Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Choi Han had never been alone.

Even in the hazy fragments of his earliest memories— where the world was nothing but soft lullabies and the gentle sway of a crib mobile— there had always been someone else. A presence that didn’t belong, yet never frightened him.

A man.

He stood quietly near the corner of the room, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the color of autumn leaves caught in sunlight. His eyes were sharp, too sharp for the gentle nursery, but they weren’t unkind. Always folded arms, always that expression of faint judgment, as though even the rattles and stuffed animals were not living up to his standards.

Sometimes, when the nightlight cast strange shadows on the walls, Choi Han would curl against his blanket and peek at the figure. The man never moved closer, never made a sound. He simply watched. A silent guardian, a stranger who seemed too solid to be imaginary, too steady to be a dream.

And even as an infant, Choi Han knew— without understanding how— that the man was there for him.

By the time Choi Han was five, he had stopped crying whenever he saw the man.

Ghosts were supposed to be frightening— shadows in the dark, whispers in the night. But this one… wasn’t.

He was sharp-tongued, yes, and had the kind of stare that would have made adults shift uncomfortably, but he was never cruel to Choi Han. If anything, the man’s constant presence felt reassuring, like an invisible hand resting between his shoulders.

When his teacher scolded him one afternoon for coloring outside the lines, wagging her finger as if he’d committed a terrible crime, the ghost leaned over with an unimpressed look.

“That woman couldn’t find imagination if it bit her in the face.”

The words were so dryly delivered that Choi Han burst into helpless giggles right there at his desk. His classmates turned to stare, and his teacher’s frown deepened.

To her, it looked as though he was laughing at being punished.

But to Choi Han, it was simply the first time someone else in the room had understood him.

At nine, he was struggling with a math test. Numbers swam uselessly in his head, lines and symbols blurring together. Then a low voice beside him murmured,

“The answer’s eight. Don’t overthink.”

Choi Han scribbled it down. The answer was correct. He passed.

“Are you… helping me cheat?” he whispered later, as he packed away his books.

The ghost smirked, leaning lazily against the wall.

“Call it… compensating for incompetent educators.”

That year, the ghost became more insistent about “helping.”

When Choi Han forgot to bring his homework, he muttered, “Blame it on the dog. Teachers always believe the dog.” To his surprise, it worked.

When a boy tried to shove him during recess, the ghost whispered, “Step aside—now.” The boy stumbled forward and tripped over his own feet, crashing into the dirt while Choi Han blinked in astonishment.

When Choi Han froze on stage during a class recital, staring helplessly at the expectant audience, he sighed. “Take a deep breath. Pretend they’re furniture. Hide the trembling in your hands by holding the paper tighter. There— better.”

At twelve, a boy in class stuck out his foot to trip him on purpose. Choi Han clenched his fists, ready to fight back— but before he could even take a swing, the boy suddenly pitched forward and landed flat on his face, legs tangled.

The ghost lounged nearby, looking unbearably smug.

“Gravity is a cruel mistress. He deserved it.”

Choi Han tried to hold it in, but the laughter bubbled up uncontrollably until his stomach hurt. The teacher scolded him for being insensitive, but Choi Han couldn’t stop grinning.

That wasn’t the only incident that year.

When a group of older kids cornered him after class, the ghost appeared at his shoulder, voice cool and steady.

“Left hook. Now.”

Choi Han swung, more out of instinct than courage, and landed a punch that sent the bully sprawling. His heart hammered in disbelief, but the ghost only smirked.

“See? Not so hard when you listen.”

And when Choi Han stayed up too late trying to memorize historical dates, the ghost shook his head.

“It’s not even that hard. Here, use this memorisation trick.”

Choi Han did, and for once, passed without breaking a sweat.

By twelve, the ghost was no longer just an unsettling presence. He was Choi Han’s secret weapon, his hidden ally. Annoying, smug, and endlessly opinionated— but always on his side.

Still, every time Choi Han asked what the ghost wanted, the answer never changed.

At night, when the house was quiet and shadows stretched long across his bedroom, the ghost would lean against the wall, arms folded, voice softer than usual.

“I want to go home.”

The problem was— he couldn’t remember where home was.

“Big house,” he would say, brow furrowed as though the act of recalling pained him. “Pale walls. A roof that was red… or something close. There were fields. Rolling hills. A village nearby… maybe.”

