#Day 2: Paranormal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shurisneakers · 2 months ago

Text

unsolved (xv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, Christmas, ghosts, mentions of ptsd,

A/N: i'll be so honest. this is not edited i will come back during the day and edit this. it's 3am here man. welcome to Christmas in may

Previous part || Series masterlist

It was two nights before Christmas.

Not to get too festive, but Bucky was already ho-ho-h-over this shit.

As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up.

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store.

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off.

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free.

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly.

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?”

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap.

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it.

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him.

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead.

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme.

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly.

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement.

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

“Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you.

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested.

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts.

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him.

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter.

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.”

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished.

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday.

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time.

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge.

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it.

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown.

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours.

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount.

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random.

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead.

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas.

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead.

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands.

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room.

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs.

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops.

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway.

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?”

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you.

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like.

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway.

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes.

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says.

You find yourself nodding before it even registers.

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again.

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently.

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs.

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while.

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.”

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself.

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently.

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond–

You come up empty.

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you.

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall.

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened.

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to.

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides.

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you.

It damn near knocks the breath out of you.

They look like you.

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue.

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately.

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask.

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?”

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile.

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.”

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.”

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile.

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for split second.

When you look back down, you’re on your feet.

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair.

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it.

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth.

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t.

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box.

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

“You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little.

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence.

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer.

You stand quietly in the centre of it all.

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out.

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades.

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can.

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name.

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty.

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags.

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else.

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time.

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago.

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears.

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake.

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him.

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one.

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more.

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves.

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing.

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing.

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet.

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace.

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet.

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas.

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?”

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off.

It was too short, you looked too distracted.

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past.

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him,

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.”

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid.

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one.

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up.

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red.

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges.

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him.

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you.

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time.

It takes a while to register what it is.

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite.

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory.

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room.

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible.

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost.

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet.

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead.

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up.

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow.

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else.

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters.

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months.

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes.

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious.

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath.

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever.

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous.

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language.

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly.

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously.

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters.

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You fight random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air.

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky.

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him.

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something.

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it.

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow.

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth.

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you

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kyunghwannie · 2 months ago

Text

"Midnight Static, Cherry Heart"

Minatozaki Sana x Male Reader

➤ Genre: Psychological Horror Story, Parasocial Love, Soft Obsession, False Stalking, Orchestration/Manipulation

➤Teaser: A voice through the static. A story through the night. A fan through the fear. In the silence between words, she heard you. In the stillness behind fame, you found her.

➤ Note: It's not necessarily a smut. But i just had this idea in my mind so i wrote it. You all should let me know if i should make a part 2. Sorry if the ending feels rushed a little. I was just scared of 1000 block limit

Your late-night radio show, "Whispers After One", is unlike anything else on air. You tell spine-chilling stories — true crime, ancient folklore, and listener-submitted paranormal tales — always with a subtle emotional angle that hits deeper than just scares. Your charm? You never show your face, but you always end your broadcasts with:

"Remember, not all ghosts haunt… some just wait to be heard."

Sana has been a fan for years. TWICE’s members often find her listening alone with earphones in the dark, smiling one moment and holding back tears the next. What no one knows? She’s written to your show before — using a private alias. You once read her story, “The Mirror Girl,” and your emotional insight helped her face a lingering trauma from trainee days. That moment? She fell harder than she should have.

=================================

The air outside was cold enough to bite through my coat, but Seoul at 1:47 a.m. had a strange kind of stillness that felt warmer than it should. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend every night talking to ghosts.

I adjusted my scarf, "Mic check, one, two." The static flickered softly in my headphones — the pre-show hum that always gave me chills. Not fear. Something more like... home.

I slid into the chair inside Studio B, a dimly lit booth tucked behind a noraebang that most people didn’t even know still operated. The light flickered above me once — like it always did when the stories got a little too real. I smiled to myself, "Another night, another whisper."

