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The storage room was a cage of absolute stillness, its only light a broken, stuttering emergency lamp above. Dust hung in the air, thick and unmoving, a viscous presence that had stopped time for her alone. Lee Nayeon was a tense, fragile knot in the corner, her spine pressed against cold metal, knees drawn tightly to her chest—a desperate attempt to fold herself into nothing.
The sound of her earlier sobs had long died, replaced by the quiet, ragged hiccuping of someone utterly depleted of tears yet unable to cease weeping.
Her hand lifted, shaking, to touch her cheek, feeling the faint, dull throb where Namra had slapped her. It was a tangible reminder: she was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.
Unlike him.
Unlike Gyeong-su.
A ragged breath snagged in her throat, shattering into another silent, wrenching sob.
That goddamned handkerchief. That trivial, blue-green square of cloth she’d pressed to his wound. The horror wasn't the virus anymore; it was the betrayal of trust. It was the moment he looked at her—eyes wide, lips slightly parted—not with rage or fear, but profound, confusing honesty. He had still trusted her, even after everything. Even when she’d spat venom, accused him of filth, and singled him out as the infection clinging to their group.
He had looked at her with that same soft gaze.
Like he still saw a person.
Now, his face was carved into the inside of her eyelids. Not in dreams, she hadn't dared close her eyes for long, but in the blurred static of her tears, in the dark corners of the room. It was that quiet, wounded awe in his eyes before the infection clawed him away. Before Ms. Park died trying to shield him. Before everything became an absolute, screaming hell.
“I shouldn’t have killed you,” she choked into her knees, her voice a cracked whisper clawing its way free. “I shouldn’t have infected you. I’m sorry. God, fuck—I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her hands clenched against her shins, nails digging into the rough uniform fabric until her knuckles were stark white. She didn't notice the pain, only the violent, uncontrollable tremor of her shoulders.
The walls swam. Her head felt impossibly light, her limbs crushingly heavy. The world, already tear-blurred, began to darken, smoke curling at the edges of her sight. She tried to blink it back, tried to hold herself upright, but her body was failing her, just as her conscience had.
Her breathing slowed, shallow, quiet as if her own chest was ashamed to rise. The sobs dwindled to soft whimpers, then to absolute silence. She slumped slightly forward, still curled into herself, until her eyelids finally fluttered shut.
She didn’t even register the moment she collapsed sideways. The last tear clung to her cheek, then silently dropped to the floor.
And then—
…
…….
“Nayeon!”
A voice tore through the darkness.
“What the hell is happening?”
More voices, confused and hushed, filled the space around her like wind across a sleeping field.
“She’s been crying in her sleep…”
“Is she breathing?”
“Nayeon…”
“Nayeon, wake up!”
Her eyes snapped open.
She gasped with a sharp, guttural sound, like breaking the surface of deep water. Her chest panicked and rose. Her lungs burned. Her eyes were wide, wild, and darting across unfamiliar shapes. faces: blurred by tears and framed by shadows, the soft light of a sunset and fluorescent tubes. The nightmare hadn’t ended; it had simply changed rooms.
Confusion was stark on her face. Her lips parted, but only a silent, panicked breath escaped. Disbelief, the furious pounding of her heart, the crushing weight of some unseen burden—that was all that remained.
She blinked, and the blur sharpened.
Ms. Park’s hands were on her shoulders.
Warm. Real.
She shouldn't be real.
Nayeon’s breath hitched as their gazes locked. Not dead. Not gone. She was there, kneeling beside her, eyes shining with now a familiar, anchoring concern.
Others were crowded around—faces she didn’t expect to see, familiar yet foreign, like a memory distorted by water. Some stared, some whispered, but all of them looked at her
like she was someone entirely new.
“What—”
Her voice was barely audible, throat raw and dry. The rest of the question died behind trembling lips.
She stared at them.
They stared back.
Like they were seeing her for the very first time.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity…
She didn’t know who she was anymore.