But the more Choi Han pressed for details, the hazier they became. Every image slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving behind nothing but a restless ache in the ghost’s eyes.

And each time, Choi Han found himself staring at the faint figure in the dark, torn between exasperation and something uncomfortably close to sympathy.

There was another thing.

Choi Han felt as though he knew the ghost. Not in the way one grows used to a shadow lingering in the corner of their eye, but in a deeper, stranger sense. Because sometimes, in his dreams, he saw the same man— red-haired, sharp-eyed, very much alive.

In those dreams, the ghost laughed. He spoke with the weight of authority, gave orders to people whose faces blurred like smoke. He drank wine, tapped quills against parchment, walked through long hallways filled with sunlight.

He was married, he doesn't know why he knows that but he does.

And every time, Choi Han would wake with the unshakable certainty that what he had seen wasn’t a dream at all, but a memory that didn’t belong to him.

It made the ghost feel less like a haunting, and more like… a man who had been misplaced.

By seventeen, the ghost— whose name, Choi Han eventually learned, was Cale Henituse— was less a haunting and more a companion. An exasperating companion, yes, but one who had long since woven himself into the fabric of Choi Han’s days.

Cale was sarcastic, meddling, and forever rolling his eyes at the world around them. He had an opinion about everything, and none of it was ever kind.

“That friend of yours is two-faced,” Cale would murmur whenever someone smiled too broadly.

“That one’s a coward,” he’d remark, watching another classmate talk big but shrink away from confrontation.

“And that girl is only pretending to like you. She wants answers for the next exam.”

“Shut up,” Choi Han muttered more than once, shoving his hands into his pockets as though he could shove the ghost’s words away with them. But secretly… he listened. Because the uncomfortable truth was that Cale was rarely wrong.

And though he’d never admit it aloud, Choi Han found comfort in the sharp voice that followed him everywhere. It was irritating, intrusive, and sometimes unfair— but it was also steady. Reliable. Always on his side.

At twenty-one, Choi Han was tired.

Tired of combing through dusty archives and half-forgotten maps, chasing the mirage of a manor that never seemed to exist. Tired of the restless nights when Cale’s faint voice whispered, “Home. I just want to go home.” Tired of carrying the weight of someone else’s unfinished story, with no end in sight.

He had done everything he could. And yet, the house was still just a phantom— pale walls, a red roof, a village that might or might not have been real. Nothing more than sand slipping through his hands.

So Choi Han gave up.

But he couldn’t just live like this forever, shadowed by a ghost no one else could see. There had to be an answer somewhere—if not for him, then for the spirit who had become both his sharpest critic and his closest companion.

That was how he found himself in a quiet office, pen scratching across official forms stamped with a bold seal:

The International Bureau of Paranormal Investigation (TIBPI).

If anyone could solve this haunting, it was them.

When the contract was sealed, Cale’s faint form leaned casually over his shoulder, lips twitching in amusement.

“Well, well. Joining the professionals, are we? Took you long enough.”

Choi Han rubbed at his temples, already regretting the decision.

“I’m doing this to get rid of you.”

“Of course,” Cale replied smoothly, as though indulging a child. His sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment, gleaming with something that looked almost— dangerously— like fondness. “And I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

Choi Han let out a long, weary sigh.

He had the distinct, sinking feeling that this wasn’t an ending at all— merely the prologue to another story.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Chapter Text

Choi Han stood in front of the mirror, tugging his tie into place for what had to be the tenth time. Behind him, the faint reflection of a red-haired man hovered, arms folded, eyes narrowed in amusement.

“That’s a lot of effort you’re putting into your appearance,” the ghost drawled.

Choi Han didn’t even blink. “Not everyone has a face card that makes a plain white shirt and black pants look like runway material.”

Cale spun lazily in midair, upside down now, his hair falling like flame. “How about a side part instead of slick back?”

Choi Han froze, comb in hand, waiting for the follow-up quip that always came. Nothing. Just silence.

With a sigh, he adjusted his hair.

Behind him, Cale only watched, unreadable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Choi Han stood before the massive glass building, his new employee card clutched tight between his fingers. For a long moment he just stared, exhaled, then forced his feet forward toward the entrance.