The red light blinked on. Live.

"Good evening, insomniacs, wanderers, and believers in things that go bump when no one’s watching," I spoke slowly, like the air around me listened. "You’re listening to Whispers After One. And tonight... let’s start with a mirror."

I reached for the first letter. The handwriting was neat, feminine. The envelope? Unlabeled, but I knew this script. Elegant, playful. Familiar.

Inside was a short story.

A girl alone in a hotel room in Fukuoka. A mirror facing her bed that she didn’t remember being there when she checked in. And the voice she heard through the radio — hers, but not quite.

I frowned, leaning in. "Our first story comes from someone who goes by... ‘S.’"

Something in my chest tightened. "Let's listen closely. There’s more than one reflection here tonight."

The paper felt oddly cold in my hand. Not the room. Just the letter. I held it under the dim studio lamp as if warming it would make the story feel less… alive.

I began reading. "February 13th, Room 908. I remember the sound of the hallway more than I remember the room."

The static behind my voice filled the space between her words, like it wanted to interrupt — or warn. "The air conditioner was broken. Not off, not on — broken. It made this sound. Like… breathing. But from the ceiling. Rhythmic. Too human to ignore. Not human enough to follow."

My breath hitched. I wasn’t the only one. Even in the soundproof booth, I swore I heard my producer shift uncomfortably in the adjacent room. "The mirror was across from the bed. I don't remember it when I walked in. But it was there when I woke up."

I paused. Read the sentence again silently.

The mirror appeared after she fell asleep? "I didn’t look at it for hours. Not because I was scared. But because I was convinced… it was looking at me first."

I cleared my throat. The studio was suddenly too quiet. "Some say a mirror at night is like an unanswered call. It reflects — but only what you expect to see," I said, letting my tone dip softer. "Others say… it’s a doorway. Especially if it’s not yours."

I tapped my notes — not because I needed to, but because my fingers were getting stiff. Tense. I continued reading. "At 3:12 a.m., the breathing from the ceiling stopped." The timestamp. Exact. Like a scar on the memory. "I looked at the mirror. My reflection blinked twice. Then didn’t."

I looked up, as if someone else were in the room with me. No one was. Just the hum of the equipment. The flicker of the ON AIR light.

I exhaled slowly. Deliberately. "There’s a psychological phenomenon," I murmured into the mic, more to myself than anyone, "called the Strange-Face Illusion. When you stare into a mirror in low light, your facial features begin to distort. Your brain, overwhelmed by sensory adaptation, starts to fill in the blanks. You begin to see something that isn't you. Something waiting behind you."

I tapped the envelope with my nail. "But in some stories… it’s not your brain."

A moment of silence. Then I finished her letter. "I left the hotel before sunrise. The front desk told me Room 908 hadn’t been booked in three years. They said the last guest broke the mirror with their bare hands and fled. I looked at my phone. I took a photo of the mirror before I left. There was a crack."

I stopped. Checked the back of the letter. One more line. "But I didn’t break it."

The air in the studio shifted. Not physically. Something colder. Internal. Like memory was a temperature. I leaned back and spoke low, as though she was still listening. "S," I whispered, "thank you for the story. Wherever you are now, I hope you're sleeping somewhere without reflections."

A beat of silence. Then the next track queued up — eerie piano in a minor key, soft static underneath. Background comfort. But it wasn’t comforting anymore.

I stared at the ON AIR sign, still red.

Still glowing. And in the glass window in front of me, I saw my reflection blink twice. Then didn’t. I let the silence stretch. Not the kind that’s empty. The kind that listens. I leaned in again, closer to the mic. Quieter now. Warmer. "If you’re still out there, S…"

I let her name rest in the air like a held breath. "It must’ve been terrifying. That moment you felt like something knew you better than you knew yourself. Not the mirror. Not the room. But the silence afterward."

I paused, voice softer. "Sometimes, we survive the strange things. But we don’t talk about them because we’re afraid they weren’t strange. We’re afraid they were us."