She gulped, her throat tightening with a dryness that felt ancient. Her pulse hammered. Her head buzzed like a distant, incessant alarm. The sharp fluorescent light of the room stung her eyes, making her flinch. She darted her gaze between the faces: Cheongsan with furrowed brows, Suhyeok quietly tense, Daesu biting his lip, Jimin frozen, Hyo-ryeong chewing her nail.
Her knees trembled, but she forced herself straight, rising too abruptly. Ms. Park’s hand slipped away with a quiet gasp but didn't retreat far. The teacher always stayed close—worried, unwavering. That protective instinct never left her, even now, when Nayeon knew she should be the one no one trusted.
“What’s happening? Why…” her voice cracked, barely a whisper. The silence around her grew dense.
Cheongsan’s jaw clenched. He glanced toward Suhyeok, both searching for an answer that wouldn't sound insane—or cruel.
“You were crying in your sleep,” Hyo-ryeong said softly, gently, as if Nayeon might shatter. “Like… sobbing. Then you screamed.”
“She kept saying sorry,” Jimin added, arms crossed tightly. “Like you meant it.”
Daesu nodded slowly. “It was kind of scary. You wouldn’t wake up.”
Nayeon blinked, confusion overwhelming her in stinging waves. The slap. Her fingers instinctively rose to her cheek. The sting was gone. The ache, the heat, all of it—vanished. But she remembered it perfectly. The shame. The guilt. The force of Namra’s palm across her skin, a physical punishment for her mental crime.
But her cheek was fine. Like it had never happened.
She swallowed. Her eyes flickered from one face to another. None of them were glaring. No one was turning their back. They should be. They had been. She remembered Daesu yelling, Jimin’s horror, Suhyeok’s clenched fists. And Ms. Park—
“Ms. Park,” she whispered, her voice still hoarse. “You… you’re here?”
“I am,” Ms. Park replied gently, still half-crouched. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
That was when her eyes began to burn again. Not from exhaustion, but from a gut-splitting, overwhelming confusion. She felt like a page violently ripped from one book and shoved into another.
Her eyes widened. The realization hit. Was it… just a dream? A nightmare?
How could…
No…
It just felt too real.
Her hands began to tremble. “No… no. Ms. Park— you died.”
A sudden, sharp hush fell.
Her voice rose. “You died. You— you were trying to save me and— and you pushed me behind and the zombie— I saw it—”
She clamped her mouth shut, but the panic was fully formed, clawing up her throat like bile.
Ms. Park’s eyes didn’t waver. Calm. Anchored. She didn't deny it or confirm it. She simply stood, slowly, her hand still hovering, ready to catch Nayeon again.
Cheongsan took a step forward, frowning. “Are you actually okay?”
“No, I’m not okay!” she snapped back, her voice cracking as fresh tears rimmed her eyes. “Why are you—why is everyone looking at me like that?! I killed him. Why am I still here?!”
They all paused.
“Killed who?” Suhyeok asked cautiously.
Nayeon’s breath hitched. Her shoulders tensed, her hands dropping like lead weights.
She couldn’t say his name.
But in her mind, it screamed: Han Gyeong-su.
The image flooded back: his wide eyes when she shoved the contaminated handkerchief toward his wound, his hand offering a gesture of peace. That stunned expression, the trust glowing in his eyes even after her accusations, her betrayal. That single moment was carved into her soul.
She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears spilling, and murmured like a desperate prayer, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
When she opened her eyes, Ms. Park was a breath away. Not hugging. Not pushing. Just there.
“We thought you fainted,” the teacher said softly, “from exhaustion. You were asleep for almost an hour. It looked like you were having a nightmare.”
It wasn’t a nightmare.
It was real.
Wasn’t it?
She staggered back, one step, her hand slapping against a nearby cabinet for balance.
Nayeon shook her head furiously, hair clinging to the sweat at her temples. She didn’t answer.
Her fingers just lingered at her cheek, searching for the burn that was supposed to be there. The slap. The guilt. The punishment. It was gone—like it never happened.
