╰┈➤In a world where the line between life and death blurs, a girl named Kwon Dae is haunted by the tragic loss of her five childhood friends, in a devastating car crash. Three months after their funeral, Dae's nights are filled with vivid visions an...
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Trigger Warning: This story contains mentions of blood and may be unsettling for some readers. Please proceed with caution.
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I stay silent for a while before my voice speaks out, slightly cracking. "Jeongin?—"
"No! Dae, we can't wait even a seco—Dae? Are you okay?"
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, my hair disheveled and my shirt rumpled. I quickly fix both, trying to project some semblance of normalcy before clearing my throat. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine."
A moment passes, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, before his voice crackles through the speaker again. "Alright, I'll keep the aid kit ready. Please, just get here as soon as possible!"
How does he—?
Right. Witchcraft.
"But why—"
"You saw everything with your own eyes. It's all real. So BELIEVE ME AND GETCHO ASS HERE!"
I wince and pull the device away from my ear, startled by the volume of his voice. "A-Alright! Alright..."
I hastily cut the call and shove my phone back into my bag, my fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the fabric. My gaze flickers back to the mirror for one final glance—a fleeting attempt to gather myself—before I burst out of the bathroom and into the dimly lit hallway, the faint echo of my footsteps reverberating through the silence.
I dash through the university building, the oppressive weight of darkness closing in from every corner. My body screams with pain—every muscle aching as though I'm going through a brutal trial. My feet feel like they're ablaze, each step searing as if I'm running across a fiery path. But the urgency in Jeongin's voice drowns out every sensation, every doubt.
I spot the bus station ahead, a beacon in the night, and thankfully, I'm just in time as the bus stands tall, waiting to be boarded. I clutch my stomach and make a final dash toward the heavenly station, each stride fueled by adrenaline.
The doors of the bus slide open with a mechanical sigh, revealing the comforting interior, softly lit and inviting despite the lateness of the hour. The driver, a middle-aged man with gentle eyes and a weathered face, glances in my direction. His gaze, once indifferent, shifts to one of concern as it falls on the cuts and bruises that mar my face and body. I can feel his unspoken questions lingering in the air, but he says nothing, choosing instead to offer a small nod of understanding, as if he knows that words would only slow me down.