The lobby gleamed— polished floors, polished walls, polished people. He walked up to the reception desk and offered a polite, almost timid, “Hello.”

“Name and purpose of visitation?” the receptionist asked, not glancing up, her voice smooth with practiced monotony.

“Choi Han. New employee.”

At that, she finally looked up. Her professional smile faltered into something more personal, and her eyes widened before softening.

“Oh,” she breathed, almost to herself. Then, fumbling, she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “Hello. Choi Han, right? Beautiful name.”

Choi Han blinked at the compliment, his ears heating, and muttered a soft, “Thanks.”

The receptionist seemed to realize she’d been staring too long. She spun back toward her screen, typing with a little too much force. “Third floor,” she announced, tone brisk but cheeks still pink.

“Thanks,” Choi Han repeated.

“The name’s Hana,” she added quickly, leaning over the counter again with a bright smile. “If you have any problems fitting in, come to this noona, okay?” She dragged out the word noona with deliberate sweetness.

“I see.” Choi Han gave a polite half-bow, already backing away. Then he turned on his heel and speed-walked toward the elevators like his life depended on it. He jabbed the elevator button with unnecessary force.

When the elevator doors slid open, Choi Han stepped in, grateful for the escape. He pressed the button for the third floor, shoulders sagging as the doors closed.

It took him a second to notice what was wrong. Usually, after moments like that at the reception desk, there’d be a low chuckle and a muttered “adorable” from his ever-present ghost. But now… nothing.

He glanced to the side. Cale floated there as always, but his expression was distant, eyes unfocused, as if he were staring at something far beyond the steel walls of the elevator.

“Why are you so quiet?” Choi Han asked.

“Huh?” Cale blinked, jerked slightly, and finally looked at him. “I don’t know. This place feels… weird.”

Choi Han raised a brow. “Good weird or bad weird?”

“I don’t know,” Cale said again, his voice softer now, his usual edge gone. “It feels nostalgic. Like there’s a presence in every corner of this building… a presence I know. A presence that fills me with both longing and hatred.”

The elevator hummed around them, its lights too bright, its walls suddenly too small.

Choi Han’s fingers twitched around his employee card. “That… doesn’t sound like a good weird,” he murmured.

Cale didn’t answer. Choi Han was about to speak again when the elevator chimed and stopped at the second floor. The doors slid open, and two women stepped in, their perfume trailing behind them.

One had dark hair streaked with red, a pair of stylish glasses perched on her nose. The other, a brunette with striking heterochromic eyes, adjusted her ID badge as they took their places beside him.

Choi Han dipped his head politely, eyes on the glowing panel as he waited for the third floor.

Then the whispers began.

“Oh my god, did you see Alberu oppa today?” the brunette gushed, her voice pitched with excitement. “He looks good every day, but today—wow.”

“I know, right?” the one with glasses replied immediately, clutching her hands together like she was holding back a squeal. “How can he be so good-looking? He really might be one of the god’s favorites. Honestly, I just want to run my hand through that brown hair—so soft-looking!”

“And it’s not just the looks! He’s so capable, too. Our ace employee!”

They giggled like schoolgirls, their voices rising with every sentence.

Choi Han stared very hard at the glowing number on the panel.

Beside him, Cale’s lips quirked, amused. “Looks like we have a heartthrob in our hands,” he murmured.

Choi Han ignored him. At least Cale is back to normal, so that is good.

After what felt like an eternity, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open onto the third floor. Choi Han stepped out first, glad to put distance between himself and the chatter about Alberu oppa.

But the women behind him didn’t follow immediately. Instead, they both stopped short, sharp breaths escaping their lips as their gazes landed squarely on Choi Han’s back.

“Wait…” one whispered, clutching her friend’s arm. “Who—who is that?”

The other’s eyes widened, practically sparkling. “Oh my god, is he new? Look at him—tall, broad shoulders, that jawline—”

Choi Han froze mid-step, ears warming. He didn’t need to turn around to know they were staring.

Behind him, Cale floated leisurely, smirking. “Well, well,” he drawled, “first day and you are already competing with their ace employee. Didn’t know you were this competitive, Han.”

Choi Han tightened his grip on his employee card and muttered under his breath, “Shut up.”

The women, oblivious, giggled behind him, their voices rising with excitement as if they’d just spotted a celebrity.

