must’ve really hurt.”
Kun nodded. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t see anything… weird, did you?” Sai asked softly.
Kun froze.
The air grew colder. Barely—but enough that he noticed.
“What do you mean?” Kun asked, voice cautious.
Sai smiled again, but slower this time. “Just wondering.”
Kun looked away. “I was half-asleep. I probably imagined things. It’s nothing.”
Sai said nothing to that. The silence stretched thin.
“Did anything strange happen while I was gone?” Kun asked, trying to change the subject. “At school?”
“Not really,” Sai replied. “But I missed you.”
Kun laughed awkwardly, unsure how to respond. “You… don’t have to say things like that.”
“But I do,” Sai whispered. “Because they’re true.”
There was something fragile in his tone—like a thread unraveling at the edge.
Kun looked at him for a long moment, then glanced at the nightstand. The grape drink was still cold. He reached for it and cracked the seal.
He took a sip.
But it tasted… different. Slightly off. Not bad, exactly—but not quite right either.
Sai watched him drink in silence.
“...” Kun stared back at him. And then, without quite meaning to, the words slipped from his mouth.
"I missed you."
It was a simple truth. Kun didn’t say it to be polite. Something about the stillness in the room, the way Sai sat there so patiently… it pulled something real out of him.
But the moment the words left his mouth, the air changed.
Sai froze—not in surprise, but in something else. Something deeper. Like he'd been waiting for that exact phrase, listening for it with all of him. His eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth lifted, slowly, shakily.
“…You do?” he whispered.
Kun blinked. “I mean, yeah. I’ve gotten used to you being around, I guess. You’re the only one who really talks to me, so…”
Sai lowered his head, almost reverently, like Kun had said something sacred. His hair fell across his face, veiling his expression. But Kun could feel it—that strange pressure again. Like the room had drawn in a deep breath and wasn’t exhaling.
He tried to laugh. “It’s not that deep. I’m just glad you’re here, that’s all.”
Sai looked up.
His smile was too wide. Too still.
“I’m glad I’m here too,” he said softly. “I wanted to come right away. The moment I heard you didn’t show up, I felt… awful. Like something bad had happened. And I was right.”
Kun’s stomach twisted.
“It wasn’t that bad. I just slipped.”
Sai didn’t move. He stared at Kun for a beat too long. Then, slowly, he rose from the floor.
He didn’t ask.
He sat beside Kun on the bed.
Kun stiffened a little—not from fear, exactly, but from that feeling again. The wrongness he couldn’t quite place.
Sai turned toward him, legs folded neatly on the mattress, knees tucked close. “I’m really sorry you got hurt.”
His voice was so gentle it felt rehearsed.
“I was scared this morning,” he continued. “When your seat was empty. It felt like…” He trailed off, then leaned in just slightly. “Like I lost something. Again.”
Kun tilted his head. “Again?”
Sai blinked, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Never mind,” he said quickly. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re here.”
He smiled.
But it was wrong.
Too serene. Too still.
Kun swallowed hard. “Thanks… for visiting.”
Sai nodded. “Of course. I’ll always come. No matter what.”
Kun tried to shift away slightly, but the movement sent a jolt of pain up his side. He hissed under his breath.
Sai’s hand moved.
It rested gently—light as a whisper—on Kun’s blanket-covered hip, just above the swelling. He didn’t press, didn’t touch skin, but the gesture was too intimate, too deliberate.
Kun’s breath hitched. “Sai—”
“I can take care of you,” Sai whispered. “You don’t have to hurt anymore. You don’t have to be alone.”
Kun looked at him sharply.
There was something hungry in his eyes now.
“I’m not alone,” Kun said, thinking about his mother, unsure why his throat felt dry.
“You will be,” Sai murmured. “Soon.”
Kun flinched.
But before he could speak, Sai stood again, all warmth suddenly gone from his posture. He moved to the window, peeking past the curtain. The sun was lowering, casting an orange wash across the sky.
“…Your mom’s late,” he said softly.
Kun nodded.
Sai didn’t turn around. “She forgets you a lot.”
“That’s not true,” Kun said.
Sai was quiet. Then, “She’ll leave. People always do. But I won’t.”
Kun stared at his back. Something in him screamed run, but his legs wouldn’t move.
“I don’t want to be alone either, Kun,” Sai whispered. “And now that you miss me…”
He turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder.
Later that evening.
Kun was asleep in his room when his mother arrived home.
She opened the front door with a sigh, heels clicking softly on the floor as she stepped inside and flicked on the hallway lights. “I’m sorry, Kun… something came up at work—” she began, her voice weary.
She paused in his doorway.
He was already in bed, curled under the blankets. Peaceful. Breathing slow. A faint rise and fall of his chest in the dim glow.
A little smile touched her lips. Relief, gentle and fleeting.
But then her gaze fell to the nightstand.
A can of grape juice sat beside him, its tab already popped open.
Her smile faded slightly. She stepped closer, frowning.
Kun didn’t usually drink this brand. She didn’t remember buying it.
She reached out—curious, uneasy—and picked it up.
That’s when she saw them.
Tiny worms.
Squirming at the bottom, pale and glistening. Dozens of them.
Her breath caught. She nearly dropped the can.
Why would Kun drink this? Where had it come from?
A cold dread slipped through her veins.
