Chapter Text
In-ho doesn’t know what it is yet, but something feels wrong.
He stretches as he crawls out of bed, his shoulders stiff and aching as if he slept on the floor. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Not that it’s ever particularly lively, but the silence today feels a little heavier. He rubs at his eyes, groggy and half-blind with sleep, and shuffles toward the kitchen. Coffee first. Everything else later.
He barely notices the fishbowl as he walks past it, feet slowing only when his brain catches up with what his eyes just saw… or didn’t see.
He stops in his tracks, blinking at the table. The fishbowl is right where he left it, water perfectly clear and still.
And completely empty.
What...?
His frown deepens as he steps closer, slippers dragging on the cold, hard floor. The water is perfectly still, like there was never anything alive in the bowl to begin with. His eyes drift to the bottom, unconsciously searching for the fish, hoping it’s just hiding between the pebbles or something. Nothing. He leans in a little more, absurdly wondering if the fish might have shrunk. Still nothing. Of course not.
He taps the side of the glass lightly. The water vibrates, but remains eerily empty.
“Did it jump out?”
He crouches to check the floor, his gaze sweeping across the room. No wet spots. No flopping fish gasping for air. He lowers himself further, peeking under the table. Still nothing.
He moves from room to room, checking under the couch, behind furniture, inside cabinets like maybe the fish has suddenly gained legs and opposable thumbs. He checks the bathroom too, pulling the shower curtain back with a flick of his wrist.
Nothing. Just more empty space.
Finally, he opens the fridge, even though the thought is ridiculous. But at this point, all of this is ridiculous. So, whatever. He can do what he wants. His eyes land on the sad assortment of groceries: eggs, a half-empty bottle of water, and a jar of kimchi. No goldfish. Obviously.
“Fish don’t do this,” he mutters under his breath, shutting the door with a quiet thud. He stands still in the middle of the kitchen, considering all the possibilities. Did the fish die and disintegrate? But is that even possible? Can a fish just evaporate into thin air? Or in this case... melt into the water?
He sighs and sinks into a chair, staring blankly at the table.
“Maybe I imagined buying the fish,” he mutters, though it sounds absurd the second it leaves his mouth.
The silence in the apartment feels thick, almost suffocating. It’s the kind of silence that makes him want to do something completely out of character. Hell, he almost wants to dance. Anything to shake off the strange, heavy feeling pressing down on his chest. None of this makes any sense.
Eventually, the ridiculousness of the situation gets under his skin, pushing him to his feet. Enough is enough. He walks up to the table and glares at the bowl. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding together. He’s not going to lose his mind over this. Not yet.
“Alright,” he says quietly, almost like a threat. “Fine. I’ll get another one tomorrow. This time, it better stay put.”
In-ho knows he didn’t imagine it this time. He fed the fish that morning, saw it swimming lazy circles in the bowl while he sipped his coffee. He’d even tapped the glass to see it react. The fish twitched its fins and darted away, irritated. He remembers it all vividly.
So it doesn’t explain why, once again, he’s come home to an empty fishbowl.
He doesn’t bother hanging up his keys, letting them clatter to the floor instead. Slowly, he walks closer to the bowl and peers inside. The water is exactly as he saw it last time — clean, still, with no sign that anything had ever lived in it.
“This cannot be happening,” he mutters, the words feeling as unreal as the situation in front of him.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He starts searching the apartment, his feet moving on their own. He yanks open drawers, flips cushions off the couch, and crouches to peer under the furniture. He even checks under the fridge, huffing as he braces himself against the floor.
Nothing. No fish. No water trail. No clues.
In-ho straightens up, his breathing heavy with frustration. Did someone break in? Granted, the neighborhood isn't the safest area in the city but... who would steal a fish?
This place cannot be haunted… or is it?
He stops pacing and stands in front of the fishbowl again. His reflection shimmers faintly in the water, distorted and unrecognizable. He crosses his arms, glaring at the bowl as if it can explain itself.
