Chapter Text
There were moments, Jongwoo had come to realise, when silence could feel like a blessing.
The soft hush of breeze through linen curtains, or the quiet before a kiss. The stillness of two hands folded together, trembling slightly, in the seconds before a vow is spoken. He also supposed silence could be something else entirely. An absence of peace. A void dressed up in calm, waiting patiently for the noise beneath your skin to rise.
The wedding hall in Yeonnam-dong had been Jieun’s idea. It was tucked away above a café that served lavender cakes and jasmine tea, with a lush rooftop garden, spring blooms and trembling wisteria. She’d called it charming , intimate , not noisy like Seoul , and Jongwoo had nodded along, like it was the sort of thing he’d always wanted.
In a way, it was.
He was standing there now. Surrounded by warmth and champagne laughter, and people who loved him or pretended to. The scent of gardenia drifted from a nearby planter. The cuffs of his shirt felt tight. His tie was also too tight. His smile was too rehearsed.
That didn’t matter.
And then in a couple minutes Min Jieun was walking toward him.
Her dress was beautiful. Pale and soft and flowing around her like water. And she was, too, with her hair was half-up and threaded with silver pins.
When she looked at him, it wasn’t love he saw in her face, or not just love, but belief.
She believed he could be whole. That the past could be folded neatly and buried because whatever had happened in Eden, the hallway that smelled like rot, the whispers through the walls, and—
No. That would never follow them here.
So he’d marry Jieun. His final piece of solidarity in his now correct life. She never asked for details about Eden Studio, just held his hand until the trembling stopped. Because she smelled like clean sheets and fresh air and warm vanilla. Because her voice made the man in his head speak in softer tones.
This wedding, this rooftop, this moment was a ceremony of exorcism .
She reached the altar and cool fingers took his hands. An officiant spoke gentle old words, but Jongwoo barely heard them- and then he looked at Jieun’s lips as she formed each vow and promise.
When it was his turn to speak, he didn’t stutter.
He finished his vows, she kissed him, and the crowd applauded.
Petals rained down. Cameras clicked. Jaeho had yelled “You did it, man!” in an unnecessarily loud voice. Jongwoo turned with his wife on his arm to face the guests, and smiled wide enough that his cheeks hurt.
The crowd clapped and parted to form an aisle as the newly wedded couple walked hand-in-hand toward the reception tables. It felt quite surreal, quite relieving, as a multitude of faces blurred past him- his mother, his friends from back home and his coworkers. Everyone was beaming. Everyone except —
Behind the third row. End seat.
There was a man standing there who wasn’t applauding.
Unlike the others, Seo Moonjo was not in a pristine suit or tie, opting for a usual casual outfit. Same loose hair falling over his familiar face in soft waves. No boutonnière, no camera, no expression. But those eyes. Bright, dispassionate.
His face was turned slightly, too, clearly attentive to something else.
But Jongwoo knew that profile. He knew it so well he could trace it in the air, trace it on his hand, write down every detail of it. He could see it even if he closed his eyes. It was undoubtedly him. Room 304.
Seo Moonjo.
His heart stuttered.
Looking away wasn’t going to remove him. He was some cockroach in the corner of a bedroom that you couldn’t kill. Still apprehensive, but you’re terrified of where it might crawl if you looked away. Ideally it was just a stranger with the same face. But the chill running down his spine wasn’t fooled.
Why was he doing this to them?
The night he left Eden Studio, weapon in hand, footsteps echoing down those bloodless corridors, he had stupidly convinced himself that the mere concept of Moonjo was behind him: locking the metaphorical door he’d been told to lock. And throwing away the key. Into a deep, dark well.
And still, here he was. Watching.
………..
After the ceremony, it seemed the best thing to do was to convince himself that Moonjo’s appearance was something he’d conjured up. Possibly in fear or nervousness at the finality of everything. But it would be a lie to say that appearance hadn’t torn a gaping hole in Jongwoo’s composure.
Him and Jieun had danced as the sky dimmed and the guests became more drunken. Jieun’s hands looped gently behind his neck, and Jongwoo let himself lean into the softness of her. Her warmth and normalcy.
The evening had settled into its rhythm of laughter, speeches, clinking glasses. The earlier moment next to the chair, his vision of an impossible face, had started to fold in on itself, because realistically he was tired. Weddings were intense, weren’t they?