Choi Han quickened his pace, ignoring the rising tide of whispers and curious glances from desks around the floor. He found the supervisor’s office, raised his hand, and knocked.

“Come in,” came the reply.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was warm, lined with files and books, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. Behind the desk sat a woman with cropped hair streaked with blonde and white, her expression kind but sharp with the unmistakable authority of someone used to being in charge.

She looked up, eyes lighting when she saw him. “Choi Han, right? Hanna told me you arrived.” Her lips curved into a smile, and she added teasingly, “Quite the dashing young man, eh?”

Choi Han blinked, thrown off for the second time that morning. “…Thank you, mam,” he muttered, unsure what else to say.

Behind him, Cale leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, whispering, “You’re collecting admirers already.”

Choi Han bowed politely to his supervisor.

“You can call me Mrs. Lee,” she said, her voice steady but kind. “You showed quite a lot of promise in the entrance examination. We have high hopes for you, Mr. Han.”

She rose from her chair, extending her hand across the desk.

Choi Han stepped forward and clasped it firmly, his grip steady despite the faint nervousness in his chest.

“Now, let me explain what we do,” Mrs. Lee began, her tone firm but patient. “We are not exorcists, despite what the name might suggest. We investigate… parallel phenomena. We receive reports, we check them out, and if things get too dangerous, we leave. Simple as that.”

Choi Han nodded slowly.

“You’ll be in the Exploration Department. That means you’ll go to the reported sites, determine if they’re truly… haunted or otherwise anomalous, and submit your findings to me.”

“I see,” Choi Han murmured.

“As you’re new, you’ll be assigned a partner.” Mrs. Lee reached for the landline phone on her desk and pressed a button. “Send him in.”

From behind him, Cale muttered, voice dripping with mockery, “Who even uses a landline these days? Is it just for the vibes?”

Choi Han’s lips twitched. He wanted desperately to argue or explain, but he knew better—if he opened his mouth now, he’d be seen as completely unhinged. So he stayed quiet, eyes forward.

Mrs. Lee lowered the phone. “Once you gain some experience, you’ll be able to go on assignments alone— or take others with you, depending on your preference.”

“And your partner will be… Mr. Crossman.”

At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Lee’s voice rang out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and a dashing man strode in. He wore a crisp alabaster white suit, movements smooth and confident.

From behind Choi Han, Cale’s low whistle cut through the quiet room. “Damn… he really lives up to the rumors. Looks like a fantasy prince.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

The man in front of Choi Han seemed plucked from a chiaroscuro painting, every gesture precise, deliberate, yet suffused with an effortless grace. His suit draped over a lithe, well-proportioned frame, each crease and contour accentuating a body that seemed sculpted by an exacting, unforgiving hand.His brown skin glowed softly under the office lights, and chestnut hair fell in gentle waves that looked impossibly soft, catching hints of light as he moved. 

His face was a study in symmetry: high, aristocratic cheekbones. His eyes were like obsidian, fathomless, framed by lashes long and delicate enough to make them both predatory and godly. One glance felt like a siren call that drew the breath from Choi Han’s lungs.

Tall, commanding, yet not towering, he moved with the calm assurance of someone who had never met a space he couldn’t own. And he… smiled.

It was like the world softened around him, a small, private sun that Choi Han couldn’t help but feel drawn toward.

Choi Han’s heart thudded painfully. Good lord.

Cale immediately raised a hand, shielding his eyes as if the man himself were a solar flare. He swiveled to Choi Han, catching the exact moment his expression betrayed complete and utter awe.

A slow, sardonic smirk crept across Cale’s face. “Ah, so that’s the effect he has on you,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Fascinating.”

Choi Han’s stomach lurched, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and muttered under his breath, “…he’s real.”

Cale chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yes, yes, he’s real. You’re not dreaming”

The man—the one who could only exist in dreams—stepped closer, extending a hand with a grace that made the world seem slower. His voice was smooth, velvety, the kind that could make even silence feel alive.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

Choi Han blinked, caught between awe and panic. Cale coughed discreetly from behind him as if to remind him he existed. Shakily, Choi Han brought his hand up and clasped the man’s.

And then it happened.

It was… astonishingly soft. Every callus, every rough edge of Choi Han’s own hands screamed in protest at the comparison.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Choi Han managed, words trembling. “I… I will be in your care.”