Finally, he slumps onto the couch and rubs a hand down his face. He feels the tension leaving his body, giving way to exhaustion. He’s too drained to keep thinking in circles. All he knows is that the fish is gone. Again. The fact that it keeps happening is driving him closer and closer to some kind of existential crisis.
“Maybe I should get a camera,” he mumbles. The words hang in the air, absurd and pathetic.
He snorts quietly. The idea of spending money on something absurd is idiotic. But still, what can he do? This sort of thing does not happen on a regular basis. This is unheard of. And if he doesn’t figure it out any time soon, he might actually just lose his mind.
In-ho is done. Completely and utterly done.
He buys two fish this time, determined to outsmart whatever cosmic force or supernatural entity is playing games with him. There’s no way both of them will vanish. If one disappears, the other will still be there, swimming around like an eyewitness to the crime. It’s foolproof. He sets the bowl carefully on the table and watches the fish for a while.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s see you try something now.”
For two days, everything seems fine. He checks the bowl regularly, side-eyeing it like he expects it to pull a disappearing act at any moment. But the fish just swim in lazy, carefree loops, oblivious to his paranoia. He tries to convince himself he’s overthinking it. Maybe the other fish before them had some mysterious accident, something he hadn’t noticed.
But on the third day, he starts to believe his suspicions are true. That he’s losing his mind.
He steps inside his apartment and immediately freezes. His eyes snap to the table. The bowl is empty.
Both of his fish are gone.
A heavy silence fills the room. In-ho stands there, frozen. He stares into the water like he’s hoping to see a glitch in reality. Maybe, just maybe, some trick of the light that might explain this. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the faint gleam of light refracted through glass.
“Two this time,” he whispers, voice low and eerily calm. “Both of them. Gone.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn’t bother tearing through the apartment in a desperate search like he did before. He knows the drill by now. There won’t be any fish hiding under the furniture. No clues waiting in some dark corner. There never are.
He sinks into the couch, his gaze fixed on the bowl.
“What the hell is going on?”
He pulls out his phone and taps the screen aggressively, typing, ”Fish gone explanation.” He stares at the search results, which are as useless as he expected.
The first one is a video of some guy claiming his fish disappeared because of “negative vibes.” Another is a meme that says “When your goldfish becomes a ghostfish 💔 #RestInFish,” with a picture of an empty bowl.
With a groan, he tosses the phone onto the table. There’s no explanation for this. No prankster neighbor, no supernatural entity that would cause this. Just him, his cursed fishbowl, and a series of disappearances that feel more personal with each new loss.
He exhales slowly, his breath shaky.
“If this happens again…” He trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence. What will he do if it happens again? What can he do?
The thought lingers in his mind. If it happens again, he’s going to lose it. He’s sure of it.
In-ho isn’t even surprised when the fish disappears again.
He stands by the table, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight he feels the tension radiating up into his temples. The water glimmers under the kitchen light, clear and mocking, as if daring him to react. It’s exactly the same as every other time. The apartment is silent except for his own breathing.
He lets out a loud, frustrated sigh and grabs a handful of his hair. He pulls on his hair a little, wincing when it starts to hurt. Nothing about this makes sense.
"Alright. Fine," he mutters, his voice sharp. “You win. You wanna play games? I’ll play.”
This time, he’s going to be ready.
He rummages through a drawer until he finds his old phone. This is stupid. This is illogical. But still… Still, he sets it up in the corner of the room, angling the camera directly at the bowl. In-ho taps the record button, watching the screen for a few seconds to make sure it’s working.
“That should do it,” he mutters, nodding to himself.
When he returns that evening, the familiar feeling returns. He doesn’t even need to look at the table to know. He pockets his keys and heads to the kitchen. The bowl is empty, of course. No fish. No ripples. Just that same, perfect stillness.
“Alright,” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s see who you are.”
He grabs the phone from its spot in the corner and pulls up the video. For a few moments, the footage is clear. The fishbowl is there, completely still and undisturbed. And in it, the fish swims in circles. The video continues like that, and In-ho starts to think he's imagined all the times his fish disappeared into thin air.
That's when the glitches start.