When the song ended, Jieun kissed his cheek and ran off to hug her aunt. Jongwoo lingered by the balcony, hands in his pockets, breathing deep. The Seoul skyline blinked in the distance.
He stared out over the railing, half-smiling.
Then he heard a voice behind him. It was quiet, rich, and precise.
“You dance well.”
Jongwoo turned abruptly, stumbling slightly. Moonjo had stood less than a meter away, with no crowd surrounding him. And no empty chair, and no illusion. He looked unchanged from the months prior. His skin was glowing (not with health, but like it was dead and well kept) his dark shirt hung from a thin frame.
Jongwoo’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His chest closed up, preparing to hit him, scream, or run.
Instead, he stood frozen, like a patient waiting to be told the diagnosis he already suspects.
Moonjo tilted his head, hands clasped behind his back.
“You’ve done well for yourself.” He took a step forward.
“Still, I can see it, honey..” He raised his fingers to Jongwoo’s throat. “You have a soft unease. You don’t think I should be here. Or maybe you think this is a dream, or lapse of judgement.”
Whispering, “What do you want?” Jongwoo choked out.
Moonjo’s smile grew softly, and he dropped his fingers.
“I want you to remember that I am always going to be a part of this.”
He said it gently, as if explaining it to a child: “You can leave a house, or a room, but I’m here with you. I watched you pick the flowers. I saw the menu. I even helped someone tie a bow.”
Jongwoo’s hands clenched by his sides. How would he amend this? This mess that Moonjo had created, resurfaced . It was pointless looking for help. This was his business, and more-so their business. And nobody could see their business, not like this— so raw and out in the open. He shook his head like Moonjo would physically scatter as he did so.
“You don’t belong here. You don’t belong near us. Please . Leave me alone.”
Moonjo blinked slowly. “Neither did you. But we made it work, didn’t we?”
He stepped closer, so close that now he saw the soft curve in his mouth, the lights flickering in his eyes. Softly, intimately, he leaned in.
“I will be with you on your wedding night.”
The words curled around Jongwoo’s throat. He froze. The sentence was cold and familiar and bordering on threat. It felt, more than anything, like a promise.
Then Moonjo grinned, almost sheepishly. “This has all been very touching.”
The lights flickered briefly. Moonjo turned as if he were excusing himself for a cigarette and walked back through the garden, unseen by every guest, every relative, every friend.
…….
When Jieun announced that they were cutting the cake, Jongwoo was still frozen in place.
His skin was still buzzing with adrenaline and a cold awareness of a threat that wasn’t just approaching, but already there. He didn’t answer or move.
He looked down. He saw that beneath the balcony railing, nestled next to other gifts, there was a small box wrapped in navy silk.
It wasn’t as if he’d payed the presents that much attention, but this one was pointedly hard to ignore as ‘자기야’ was written neatly on the label.
He moved toward it slowly.
Opened it.
Inside lay a ring, settled neatly in its box, gleaming under light with, abhorrently— not beads. Not pearls. But a singular pristine, bone-white tooth .
Moonjo had polished it to a faint, eerie gleam, its root filed down, the crown untouched. Human in a way that felt personal. Almost intimate.
Jongwoo’s breath shivered in his throat at that unwelcome thought.
The metal of the band was heavy and elegant, so wrong. It looked like something a collector or mourner might wear but in this case it has no sane explanation. The tooth had been set with reverence and intent. Not beaded or pearled, but part of someone.
Him? He couldn’t be sure.
There was a small note underneath, handwritten on a crisp piece of paper- not with some clever inscription, but it wasn’t like it needed one.
For your other hand.
-304
And slowly, his fingers dug into the box. His stomach turned, and he could’ve dropped it. The rooftop swayed beneath him but the music resumed. Glasses clinked. Nobody noticed.
Jongwoo stood still, box still trembling in his hands.
Moonjo was back. And the night wasn’t over.
………
Soon after the sun had set and everyone became tired of loitering, guests had dispersed. It should have been relieving: Jongwoo had never been one for small talk- but the absence of a crowd made confrontation feel infinitely more plausible.
Thankfully, despite this, he had made no new appearance. When leaving the empty venue, Jongwoo had let out a shuddering sigh of relief, a feeling of closure temporarily crashing over him, a wave. All he had to do now was take the cab-ride home with Jieun— his new wife, and finally rest in the local hotel.