Her legs trembled. “No,” she whispered, hoarse. “No—no, I… I was in the storage room. I was alone…”
She looked around wildly. The walls weren’t the same. The corners were different. The dust, the suffocating silence, the echo of her own sobs—it was all gone. Gone like the tear streaks on her face.
She turned, panic blooming from her throat to her eyes. “Where am I?” she asked, louder, pleading, choking on the words.
“You’re in the broadcasting room,” Suhyeok finally said, slowly, as if the syllables might startle her. “It’s safe here. We’ve been here for hours.”
“But…” Her voice cracked. “I—I was in the storage room.”
Her words hung in the air, a splinter slicing through the fragile calm.
The silence turned dense.
Joon-yeong’s breath caught. Jimin stopped mid-comfort on Onjo’s shoulder. Namra looked up from her corner, her unreadable eyes watching.
“I killed him,” Nayeon repeated. “He trusted me, and I—” Her voice shattered like glass. “He looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Even after I accused him. Even after I shoved that handkerchief at him like he wasn’t a person.”
Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the cabinet. “He looked at me like he still hoped I’d be good.”
No one spoke.
Cheongsan bit his tongue. Daesu's face softened—shame and pity swirling into something that aged him instantly. Wujin lowered his head, his lips a tight, silent line.
“But Gyeong-su…” Onjo finally spoke, hesitant, “…he’s inside the recording room?”
Nayeon slowly registered her surroundings: the broadcasting room… the bloodied stick, and then the wide window. “No… this— this isn’t real.”
Cheongsan’s brows furrowed. “It is real, have you lost your mind?”
She looked up at Ms. Park, tears threatening to brim again.
Ms. Park didn’t move. Her eyes shimmered with concern, but her voice remained calm. “Na-yeon… breathe.”
But Nayeon couldn't. Her lungs felt collapsed, her chest heaving as her heart thundered. It couldn’t be real. She remembered the way Gyeong-su staggered from that room. The infection clawing at him, stealing him from the inside out. Her own trembling hand smearing blood onto the cloth.
She remembered being the reason.
So how the hell…?
“No, fuck—” she whispered, stepping back, eyes darting from face to face and finally—reluctantly—toward the recording room.
“It’s real,” Ms. Park said again, gently. “You slept hours ago. You’ve been crying and murmuring things in your sleep.”
Daesu moved slightly forward. His voice was softer than usual. “You said his name. Like, a lot.”
“Begging,” Hyo-ryeong added, eyes averted.
Nayeon’s eyes widened, raw and terrified.
No—
No, it couldn’t be.
Her breath caught, a hook pulling her chest upward, her ribs tightening around an unspeakable scream. Her gaze was locked—unmoving, unblinking—her tear-glossed eyes focused on one figure.
That figure.
There—just past the dusty slit of the glass, sitting with his back against the far wall of the music room, legs drawn lazily to his chest, like he was just waiting—just breathing—just existing. The light caught his cheekbone, familiar and warm. His hair messy slightly over his temple. That profile. That stillness.
Sat back, tucked into the corner, head lowered like he was resting, one leg bent and the other lazily outstretched. Calm. Still. Breathing.
“Shit,” she breathed, voice barely a whisper, a prayer.
Her knees buckled, and she had to grip the nearby shelf to keep from collapsing. Her legs felt like sponge and bone dust, shaking beneath her.
Her breath came in shallow, broken bursts. Her heart pounded like a caged bird. She staggered back a step, clutching the doorway, as if seeing a ghost she’d never prayed hard
enough for.
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered, almost inaudible. “That’s not—he’s not…”
But the tears started again. Hysterical. Silent. Relentless.
Because he was there.
He was alive.
He’s not a zombie.
He’s not dead.
Not like in the nightmare. Not like the guilt had told her. Not like she’d forced herself to believe just to survive the weight of what she’d done.
The sob that tore from her chest this time wasn’t grief.
It was hope.
Shaky, strangled, desperate hope.
But her tears kept falling. Because hope hurt too. Especially when you didn’t deserve it.
Her heart pounded painfully. Her steps were slow, uncertain. She pressed her palm to the glass, her lips trembling, her forehead almost touching the cold window. Her breath fogged the surface.