The image stutters, freezing for a few seconds. The screen flickers as if the phone is struggling to keep up. Finally, the video dies completely, leaving only a blank screen.
In-ho stares at the phone in disbelief, his fingers tightening around the edges. "What the fuck?"
He groans loudly, throwing his phone on the couch. He watches as it lands with a soft thud.
“This is not normal,” he growls. "This has to be some kind of joke."
He stops by the window, trying to compose himself. He needs to breathe. In and out. The street below is calm and uneventful. A few people walk by, their silhouettes blurred by the glass. Nothing seems out of place.
In-ho stares for a while longer, as if expecting something to jump out at him. He would welcome anything at this point: a ghost, a thief, something. But there’s only the ordinary night stretching out before him. Eventually, he starts walking away.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
At this point, In-ho knows the fish is gone before he even steps inside. There’s no urgency this time. He goes through his evening routine as calmly as he can. He changes out of his work clothes, cooks his dinner, and does the dishes.
Eventually, he makes his way to the table and finally looks at the bowl. Empty, of course. He sighs heavily and mutters under his breath, "Why wouldn’t it be gone?"
The frustration that used to make his blood boil is gone, worn down by the same thing happening over and over. Now, there’s just a dull sense of resignation. He doesn’t even feel like tearing through the apartment looking for the fish anymore. He already knows how this ends. There's no point in flipping cushions or checking behind cabinets. The fish is gone. Simple as that.
Is this some kind of curse? Did he unknowingly piss off a vengeful spirit with a vendetta against goldfish? The idea is ridiculous, but what else makes sense?
Maybe goldfish just aren’t meant for him. Maybe he’s not cut out for pet ownership. Maybe some kind of animal God saw his living situation and said, "Yeah, nope. This man does not deserve to be a fish dad." He huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head. If someone’s trying to drive him insane, they’re doing a damn good job.
"You’re not winning," he mutters into the quiet room. “Not this time.”
He pulls out his phone again and stares at the search bar, his fingers hesitating for a moment before typing, "How to catch someone stealing fish."
The results are as useless as always. A meme with a weird caption he’s too old to understand, an article thread filled with jokes, and some conspiracy theory about fish being spies. He scrolls through them with a blank expression, feeling the last threads of his sanity slowly unraveling.
“Why is everything useless?” he mutters, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. It clatters softly and comes to a stop.
Still, he’s determined. He doesn’t know who (or what) is behind this, but he’s going to figure it out. One way or another. He leans back into the couch, his eyes narrowing in thought.
In-ho stands in front of the table, his gaze locked on the empty fishbowl like it holds the secrets to every wrong turn his life has taken. Shock has long since left him. What lingers now is a toxic blend of exhaustion and simmering rage. The sight of that perfectly still water, gleaming innocently under the kitchen light, makes his jaw tighten to the point of pain.
"You," he mutters, jabbing a finger at the bowl like it can hear him, "are seriously testing me."
What he needs right now is air. A contrast of water. Something that has been haunting him for weeks.
The cold evening air cuts into his skin as he steps onto the balcony, but it doesn’t register through the haze of frustration. His eyes absentmindedly scan the street below. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.
But then he sees it.
Near the recycling bins by the side entrance, someone is crouched low, humming softly to themselves. They’re holding something clear and round in their hands. In-ho leans over the railing, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. It’s a fishbowl. There’s fish inside, swimming in peaceful circles.
The man holding the bowl adjusts it slightly, humming louder as he grins at absolutely nothing. In-ho's jaw tightens. He doesn't recognize him. Just some random guy, crouched near the bins like this is the most normal thing in the world. He’s tall, his hair a bit long, and he looks way too relaxed for someone about to get caught in the act of fish theft.
The man stands up slowly, still holding the bowl, and In-ho takes in his whole vibe. He’s fidgety, like he’s got too much energy for his own good. And that grin. It’s the kind of grin that says he’s either completely harmless or he's type of person who risks getting arrested for stealing something invaluable. Like fish.
“You’re dead,” In-ho mutters, his voice low and dangerous.