Cale, ever observant, arched an eyebrow and drifted upward, clearly unimpressed with Choi Han’s flustered state. His gaze caught Mrs. Lee’s subtle grin from across the desk.

Curious, Cale floated closer to her, eyes flicking to an open drawer— and there it was: neatly stacked BL mangas, peeking out as if it had been waiting for someone to notice.

Cale’s lips twitched. “Ah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The plot thickens.”

Choi Han, meanwhile, was still recovering from the softness, his pulse stubbornly refusing to settle.

Alberu and Choi Han walked side by side toward Choi Han’s cubicle, the office hum stretching around them.

“I heard you aced the physical and intuition tests,” Alberu said, voice low, casual.

“Yes… Alberu-nim,” Choi Han replied, his words clipped and respectful.

Alberu’s gaze softened slightly as he noticed Choi Han stammer. “Nervous for your first day?”

From behind, Cale floated lazily around Alberu, smirking like a mischievous spectator. “Nope,” he muttered. “It’s you.”

Choi Han clenched his fists in his pockets. If only ghosts could be punched.

“And stop with the respectful tone,” Alberu continued, still walking at a steady pace. “I’m only five years older than you. Call me… hyung.”

Choi Han blinked, caught off guard. They’d just met, and yet here was this impossibly confident man asking for familiarity. Well… who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Okay… hyung,” Choi Han said, voice uncertain but willing.

Alberu paused for a moment, glancing up at the taller Choi Han, as if assessing him silently.

“Hyung?” Choi Han asked, puzzled, noting the pause.

“Nothing. Let’s go,” Alberu said quickly, striding ahead.

Choi Han followed, thoughts whirling. If he messed up somehow, Cale—the only one who had glimpsed the faint blush rising in Alberu’s cheeks— definitely knew what was up.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Chapter Text

Stacks of papers, folders, and clipped reports covered Alberu Crossman’s desk like the aftermath of a storm. He plucked three from the pile with precise fingers, each one marked with a red stamp that read ‘Unverified Complaint’ before sitting down and gesturing to Choi Han to sit down.

“Since it’s your first week,” Alberu said, sliding the files toward Choi Han, “I’ll let you pick. Think of it as… a trial.”

Choi Han straightened in his chair, eyes scanning the neatly typed headers.

The first: “The Howling Factory” — a report about creaking sounds in an abandoned factory.

The second: “The Crying Child” — witnesses claimed to hear weeping from a locked well.

And the third: “The Newlyweds” — a husband suspects that his wife has been replaced by something. 

“What is with the dramatic names?” Choi Han asked, flipping through the file, brow furrowed at the bold title stamped on the front.

Alberu huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Rude. Those names are curated with care. Makes our reports easier to remember than ‘incident #347-B.’”

Cale floated closer, peeking at the papers over Choi Han’s shoulder. “Curated with care? Please. Sounds like someone’s been watching too many horror dramas.”

Choi Han bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He cleared his throat and said diplomatically, “Still… The Howling Factory? Really?”

Alberu arched an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You’ll appreciate the flair when you’ve filed three hundred of these in a row. A little drama keeps the boredom away.”

Alberu’s gaze lingered on the files spread between them. He sat up straight and tapped the third one lightly, his smile almost too knowing.

“Creakings are boring—likely just a factory settling. Child ghosts? Common. Half the time it’s kids playing pranks.” His finger pressed down on the newlyweds report. “But that one? Now that has flavor.”

Choi Han narrowed his eyes. “You want me to pick the hardest one, don’t you?”

Alberu again leaned back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other with the ease of someone who always got his way. “I want you to pick the interesting one.”

Behind them, Cale gave a low whistle, arms folded. “Smooth. He’s setting you up and you don’t even realize it.”

Choi Han resisted the urge to swat at the ghost in front of Alberu. He glanced back down at the file before muttering, “Fine. I’ll take the newlyweds.”

“Good choice,” Alberu said, a dazzling smile breaking across his face. “Let’s work hard, partner.” He extended his hand again, palm open, confident.

Choi Han blinked. Hadn’t they shaken hands barely ten minutes ago in the supervisor’s office? For a fleeting second, he wondered if this dashing senior of his only knew one method of greeting: endless handshakes. Still, he locked the thought away quickly and reached out, clasping Alberu’s hand.