He didn’t look at her.
He was just there. Sitting. Patient. Like he’d been there this whole time, waiting for someone to see him.
Her knees hit the floor.
She stared.
Shook her head.
“This—this isn’t right,” she whispered. “He… was not supposed to be here. I killed him! I—I infected him—”
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Behind her, someone—maybe Cheong-san, maybe Wujin—said quietly, “What are you talking about, Nayeon?”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t even turn her head.
Because Gyeong-su was right there. Not dead. Not turned. Not gone. And he was alive before she gave him that handkerchief.
Which meant—
It hasn’t happened yet.
Terror twisted inside her, a cold scream curling in her gut.
“What are you saying, Nayeon?” someone asked again, voice closer.
And finally, she tore her eyes away. Looked over her shoulder. Her cheeks were slick, her eyes wide and wild.
“I haven’t done it yet,” she said.
“What?”
Her voice cracked.
“I haven’t killed him yet.”
She stood like the floor was breaking beneath her, like she couldn’t trust anything solid anymore—except that one, impossible truth standing behind the glass.
She still had time.
And this time, she wouldn’t ruin it.
Gyeong-su was alive.
And so was she. Not just breathing—but awake. Awake before it was too late.
The others watched her, startled by the shift. By the sudden urgency in her limbs, the manic gloss in her eyes, the haunted way she moved like someone reborn from a nightmare she hadn’t yet escaped.
“I need to talk to him,” she said, her voice still raw. “Please. Let me—let me go to him.”
Suhyeok moved in front of her, hesitant. “What are you talking about? You saw him already, he’s been in there for thirty minutes. You even wanted to make sure he’s not infected.”
“I… he’s not infected!” she snapped, breath catching. “He’s not—he never was. No—” Her hands balled into fists, nails digging crescent moons into her palms. “Please, just open the door. I need to talk to him before I do something terrible.”
They stared at her like she was unwell. And maybe she was.
“What the hell is this now?” Cheong-san muttered, arms crossed, exhaustion in his voice. “Now she wants to let him out?”
“She put him in there,” Joon-yeong added, baffled. “She’s the one who said he was infected.”
Nayeon turned around sharply, her tears barely letting up.
“I know what I said!” she snapped, ragged. “I know—” she swallowed thickly, “I know I told you he was infected. I was wrong, okay? I was so—fucking—wrong.”
Everyone stared at her.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she said, breathless. “I thought—if I just shut him out, none of us would die. I thought I was protecting everyone.”
Hyo-ryeong looked down. Wujin blinked in uncomfortable silence. Even Nam-ra, from the back, tilted her head slightly, unreadable.
But Cheong-san wouldn’t relent. “So now what? You just change your mind and we forget everything?”
“I…” her voice wavered. “He’s not infected! He never was. Please, just open the door. I need to talk to him.”
“Nayeon…” Ms. Park’s voice was soft, measured. “Why don’t you sit back down—”
“No!” she nearly screamed, the sound of her own voice shocking her. “Just—” she gasped. “I know I sound crazy. But I… I did something, or I was going to do something, and I saw it. I felt it. I killed him. I killed him and he forgave me while dying and I can’t—” she stopped to catch her breath, heart hammering. “I can’t do it again.”
Only the humming silence of disbelief remained—of the unexplainable, of tension thick in the air.
And behind the glass—
Gyeong-su finally looked up.
His eyes met hers.
The same soft gaze.
Like nothing had changed.
Like everything could change.
Nayeon stepped forward.
She looked back at Gyeong-su. His eyes followed her movement. Gentle. Tired. Trusting.
“No more lies,” she whispered. “Please let me go to him. You can watch the whole time. Just don’t make me repeat the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Silence.
She turned toward Ms. Park. “Please.”
Ms. Park looked at her long and hard, worry etched between her brows. She had been motionless since Nayeon screamed. Now, she assessed the girl—crying, trembling, desperately honest.
Then, Ms. Park slowly nodded.
Suhyeok hesitated—but he opened the door.
The metal squeaked open.
