Chapter Text
His face. The ghost of it. A phantom impression that danced just beyond the reach of my conscious mind. It was maddening, this constant state of near-remembrance, this agonizing awareness of what I should be able to recall, but couldn't. The Fourth Wall, that damnable construct, a censor and a barrier, forever obscuring the features of the one man who had truly mattered. He looks just like an angel. A ridiculous notion, I knew. Kim Dokja, an angel? The very idea was absurd. And yet, the thought persisted, a stubborn seed planted in the fertile ground of my memory. An angel with ink-stained fingers and eyes that held the weight of countless stories. An angel whose face I could no longer see.
The world carried on, oblivious to my private torment. They spoke of him, lauded him, mourned him, but none could conjure his true likeness. It was a collective amnesia, a shared delusion that allowed them to function, to move forward without being crippled by the unbearable weight of his absence. "He had such a kind smile," they would say, their voices filled with a wistful longing. "His eyes held such warmth." Lies. All lies. They remembered the idea of Kim Dokja, the savior, the hero, the selfless martyr. But the man himself, the flesh-and-blood individual who had walked among them, remained a mystery, shrouded in the impenetrable fog of the Fourth Wall.
Especially to me.
The frustration was a constant companion, a dull ache that never truly subsided. I, Yoo Joonghyuk, the Regressor, the one who had witnessed the end of the world countless times, the one who had fought alongside him through countless battles, was unable to recall the face of the man who had saved us all. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow, a cruel twist of fate that mocked my every attempt to find solace in the past. Was this my punishment? To be forever haunted by a specter I could not even visualize? Was this the price I had to pay for my countless regressions, for my relentless pursuit of a perfect ending that had always remained just out of reach?
The memories flickered like images projected onto a damaged screen, fragmented and distorted, yet undeniably present. The cramped confines of the subway car, the screech of the train wheels against the tracks, the flickering neon lights that cast grotesque shadows on his face. The scent of cheap instant coffee, the feel of his hand brushing against mine in the heat of battle, the sound of his laughter echoing through the desolate landscapes of ruined cities. These were the details I clung to, the fragments of a shattered mosaic that I desperately tried to piece back together. But the central piece, the face that should have been the focal point of it all, remained stubbornly blank.
His voice, I remembered that with startling clarity. A low, soothing baritone that could cut through the chaos of battle and calm the most savage beast. A voice that had narrated our story, guided our steps, and ultimately, led us to salvation. A voice that now existed only in the echo chamber of my mind.
Kim Dokja.
The name was a brand seared into my very being, a constant reminder of the gaping void he had left behind. To speak it aloud was to invite the pain, to acknowledge the unbearable weight of his absence. It was a forbidden word, a secret prayer whispered only in the darkest hours of the night, when the memories threatened to overwhelm me completely.
His actions, I remembered those with unwavering clarity. His selflessness, his bravery, his unwavering dedication to the cause. He had always put others before himself, even when it meant jeopardizing his own life. He had faced unimaginable horrors with a stoic resolve, a quiet strength that had inspired us all. He had been the glue that held our fractured group together, the unwavering beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness. A selfless fool, some might have called him. And yet, I admired him for it. I envied his capacity for empathy, his unwavering belief in the inherent goodness of humanity, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Damn him.
Why did he have to be so… unforgettable? Why couldn't I simply erase him from my memory, move on with my life, and embrace the future that he had fought so hard to secure for us? Was I destined to be forever tethered to the ghost of a reader, a constant reminder of my own shortcomings, my own failures? Was I doomed to wander this world alone, carrying the burden of his sacrifice for all eternity?
I trained harder, fought fiercer, pushed myself beyond my physical and mental limits. It was a futile attempt to outrun the memories that clawed at me, to silence the voice that whispered his name in the dead of night, to escape the agonizing realization that I would never see his face again. I sought oblivion in the heat of battle, a temporary respite from the torment that plagued me, a fleeting moment of peace in a world consumed by chaos. But even then, he was there, a phantom presence at my side, urging me onward, guiding my hand, whispering words of encouragement in my ear.
Sleep offered no escape.
Dreams were treacherous landscapes, distorted reflections of reality where Dokja still lived, still breathed, still smiled, still reached for me with a hand that was warm and real. In these fleeting moments of nocturnal fantasy, the Fourth Wall would crumble, and I could see him clearly, his features sharp and defined, his eyes filled with a warmth that melted the ice around my heart. But these moments were always fleeting, ephemeral glimpses of a reality that could never be. I would wake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, the echo of his laughter ringing in my ears, the lingering scent of old paper and ink clinging to my senses. The cruel reality would crash down upon me like a tidal wave, and I would be left gasping for air, drowning in a sea of grief and regret.
I was Yoo Joonghyuk, the Regressor. I did not break. I did not yield. I did not succumb to despair. But in the solitude of my dreams, I wept. I longed. I remembered.