“Kun?” she called, voice shaky now.
She turned toward him—
And froze.
Kun was awake.
But he wasn’t looking at her. Not really.
His body was still, too still, eyes wide open—completely black. Not shadowed. Not glazed over. Black, like tar. Like something had been scooped out and filled with ink.
And his mouth…
It hung open, jaw slack, the inside pitch-dark and too deep. Too wide. It stretched unnaturally, as if the skin around it had forgotten how to hold shape. There was no sound. Just the gaping dark.
Her breath hitched. “Kun—?”
He blinked once.
Slowly.
And then he smiled.
But it wasn’t his smile.
It was crooked. Wrong. Like it belonged to something wearing his skin.
The lights flickered.
Behind her, the hallway creaked—soft, deliberate, like footsteps that weren’t meant to be heard.
She turned, heart pounding, but there was no one there.
And when she looked back...
The bed was empty.
Only the can remained.
Still warm.
Still squirming.
Then Kun called her back to reality.
“Mom,” he muttered hoarsely. “Hey…”
She turned, startled.
Kun was lying in bed again—no black eyes, no twisted smile, no gaping mouth. Just her son, pale and flushed with a fever, staring at her through bleary eyes.
He looked confused. Tired.
His skin was damp with sweat, his breathing shallow.
“Kun…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You… you’re awake?”
“I feel sick,” he mumbled, shifting under the blankets. “My head hurts… and my hips too.”
She blinked rapidly, clutching the can in her hand. The worms were gone.
Just liquid inside now—syrupy purple, normal, mundane.
Had she imagined it?
She looked at Kun again, at the lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his fingers weakly curled into the sheets. He looked real. Fragile. Burned-out.
“Where did you get this drink?” she asked quietly, lifting the can.
Kun squinted at it. “Sai brought it. Said it’d cheer me up…”
Her breath hitched.
He sounded so innocent. So trusting.
She turned the can over in her hand. No label. No brand. No expiration date.
Her fingers felt suddenly numb.
“You shouldn’t drink anything he gives you,” she said carefully.
Kun frowned. “Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I don’t… I don’t know who he is.”
“But he’s my friend,” Kun murmured. “He… he remembered the kind I liked. Nobody ever remembers.”
He gave a weak smile, but something about it unsettled her. The way his lips trembled at the edges. The way his eyes seemed to flick—just for a second—past her shoulder.
As if someone else was in the room.
Watching.
She set the can down gently, far from the bed.
“Try to rest,” she said softly, brushing a hand across his damp forehead. “I’ll call the doctor.”
He nodded faintly, eyes already fluttering closed.
She stood slowly, backing out of the room, trying to calm her breath. But just before she stepped into the hallway—
Kun spoke again.
“Hey, Mom?”
She turned. “Yes?”
His voice was distant. Muffled by sleep. “If Sai asks… don’t tell him you saw the worms.”
Her blood turned cold.
He didn’t open his eyes again.
And somewhere beyond the hallway, in the part of the house no one used anymore, she heard the faintest sound.
Dripping water.
Kun's mother stood motionless in the hallway.
The silence pressed against her ears, but the sound was unmistakable—dripping. Not from the bathroom. From further in. Deeper. From the old storage room past the kitchen, the one they never used.
She glanced back at Kun’s door. He was resting again, face flushed, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Fevered. Helpless. She hesitated only a second more before reaching for the hall light and slowly moving forward.
Drip… drip…
Her footsteps were careful, hushed. The wooden floor creaked under her weight, each groan of the house a fresh knife to her nerves. She passed the kitchen—the faucet was dry. No dishes in the sink. Everything in place.
But the dripping didn’t stop.
It led her to the back hallway. A cold draft met her there, and her arms prickled with goosebumps. The door to the storage room stood half-open, though she was sure she had locked it months ago.
She reached for the knob with trembling fingers and slowly pushed it open.
The light switch didn’t work.
Only the pale moonlight from a small window illuminated the room, casting silvery shapes across old furniture, dusty boxes, and—
She froze.
There was something wet on the floor.
A trail of dark water led from the window to the far wall. Her eyes followed it, stomach tightening. There, in the corner, was a puddle—beneath it, a small, blackened stain like mold. But as she stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat.
Handprints.
Small, dripping handprints smeared across the wall. As though a child had pressed their palms against it again and again—frantic, searching. But Kun hadn’t been in here. He couldn’t have. He could barely walk.
And just above the handprints, etched into the wallpaper like someone had carved with a broken fingernail:
YOU SAW THEM TOO.
She staggered back, a gasp escaping her.
Something skittered across the ceiling.
She snapped her head up—nothing there.
Just shadows.
Drip. Drip.
Now it was coming from above her. From the attic.
She backed out of the room, slamming the door shut, heart thudding in her chest.
But when she turned—
The hallway was dark.
All the lights she’d turned on were out. The soft glow that used to pour from Kun’s bedroom was gone.
“Kun?” she called out, panic rising. “Kun!”
She ran down the hall, flung open his door—
He was still there.
Still lying in bed.
Still breathing.
But this time, there was someone else sitting beside him.
Back turned. Head tilted.
Long black hair falling across his shoulders.
He turned slightly at her presence, as if he’d known she was there the whole time.
“Ssh,” Sai said softly, without looking. “He’s trying to sleep.”
“…you never have to be.”