One step.
Then another.
Gyeong-su straightened slightly, surprised—but not afraid. Never afraid of her.
She opened the door completely.
Gyeong-su looked up.
And Nayeon looked into the eyes of someone she thought she'd never see again.
The air between them was thick—taut like a wire. The room was dim, dust motes drifting in the shafts of light. It smelled faintly of old equipment and the quiet tension of breath held too long.
He was seated on the spinning chair, leaning back, one knee up, arms resting loosely. Tired, perhaps. Waiting, definitely. His school uniform was wrinkled, a few dried blood smears on the collar from someone else. His face was pale but calm.
And his eyes—
Soft. Open. Not afraid. Not angry.
He looked exactly like she remembered in the dream. And nothing like the last time she saw him bleeding behind that glass. Not the version she ran from. Not the version she infected.
Her throat closed. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled into the doorway, catching herself on the frame. Her voice wouldn’t come out. She tried again.
“Gyeong-su…”
He blinked slowly. His gaze trailed up her form. No flinch. No distance. He tilted his head slightly, confusion flickering across his features.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, his voice quiet, attempting a joke.
But Nayeon couldn’t even manage a strained laugh.
Her legs moved before her thoughts. She stepped in, rushed—dropped to her knees in front of him, breath hitched, tears rising again in hot, silent waves.
He recoiled only slightly, eyebrows knitting. “Wha—”
And then she grabbed his shoulders, trembling fingers curling into his vest. She leaned in, almost pressing her forehead against his, eyes shut tight, as if physical closeness could anchor this moment, prevent the timeline from slipping again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
It was barely a sound, more breath than words. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve believed you. I shouldn’t have touched the blood. I shouldn't have—I thought—I thought I already lost you.”
She was shaking uncontrollably. Her hands were unsure whether to hold him or let go.
He was frozen. Not out of fear, but like someone who had just witnessed the impossible.
“Na…yeon?”
“I killed you,” she croaked, eyes wide now, glassy. “I killed you. But you’re still here.”
Silence.
Then his hand—slow, cautious—reached up to rest lightly over hers where she gripped his vest so tight.
“You didn’t kill me,” he said.
Her lip quivered. “Not yet.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean—”
She leaned back a little, fumbling in her pocket, yanking out the perfectly-clean blue-green handkerchief. It fluttered, his eyes dropped to it.
“I used that,” she said. “In the… in the other—fuck, you wouldn’t believe me. I wiped the zombie blood off the stick. Then I touched your wound. You didn’t see. And then you turned. I infected you. I killed you. Because I was scared. Because I was angry.”
Her voice was breaking down, a dam splitting apart. “You still looked at me like I mattered. Even when I left you. Even when you were dying.”
Gyeong-su was staring at her now—staring through her. Not with anger. Not pity.
Something else.
“Nayeon,” he said, softly, trying to steady the name. “You didn’t touch my wound. No one did.”
She stared.
Her lip parted. Her eyes were overflowing.
So this was real.
He wasn’t infected. He wasn’t gone.
She was back before the fall.
And this time, she was going to change everything.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words rushing out like they’d been trapped for lifetimes. “I called you names, I—I accused you. I was scared, and I let that fear make me cruel. And then I—” she choked on her breath. “I tried to prove it. I tried to make it true. But you never were. You never were infected.”
She was sobbing again.
And Gyeong-su just stared at her.
Quiet. Present.
“Why are you crying?” he finally asked, his voice rough but gentle. “I’m okay, Nayeon.”
Her bottom lip shook.
“Because last time, you weren’t.”
And then she did something she never thought she had the right to do—
She reached out.
And he let her.
Her hand took his, shaking but steady.
Her fingers curled over his like she was afraid he’d vanish again.
Like if she blinked, he’d fade back into blood and screams and the echo of her own guilt. But he didn’t. His hand was warm—solid. Not feverish, not cold, not twitching with infection. Just warm, just real. And even though her hand trembled, Gyeong-su didn’t flinch.
He didn’t let go.