And the world remained silent, indifferent to the ache in my soul, the emptiness in my heart, the unbearable weight of my loss. The stars continued to shine, the sun continued to rise, and life continued to move on, as if nothing had happened, as if he had never existed.
But I remembered.
I would always remember.
The first time I saw him, he was huddled in a corner of the subway car, oblivious to the chaos that was unfolding around him. His nose was buried in a worn paperback, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked utterly unremarkable, a face lost in the crowd, a nobody in a world teeming with nobodies. And yet, there was something about him that caught my attention, a quiet intensity, a subtle aura of… otherness. He was different, I could sense it. He didn't belong.
I had dismissed him as a harmless eccentric, a bookworm lost in his own little world. I had bigger things to worry about, more pressing concerns to address. The world was ending, after all, and I had a destiny to fulfill. I had no time for distractions, no patience for trivialities.
But then he spoke.
His voice, a quiet murmur at first, gradually growing in confidence as he began to explain the events that were unfolding, the scenarios that were about to play out, the very fate of our world. He knew things, things that no one else could possibly know. He spoke of constellations and scenarios, of characters and narratives, of a world that existed only in the pages of a web novel.
He was crazy, I had thought. Delusional. A complete and utter madman.
And yet, he was right.
Everything he said came to pass, exactly as he had predicted. The monsters appeared, the scenarios unfolded, and the world as we knew it began to crumble. He was the only one who understood what was happening, the only one who knew how to navigate the treacherous landscape of this new reality.
I had no choice but to trust him.
Reluctantly, grudgingly, I had accepted his guidance. I had followed his instructions, relied on his knowledge, and allowed him to lead me through the labyrinthine twists and turns of this new world. And slowly, gradually, I had begun to see him in a new light.
He was more than just a reader. He was a strategist, a tactician, a visionary. He possessed a keen intellect, a sharp wit, and an uncanny ability to anticipate the moves of our enemies. He was also fiercely loyal, unwavering in his commitment to protecting those he cared about.
He was, in short, a force to be reckoned with.
But he was also deeply flawed. He was insecure, self-deprecating, and prone to bouts of crippling self-doubt. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he often struggled to cope with the immense pressure that he faced.
He was a paradox, a walking contradiction. A hero and a coward, a genius and a fool, an angel and a demon.
And I was drawn to him, inexplicably, irresistibly.
I didn't understand it at first. I had always been a loner, a solitary figure who shunned human connection. I had no need for friends, no desire for companionship. I was Yoo Joonghyuk, the Regressor, and my only goal was to save the world.
But Dokja… he was different. He saw something in me that no one else had ever seen. He recognized the humanity beneath my stoic exterior, the vulnerability hidden behind my impenetrable walls. He challenged me, pushed me, and forced me to confront the darkest parts of myself.
He made me a better person.
And I loved him for it.
Not in the way that others might love, not in the traditional, romantic sense. My love was a fierce, protective instinct, a desperate need to shield him from harm, to ensure his safety, to keep him by my side. It was a possessive, all-consuming obsession that bordered on madness.
I would have done anything for him.
I would have sacrificed everything for him.
And in the end, I did.
I failed to protect him. I failed to save him. And now, he was gone.
And I was left alone to pick up the pieces, to carry on without him, to live with the unbearable weight of his absence.
The world might remember him as a hero, as a savior, as a selfless martyr. But I would remember him as something more.
I would remember him as a friend, as a companion, as a lover.
I would remember him as the one man who had ever truly understood me.
I would remember him as the angel whose face I could no longer see.
The memories swirled around me, a maelstrom of joy and sorrow, of love and loss, of hope and despair. I closed my eyes, and I allowed myself to be swept away by the tide, to be transported back to those fleeting moments of happiness that we had shared.
I remembered the time we had spent camping in the mountains, huddled around a crackling fire, gazing up at the star-filled sky. Dokja had pointed out the constellations, weaving fantastical tales about the gods and heroes who inhabited the heavens. I had listened, captivated by his words, mesmerized by the light in his eyes.
I remembered the time we had spent exploring the ruins of a long-forgotten city, marveling at the remnants of a civilization that had once thrived in this desolate landscape. Dokja had read aloud from ancient texts, translating the forgotten language and bringing the history of this place to life. I had listened, fascinated by his knowledge, impressed by his passion.
I remembered the time we had spent rescuing a group of survivors from a horde of ravenous monsters, fighting side-by-side, back-to-back, our movements perfectly synchronized. Dokja had used his wit and his cunning to outsmart our enemies, while I had used my strength and my skill to protect him from harm. We had worked together seamlessly, a perfectly balanced team.
These were the moments I cherished, the moments that defined our relationship, the moments that made me realize how much he meant to me.
And now, they were all gone.
Lost forever, swallowed by the insatiable maw of time.
But I would not let them fade.
I would hold onto them, cling to them, and cherish them for as long as I lived.
I would keep his memory alive, even if it meant defying the very fabric of reality.
I would search for him, across worlds, across dimensions, across time itself.
I would not rest until I found him.