The hotel room smelled of honey soap. The windows were tilted slightly open to let in the lulling sound of distant traffic. Jongwoo set down his copy of A Picture of Dorian Gray , glancing over to Jieun, who was already asleep, her back rising and falling in slow, even waves. The white sheets were tangled around her legs.
Jongwoo sat at the edge of the bed in his shirt, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His tie was still knotted, the tips of his fingers numb. Despite the cessation of Moonjo’s supposedly, now empty threat, he was being eaten by what he was hiding.
He hadn’t told her about the box.
Nor had he told her about Moonjo.
He hadn’t even told her that the man he’d once watched die wasn’t actually dead.
But he had spent the last two hours trying desperately to feel married. He had kissed her and held her waist as they danced. Cut the cake. Watched her laugh through champagne haze. He had smiled like someone whose life had finally, finally begun.
So why inside his chest, was there a quiet scratching and something small, clawing from the inside?
He rubbed his face hard and abruptly stood. Then he walked to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Cold water. Palms to cheekbones. He took a quick look in the mirror before he felt it. Felt it before he saw it.
A distinct presence.
He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear a step on the carpet. But he knew. Somewhere in his blood, he knew .
“Still awake,” came the voice. “I hoped you would be.”
Jongwoo turned slowly. He had spent the past hours in trepidation of that very voice, and now, it was unmistakably here.
Moonjo stood in the corner of the room beside the window. His silhouette was painted in moonlight and city glow, blue-white of the moon illuminating one side, the warm sodium gold of streetlights on the other. He looked delicate like that.
He wasn’t smiling, not quite, but his eyes nonetheless shimmered with pleasure. A recognition.
“How did you-“ Jongwoo’s throat closed before he finished.
“Don’t ask me how,” Moonjo said softly, walking toward him. “Ask yourself why.”
Jongwoo took a step back. The carpet felt soft, like sand under his feet.
“You don’t belong here,” he whispered. “Get away from her. Get away from her or I swear-“
Moonjo stopped, just a pace away. “I told you I would be with you tonight. And you said nothing. That was your yes.”
Jongwoo looked over his shoulder to the bed, to Jieun. She slept on, hair fanned across the pillow. She was terribly far away. Moonjo touched his jaw gently, guiding his face back for their eyes to meet.
“Don’t look away. She’s sleeping. Let her dream. This moment is ours.”
His hand was cold and disdainfully unwelcome. Jongwoo flinched and stayed where he was.
“Why?” Jongwoo asked. It came out hoarse, desperate. “Why come now?”
Moonjo’s fingers brushed his cheek.
“Because the parts of you that belong to her are paper.” Moonjo murmured. “Pretty, folded. Fragile. Don’t you see that the part that belongs to me was carved, honey? It doesn’t bend.”
He drew closer and Jongwoo’s breath hitched. From the familiarity, and not fear. The cadence of his every move, and how they were almost touching now. His pulse kicked into his chest as the silence deepened, Moonjo waiting for a response he knew he wouldn’t get. Leaning in to Jongwoo’s side, he continued:
“You should’ve invited me properly.” Step.
“I could’ve gave you a gift you would’ve liked.” Step.
In inversion, Jongwoo stepped back, nearing closer to the bed. “I don’t want this,” he whispered, still bearing Jieun’s presence in mind.
Moonjo hummed in response, low and fond.
“You never had to want it.”
He didn’t expect Moonjo to kiss him. When he had leaned in, the brief touch had been a flicker of static, gone before he could name it.
He kissed him. But it wasn’t violent nor was it soft. Wantonly, affectionately, because it was a claim. He’d sealed his prior promise then and there.
Jongwoo did not kiss back. Or move, or breathe, and despite everything, there wasn’t a recoil, just a terrible aching in the few seconds that it happened. To kiss back was betrayal- of his vows, the fragile peace he’d spent sewing together, every desperate stitch. Still, he stood and let it happen. Not even resisting, his lips pressing against the past he didn’t want to admit out loud.
It ended before he could process it, Jongwoo’s breath falling out ragged from restraint. He trembled and averted his gaze to the floor, shame blooming in his throat.
Moonjo stepped back with a sick, patient reverence. It was the same story, rewritten with better lighting.
When they broke apart, Moonjo touched his lip gently, almost delicately.
“You didn’t kiss me back,” he said softly. “That’s all right. You don’t have to.”
He smiled, faintly.
“You’re man of habit, honey. That wasn’t goodbye.”
Jongwoo, breathless, hollow and trembling— could not, in that moment, find the strength to say otherwise.