The handshake was firm, professional. And—Choi Han admitted again what he did previously— the man’s hands were absurdly soft. Almost unfairly so, compared to his own calloused palms.

From behind, Cale floated closer, resting his chin in his hand as he smirked. “Careful. If you keep enjoying that handshake, he might think you’re in love.”

Choi Han gritted his teeth, but forced a polite smile at Alberu. “I’ll do my best, hyung.”

Alberu’s eyes crinkled faintly at the corners at the word hyung, though he didn’t comment. Instead, he gave Choi Han’s hand a final squeeze before letting go, an expression warm enough to leave Choi Han strangely unsettled.

Alberu extended his arm and picked up the newlyweds file, tapping it with a fingertip.

“Since you decided to take this one, I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with a Shakchunni.”

“A what?” Choi Han asked, bewildered.

Even Cale, who usually looked unimpressed by everything, floated a little closer, his expression sharpening with curiosity.

Alberu’s eyes lit up. His smile stretched wider, unmistakably pleased. Choi Han instantly recognized that look— it was the exact expression of a nerd who had just been asked to explain their favorite subject.

Alberu’s voice dropped into something rich and deliberate, his tone sliding into that of a storyteller.

“The term Shakchunni originates from the Sanskrit word Shankhachurni—meaning ‘spirit of a bride.’ In Bengali culture—”

“Wait,” Choi Han interrupted, raising a hand.

Alberu’s brows twitched as though physically pained by the break in his monologue. Beside him, Cale groaned dramatically and clicked his tongue. “You’ve done it now. You stopped him mid-lecture.”

Ignoring them both, Choi Han said, “If I’m not wrong, Bengalis are of Indian origin, especially from the state of West Bengal?”

Alberu’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, as if he’d been waiting for that question. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Because the ghost is Bengali.”

Choi Han blinked. “…What?”

Alberu slid the file across the desk with one elegant hand. “The couple are Christian. Lived quietly until about a month after their marriage. Then a week ago, the wife who never wore traditional marks of Hindu marriage suddenly started wearing red saris, sindoor in her hair, and shell bangles on her wrists.”

The words landed like stones dropping into a pond.

Cale let out a low whistle, floating upside down in mock gravity. “Well, that’s subtle. ‘Hi, I’m not your wife anymore, I’m a vengeful Bengali ghost bride.’”

Choi Han flipped through the file, his brow furrowed. “…So either she had a complete cultural shift overnight, or…”

Alberu’s eyes gleamed, pleased that his junior was catching up. “Or she isn’t the woman her husband married.”

“So, her husband informed the bureau about the possession?” Choi Han asked, flipping through the file. His tone was level, thoughtful. “How is he sure it’s possession and not, say…a sudden cultural shift? Human minds can be fickle.”

Alberu’s lips quirked, the kind of smile that suggested he’d been waiting to drop the punchline. “Because he saw her extend her arm like a rubber band across two rooms to retrieve a bottle, Han.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Okay,” Choi Han said finally, snapping the file shut with quiet finality. “Well, that ends all discussion. Continue.” He folded his hands on the desk and deliberately kept his mouth shut, posture suddenly too proper.

Cale, who’d been spinning lazily above the desk, paused mid-air and tilted his head. He drifted closer to Choi Han, squinting.

“Han, huh? First-name basis already? It hasn’t even been a day since you two met.”

Choi Han didn’t flinch, didn’t look, didn’t move— just stayed stoic as stone. For a second Cale thought maybe he hadn’t heard him.

Then he caught the faintest flicker of pink at Choi Han’s ears.

“Oh,” Cale breathed, his grin slow and merciless as he turned back to Alberu, floating like a cat who’d found milk.

Alberu, oblivious to the undercurrent, straightened the papers he took from Choi Han with crisp efficiency and said, “As I was saying—In Bengali culture, married women wear shell bangles (shankha) as a symbol of their marriage. These bangles, combined with the idea of a spirit, give life to the name Shakchunni, embodying a tragic connection to womanhood and marital identity.”

Alberu pulled open his desk drawer and took out a worn file, flipping it open to reveal a faded illustration — a green-skinned woman with cascading black hair, her eyes dark as ink. He handed it to Choi Han, who studied the image for a moment. Terrifying, yes… but beautiful, too.