Without another word, he storms back inside. He slams the balcony door shut behind him, the noise echoing through the apartment. He starts making his way down the stairs, each one of his steps fueled by weeks of frustration. He’s had enough of this bullshit.
This ends now.
In-ho bursts through the side entrance door, his frustration boiling over as the sound of it slamming reverberates through the alley. The man is still near the recycling bins, cradling the fishbowl. The fish inside floats serenely, completely oblivious that it's a victim of a very serious crime.
The man doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he straightens up slowly and turns to face In-ho with a grin that’s far too smug for someone caught red-handed. He holds the bowl a little higher, almost like he’s showing it off.
“Hey,” the man says casually. “Fancy seeing you here.”
In-ho's eye twitches. He points directly at the bowl. “Is that my fish?”
The man tilts his head, pretending to think about it. “What do you mean?”
“That’s my fish,” In-ho snaps, taking a step closer. His voice echoes through the narrow space, sharp with rage.
The man chuckles softly. “I mean… define 'your' fish.”
In-ho blinks, momentarily stunned by the audacity. “Are you serious? You stole it. You've been stealing my fish.”
“Borrowing,” the man corrects, raising his finger. “Relocating is the better word, actually. You keep buying more anyway, so I figured-”
“Relocating? Are you serious right now?” In-ho's voice rises, disbelief flooding his system. He stalks closer, fists clenched. “You’ve been breaking into my apartment and stealing my fish like it’s some kind of hobby?”
The man shrugs, completely unfazed. “I wouldn’t call it breaking in. More like… an act of mercy.”
“Mercy?!”
“Yeah. I mean, look at that tiny bowl in your apartment you keep them in. No plants, no filtration. It’s like a low-budget fish cell. Would you want to swim in circles all day with nothing to do?”
What? Okay, first of all, he’s not a fish. Second of all… what?
In-ho stares at him, mouth slightly open. He gestures wildly at the fishbowl. “Do you think this is a joke? I thought I was losing my mind. Why couldn’t you have just… I don’t know… asked me if I wanted unsolicited aquarium advice?”
The man chuckles again, clearly enjoying this far more than he should. “Where’s the fun in that?”
"What are you..." In-ho rubs his temple, his patience worn down to its last thread. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Seong Gi-hun,” he says nonchalantly.
In-ho freezes for a second and then glares harder. “I wasn’t actually asking your name!” he snaps, voice tight with frustration.
“Figured I’d introduce myself. You know, since you’ve been freaking out over your missing fish and all,” Gi-hun replies, grinning.
“Oh my God,” In-ho mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You're acting like I'm the insane one for reacting like this. You stole my fish! You broke into my home!"
“Maybe.” Gi-hun shrugs. “But hey, I’ve been doing you a favor. They were miserable in that tiny fishbowl of yours. No stimulation, no enrichment. I mean, come on, those poor fish... Imagine how trapped they must have felt.”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion on fish psychology!” In-ho's voice rises, sharp with frustration. He takes another step closer, and Gi-hun watches him like someone watching a particularly amusing scene in a drama.
“Bora’s better off,” Gi-hun continues, unfazed. He gives the bowl a playful tilt, causing the fish to bob gently in the water. “She’s thriving. I’ve got a big aquarium at my place. Proper filtration, plants, all the luxury. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Bora,” In-ho repeats flatly.
“Yeah. Doesn’t she look like a Bora?”
“That’s a goldfish. Bora—Borasaek literally means violet.”
“So?” Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. “It’s poetic. She’s the seventh fish, after all. I named all of them after colors in the rainbow. First was Red, second was Orange, then Yellow, Green… You know, the rainbow? ROY-G-BIV. You learn that in elementary school.”
In-ho doesn’t think twice, he lunges forward and snatches the bowl out of Gi-hun's hands. Gi-hun doesn’t resist, just watches with a shit-eating grin that only makes In-ho want to hit him.
“You,” In-ho growls, his voice trembling with rage, “are never touching my fish again. And I am calling the cops.”
“Aw, come on,” Gi-hun whines, crossing his arms like a child being scolded. “We’ve bonded! Bora’s probably gonna miss me.”
