Chapter Text
Dokja's gaze stayed fixed on the window of the subway. The tunnel rushed past in streaks of dull light, reflecting a face that didn't look particularly worried. That was a relief. Worry was pointless. It didn't change outcomes. It only made waiting worse.
His fingers tightened around his phone. The screen was still lit -- showing the same notification, the same final chapter alert. He'd already opened it. He'd already read it. And yet the alert hadn't disappeared, no matter how many times he checked, as if the story itself refused to let go. He locked the screen. A second later, he unlocked it again. Nothing had changed.
Someone was talking beside him.
A kid's voice, too loud for the space, bounced between stops -- words tumbling over each other without much structure, beady eyes looking up at him every few seconds. Dokja listened without really listened without really listening, nodding when the pauses felt like they expected a response. At some point, the kid shifted closer, unfazed by the lack of engagement.
The kid didn't leave.
That was ... unexpected.
The train rocked gently as it slowed, then lurched forward again. Stations passed. Dokja realized distantly, that he hadn't checked the time in a while. The thought came and went without urgency.
He could have moved to another subway car. It would have been easy -- stand up, walk a few steps, disappear into another space where no one expected anything from him.
He didn't.
Kim Dokja's phone lit up.
He glanced down instinctively, then flicked his eyes back to the kid beside him, nodding once at what sounded like the end of a sentence. The nod seemed to satisfy him. The kid kept talking.
Dokja looked back at his screen... a message... from the author.
He read it once. Then again, slower this time. Gratitude, acknowledgement, a notice about paid content. An epilogue. A "special present." A request for his email. His thumb hovered over the screen.
'Thanks to you'
Dokja stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary. Gratitude was... inconvenient. It implied intent. Effort. Meaning.
He typed anyway.
'I didn't do anything special. I just read it because it was here. If you need an email, this one works.'
He sent his address and locked the screen before he could reconsider.
The reply came almost immediately. An email notification replaced the previous alert.
'Mr. Kim Dokja.'
A time. Seven p.m.
A warning disguised as well-wishes. Paid content. Help. Luck.
Dokja readnit once.
Then he turned the screen off.
"Hey."
Dokja barely reacted at first. The voice was closer now -- angled up at him instead of spilling into the car at random.
He looked over.
The kid was watching him with open curiosity, head tilted slightly, as if Dokja were something mildly interesting rather than unapproachable. "You look like you read a lot," the kid said. "Is it fun?"
The question was simple. Too simple.
Dokja paused. Fun wasn't a useful metric. Stories were escapism. Survival manuals. Distractions. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"...It passes the time," he said finally.
The kid considered that, seeming satisfied. "Oh. That's good, then."
Good. Like it was obvious.
The train screeched as it began to slow, metal grinding against metal. The sudden noise cut through the conversation, sharp and unpleasant. Dokja's grip tightened reflexively on the pole beside him.
The overhead display flickered.
He glanced up -- and then down at his phone, almost unconsciously.
6:58 p.m.
The number sat there, solid and unmoving, as the train shuddered into the station. The email's words surfaced again, uninvited.
'Starting at 7 p.m. today.'
The doors hadn't opened yet.
Dokja didn't look away from the screen.
The train continued making that horrid screaming sound. Metal shrieked against metal as the car lurched violently, sparks bursting from the rails in bright, erratic flashes. Dokja's shoulder slammed into the pole. The sudden force sent people stumbling, bags crashing to the floor. The kid slid along the seat, shoes scraping uselessly against the smooth surface.
Dokja reacted without thinking. He reached out and caught the kid by the sleeve, pulling him back hard enough that they collided. The impact knocked the air from the kid's lungs, but he stayed upright. More importantly, he didn't hit the floor.
The train shuddered to a complete stop. For a second, there was only the crackle of electricity and the sharp smell of burning metal. Sparks spat from from thin air and people backed away, voices rising in confusion and fear.
Something appeared.
It floated, suspended in midair as if gravity had decided it wasn't worth the effort. Small. Round. Wrapped in a grin that didn't quite belong on any face Dokja had ever seen.
It spoke. The sounds were wrong -- too smooth, too rhythmic, like language filtered through something that didn't need lungs. The words washed over the car without meaning, incomprehensible but deliberate.
Dokja's hands tightened reflexively.
Time.
The thought surfaced unbidden.
He looked down at his phone.
7:00 p.m.
Someone screamed. Someone else shouted, panic breaking through disbelief.
"It's a Dokkaebi!"
Dokja froze. He had heard that phrase before. Not in real life. Not anywhere that mattered. It belonged to fiction. To a story that wasn't supposed to exist outside of a screen.
The realization settled in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
This fictitious situation was becoming reality.
The kid's hands fisted into the fabric of Dokja's coat, grip tightening as if anchoring himself. Dokja didn't pull away.
He lifted his gaze back to the floating creature.
... So it had started.