He closed the file softly and turned it over, reading the name stamped on the tab: Shakchunni.

“This is the ghost we might encounter?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Alberu replied without looking up, his attention still on the newlyweds’ report spread before him.

“Then you could’ve just handed me the file,” Choi Han said, a faint glint in his eyes, “instead of giving me the whole lecture.”

Alberu chuckled under his breath, setting the papers aside. “Well… you’re my first partner. I wanted to explain it myself.”

Choi Han’s brows lifted, amusement slipping into his voice. “First partner?”

That made Alberu glance up. The soft office light caught on his skin — the faintest shimmer of pink spreading across his cheeks, warm against his deep complexion.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “When I was a rookie, I was paired with a senior for a short while. They left… said I wasn’t a good partner.” He gave a small shrug that didn’t quite hide the sting. “Since then, I’ve worked alone. And now, you’re here.”

There was a pause — the kind that hovered just long enough to feel like a held breath.

“Would you prefer the file?” Alberu asked finally, voice low and a little too careful.

Choi Han shook his head almost immediately, a small, genuine smile flickering over his lips. “No. I prefer your voice. It’s nice to listen to.”

“Oh,” Alberu said softly. The pink on his cheeks deepened, blooming into a quiet flush.

From the corner, Cale groaned dramatically, “Oh for heaven’s sake, get a room—”

Choi Han ignored Cale, not taking his eyes off Alberu.

Alberu cleared his throat — a bit too loudly — and straightened in his chair.

“Right! Ahem. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Shakchunni!”

Cale floated upside down above them, smirking. “Oh, we’re back to ghost talk now, huh? How convenient.”

Alberu shuffled through the papers as if trying to physically organize his embarrassment. “The legend of Shakchunni is deeply rooted in Bengali and Indian folklore, presenting her as a vengeful spirit shaped by sorrow and betrayal. Unlike the roving Petni spirits, Shakchunnis are said to inhabit trees, exuding power that can only be subdued through intense Tantric rituals. This distinction highlights the cultural richness in Indian folklore—each spirit has its own identity, even with shared origins.”

“The story of the Shakchunni often begins with a woman who suffered in marriage—abuse, neglect, or dying on her wedding day. Some say it’s the ghost of a woman who desperately wanted to marry but never could.”

Alberu glanced up, only to find Choi Han watching him with an amused, faint smile. He quickly looked back down at his notes, nearly tripping over the words. “Normally, the Shakchunni appears calm at first. Polite, even. But if provoked, she—she becomes—uh…” He squinted at the page. “Vengeful. Yes. She becomes vengeful.”

Choi Han began, “Okay, so—”

“I’m not done!” Alberu snapped, glaring—or trying to.

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

Alberu coughed again and turned briskly back to his file. “They’re known to possess women, especially newlyweds, as a way of reliving their unfulfilled lives. Victims show transformation—wearing red, gaining unnatural strength, acting unlike themselves.”

Choi Han nodded. “Like stretching their arm two rooms away to grab a bottle.”

“Exactly,” Alberu said, sounding relieved that Choi Han was following along. “If the possession goes on too long, the spirit replaces the human consciousness entirely. At that point…” His voice softened. “There’s no saving the victim.”

Then, quickly, “But! Don’t worry. We’re just investigating. No exorcisms yet. It’s routine work.”

Choi Han tilted his head. “You sure? Sounds like the start of a horror movie.”

Alberu smiled, a little too nervously. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”

Cale sighed dramatically. “Probably. That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t you have a haunting to attend to?” Choi Han muttered, low enough that only Cale heard.

“Already am. But fine, I will leave you two love birds alone for a while.” Cale said sweetly, phasing straight through the desk.

A shiver swept across the room, making Alberu glance up uneasily. “Strange,” he murmured, rubbing his arms. “Must be the air conditioning.”

Choi Han didn’t answer. He just stared at the spot where Cale had vanished, letting out a slow, quiet sigh.

Alberu peeked at Choi Han from behind the file, voice soft but edged with anticipation.

“Shall we leave for the haunting?”

Choi Han pushed back his chair, the legs scraping softly against the tiled floor. He adjusted his coat, glanced once at the desk where Cale disappeared through. “Let’s go.”

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