The silence between them wasn’t tense. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t like before, when she’d hurl words like knives and he’d swallow them. This silence was something else—an understanding neither could yet articulate. Something raw.
She stared down at their joined hands like they were a miracle she didn’t deserve.
“I hated myself in that moment,” she whispered. “The second I did it. That handkerchief. The look on your face. You weren’t even angry—you were just… confused. You still trusted me.”
He didn't answer immediately. His thumb brushed faintly against her knuckles, a silent reassurance that he was still there.
“I didn’t understand,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t get why you hated me so much.”
Her eyes welled up again. She tried to look away, but his gaze was steady.
“I didn’t hate you,” she breathed. “I—I hated everything. I was scared. I thought if I pushed it on someone else, if I could find one reason to believe it wasn’t my fault, I could survive. And then I saw you. And you were so calm. So decent. I thought if I broke that—if I broke you—I wouldn’t feel so broken inside.”
Her voice cracked.
“I thought if I could be right about you, then I wouldn’t be wrong about myself.”
Gyeong-su was quiet again. His face didn’t change. Still soft, still watching her like she wasn’t the villain.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her grip tightening, afraid he would let go.
But he didn’t.
“…I forgive you,” he said. Quietly. Gently.
And that was what truly shattered her.
Not the nightmare.
Not the slap.
Not the image of his blood on her hands in a dream she thought was real.
That.
That someone like him could still forgive someone like her.
She folded forward, resting their joined hands against her forehead, sobbing again—but this time, not from fear. Not from self-hatred. But from release. From something that hurt, yes, but no longer threatened to rot her from the inside out.
He didn’t move.
He let her cry.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, Nayeon wasn’t alone.
Cheongsan had his forehead pressed to the dusty glass, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “He’s… holding her hand.”
“What?” Joon-yeong blinked and crowded beside him, squinting.
“She’s—she’s crying,” Hyo-ryeong added softly. “But it’s… different.”
From inside, they saw it clearly: Nayeon, hunched and trembling, forehead resting against their joined hands. Gyeong-su, sitting steady, not pulling away. His thumb moved faintly over the back of her hand, a reassurance. A vow.
“That bastard,” Cheongsan muttered—not at Gyeong-su, but at the sheer emotional whiplash of the situation. “She was the one who screamed to lock him in, swore he was infected… And now—”
“She’s breaking down,” Suhyeok said. His arms were crossed, but not with judgment—more like restraint. “Maybe… maybe she saw that. Maybe that’s why she was losing it.”
Cheongsan’s fists clenched. He was torn—part of him wanted to yank Gyeong-su out, the other part knew his best friend wouldn’t still be sitting there if he didn’t choose to be.
“She looks like she hasn’t stopped crying for hours,” Daesu mumbled. “Honestly… that doesn’t look fake. That looks like someone who thought she murdered someone and just saw a ghost forgive her.”
Ms. Park remained near the back, her face unreadable. But there was something in her eyes—soft, sad, full of restrained sorrow. She had seen the shift.
“She’s not the same girl who screamed at him,” she said quietly. “That girl would never cry like that. Would never reach out and expect to be forgiven.”
Cheongsan exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “I don’t get it. Gyeong-su… why doesn’t he yell at her? Why doesn’t he curse her out?”
“Because he’s Gyeong-su,” Daesu answered simply. “You know how he is.”
Cheongsan let out a dry, frustrated breath—but it cracked partway through. “Yeah. I do.”
And the realization sank in.
If Gyeong-su wasn’t infected—
If he was alive, breathing, talking—
Then everything Nayeon had done was based on a lie she told herself to survive.
She didn’t destroy him.
She destroyed herself.
And now she was begging for forgiveness from the one person she had wronged the most.
And he gave it.
Just like that.
A long, heavy silence passed among them as they continued to watch, no longer with suspicion—but with something harder to name. Something like shame. Something like hope.
And through the window, Gyeong-su finally looked up and met their gaze—quiet, composed, hand still in hers.
Cheongsan blinked. Their eyes met.
Gyeong-su gave a tiny nod.
And no one said anything for a long, long while.