“Good,” In-ho spits, turning on his heel. “Because she’s never seeing you again.”
“Wow,” Gi-hun calls after him, his voice dripping with amusement. “Harsh.”
In-ho doesn’t respond. He storms back toward the building, each step echoing with fury. He’s almost at the door when Gi-hun calls out again, his tone teasing, like he’s enjoying every second of this.
“Hey, are you sure you don’t wanna check out the other six? My aquarium is pretty impressive.”
In-ho freezes. He turns slowly, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Gi-hun replies, grinning like he’s won something. “Don’t you wanna see the upgrade in their living situation? Get some closure, at least?”
“Yeah, because following the guy who repeatedly broke into my home sounds like a great idea,” In-ho snaps.
“And yet,” Gi-hun says with a smug shrug, “that guy happens to have all six of your missing fish. You gotta admit, I’ve got leverage.”
In-ho hesitates, grinding his teeth as he weighs his options. He wants to tell Gi-hun to fuck off, but a part of him is curious. He’s spent weeks driving himself crazy over this. If this man is telling the truth, he might finally see all six of his fish again, the ones he tore his apartment apart looking for.
But if he's lying… well, worst-case scenario, he ends up dead. No big deal.
“This better not be some kind of trap,” he warns. “If it is, I’m calling the cops.”
He’s going to die in this man’s hands. He knows it.
“It’s your second time saying that, yet I don’t see you reaching for your phone,” Gi-hun says with a chuckle. “Come on.”
But maybe he won't die if he kills him first.
In-ho groans and rubs his face. “I have experience in martial arts,” he mutters.
“And yet your concept of safety and self-defense is terrible. You better learn how to lock your doors properly.”
“Can we just get going before I start calling the cops?” In-ho rolls his eyes.
“Ha! That’s the third time now.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Gi-hun says cheerfully, already turning to lead the way.
With a deep, exasperated sigh, In-ho follows. He knows this isn’t smart. Not even close. Following a random guy to his apartment is exactly the kind of decision that gets people featured on the news. But seriously… what the fuck. He’s lost six fish. Six. He’s long past the point of being logical.
Whatever madness is waiting for him in this guy’s place, In-ho figures he’s earned some damn answers. If he has to tolerate more of this absurdity, then so be it.
The walk is short, too short, and In-ho starts feeling the first stirrings of regret as they cross the street. He glances up and freezes when Gi-hun heads for the building right across from his own.
“Wait,” In-ho says, narrowing his eyes. “You live here?”
Gi-hun turns and gives him a lazy grin. “Yup. Third floor. Convenient, huh?”
Of fucking course. Of course it’s the guy across the way. The same building In-ho stares at every time he zones out on his balcony. The thought stings his pride a little. How did he miss that the fish thief was practically his neighbor this whole time?
“Convenient isn’t the word I’d use,” In-ho mutters, following begrudgingly.
Gi-hun chuckles as they enter the building. In-ho follows slower, gripping the fishbowl a little tighter as if the fish might suddenly disappear again.
“So,” Gi-hun says casually as they climb. “You’ve really been stressing about those fish, huh?”
“Wouldn’t you?” In-ho snaps. “They kept vanishing without a trace. I thought I was going insane.”
Gi-hun shrugs. “Fair enough. I mean, I was curious how long it’d take you to catch me. Thought you’d figure it out a lot sooner, honestly.”
In-ho stares daggers at his back. “Oh, I’m sorry my fish disappearing under mysterious circumstances didn’t immediately scream ‘neighbor with a fish hoarding problem.’”
“Hey, it’s not a problem. It’s a hobby.” Gi-hun throws him a playful look over his shoulder. “I’m a hero in the fish community, you know.”
“You’re about to be a statistic in the true crime community,” In-ho mutters darkly.
Gi-hun just laughs, like this is the most fun he’s had in ages. They reach the third floor, and Gi-hun pulls out his keys. He unlocks the door with a quick twist and steps inside, waving In-ho in with an exaggerated smile.
“Welcome to Fish Freedom,” he says, grinning.
In-ho hesitates on the threshold for a moment, but curiosity and sheer indignation push him forward. He steps inside and freezes.
There, in the corner of the living room, is the aquarium. It’s huge and rectangular. Easily ten times the size of his tiny fishbowl, with plants swaying gently in the water and colorful stones decorating the bottom. A soft, soothing filter hums quietly as the fish (all six of them!!!!!) swim in slow, lazy circles like they’re on vacation.
“This can’t be real,” In-ho mutters under his breath.
He sets the fishbowl down on a nearby table and stares in awe. He stares, and stares, and stares. Their golden bodies move effortlessly through the water, not limited by space this time.
“Pretty sweet setup, huh?” Gi-hun says, leaning casually against the wall. He crosses his arms, clearly proud of himself. “Filtration system, oxygenation, aquatic plants. They even get light therapy. It’s like a spa for fish.”
In-ho turns to glare at him. “This is absurd. You stole my fish and upgraded them to five-star accommodations.”
“Borrowed,” Gi-hun corrects with an infuriating grin. “And come on, look at them. You think they’d prefer that little bowl you kept them in?”
“First of all, it’s called being practical,” In-ho deadpans. “Second, you’re not exactly a hero for sneaking into my apartment and kidnapping fish. Repeatedly.”
Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. “Kidnapping? Let’s not get dramatic. It’s more like… fish relocation services.” He gestures to the aquarium. “They’re happier now.”
“They don’t look happy. They look oblivious.” In-ho crosses his arms, his gaze still locked on the fish. “And how the hell were you even getting into my apartment?”
“Balcony,” Gi-hun says with a shrug. “Like I said, you and your poor sense of security. I just climbed over. Easy access.”
In-ho's jaw drops. “You’ve been climbing across balconies like some kind of fish thief villain? Are you insane?”
“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Gi-hun replies. “The fish were suffering. I couldn’t just leave them there.”
In-ho pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels like he’s trapped in a fever dream. “So you risked your life for fish?”
“Technically for your fish,” Gi-hun says with a wink. He steps forward and taps lightly on the aquarium glass. The fish barely react, too busy living their best aquatic lives. “Come on. Admit it. This is a pretty good setup. They’re doing great.”
“They’re my fish,” In-ho snaps. “I’m not admitting anything. You’re lucky I haven’t called the cops on you right now.”
“That’s the fourth time,” Gi-hun points out, chuckling softly. “Yeah, sure. What are you gonna tell them? ‘Officer, this man stole my fish and gave them a better life’? Good luck with that.”
In-ho glares at him, fuming. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Relax.” Gi-hun raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll make it up to you. How about I give you a fish care crash course? Maybe you’ll learn something.”
In-ho scoffs. “I don’t need lessons from a guy with a fish obsession.”
“Suit yourself.” Gi-hun shrugs, still infuriatingly relaxed. “But if you’re not gonna press charges, I’d say we’re even now. No harm, no foul, right?”
“No harm? You broke into my apartment!”
“Technically, I didn’t break in. I climbed in.” Gi-hun grins again.
In-ho groans, rubbing his face with both hands. He’s exhausted, pissed, and if he’s honest with himself, completely defeated. His fish are thriving, this guy clearly isn’t going anywhere, and now he’s stuck in some kind of surreal neighbor incident he never asked for.
“Fine,” In-ho mutters, letting his hands drop. “But if you ever take another fish from me, I swear I’m calling the cops.”
“Deal,” Gi-hun says cheerfully. He reaches out and pats In-ho's shoulder like they’re old friends. “See? I knew we’d work it out. You just needed a little help.”
“Help,” In-ho repeats, his voice flat. “It’s me who needs help. Right. Sure.”
He glances back at the aquarium. The fish continue their lazy loops, completely unaware of the chaos they’ve caused. In-ho sighs deeply. Maybe he really does need a bigger tank… or a therapist. Or a new place. Away from this guy.
“Hey, I just realized I never got your name.”
In-ho glares at him, but replies anyway, “In-ho. Hwang In-ho.”