The red light above me glowed steady. "But I see you."

My voice faltered just for a second — not from fear. From sincerity. "You didn’t break the mirror. But maybe you wanted to. Maybe you wanted to break the version of you that stares back, quietly pretending to be okay."

I closed my eyes. "Whoever you are… I hope you’re not just surviving now. I hope someone’s voice is making you feel safe enough to sleep again."

I pulled away from the mic. Not a performance. Not a sendoff. Just a wish.

Somewhere, across the city.

In a quiet room with warm blankets and dim lights, Sana clutched her earbuds tighter.

Her knees curled to her chest. Her back pressed to the cool wall of her bedroom. The other girls had long since fallen asleep, but she stayed — like she always did — awake for him.

The voice she’d listened to for years. The only voice that somehow always seemed to know what her heart hadn’t said out loud. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Not sobs. Not pain. Just the gentle kind of ache that comes from being understood too clearly. "You didn’t break the mirror," he’d said.

But she had. Not literally. But in every way that counted. Back then, in that room, on tour — after her ankle injury, after the comment sections got too loud, after she’d stared too long at herself wondering if she still belonged.

She had written that letter in the airport. Scrawled it with shaking hands. Never thinking he’d actually read it. And yet. "I see you." Her lips trembled. She whispered into the air, not caring if it reached anyone: "I see you too."

Her hand reached for her phone. She didn’t open any app. She just stared at the paused live stream. At the glowing icon. At the voice that somehow always found her — even when she didn’t know how to call for help.

And this time, with a heart full of something more than fear, she whispered again:

"Not all ghosts haunt…" A pause. A heartbeat. "Some wait to be heard."

The ON AIR light glowed again.

My voice returned. Lower. Measured. Not to scare — but to let the weight of quiet truths settle on the listeners' chests. "I got a lot of messages about last night."

I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful. But because this part wasn’t gratitude. It was confession. "A lot of you wrote about ‘S.’ About the mirror. About the room. About how you couldn’t sleep after."

I let out a faint breath through my nose. "Some of you said it was the scariest story you’ve heard. Others said it reminded you of something. Something you couldn’t quite explain. And a few of you… said it made you cry."

I tapped the edge of the mic with my knuckle. Once. "Fear does that. The real kind. It doesn’t scream at you. It whispers. And then it waits. And then it watches how long you’ll pretend it’s not there."

I looked around my studio. Empty. But not lonely. "I’ve got a lot of stories. I’ve read thousands. But tonight, I want to tell you one of mine."

My throat felt dry. I reached for water. Didn’t drink. "When I was sixteen, I stopped sleeping for two weeks straight. No real reason. Nothing happened. At least — that’s what I kept telling people."

The music under my voice changed — subtle strings, no melody. Just enough to remind the listener that the world was still turning. "I started seeing someone in the corner of my room. A girl. She never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, in the edge of my peripheral vision. Always after 3:00 a.m. Always at the exact moment I closed my eyes to fall asleep."

I paused. Long enough that listeners might think something went wrong with the signal. "You know what’s weird?"

I asked softly. "I wasn’t scared. Not at first. I thought I was lonely. I thought maybe… maybe she was too."

My lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "It got worse. She started standing closer. Every night, just a step more. I still didn’t look directly at her. Part of me thought that if I acknowledged her, she’d vanish. And I didn’t want to be alone again."

There it was — the line. The one between paranormal and personal. And I crossed it with the next words. "One night, I woke up to find my pillow damp. Not wet like sweat. Damp. Like someone had been crying on it."

The silence that followed felt brittle. "I finally turned my head. Looked right at the corner."

Another pause. My voice dropped barely above a whisper. "She wasn’t there."

I swallowed. "But my desk chair was turned toward me. And there was a strand of black hair caught on the cushion."

I let those words settle like dust on the listeners' skin. "I never saw her again. The hair disappeared the next morning. So did the sleeplessness. But something stayed."

I touched the back of my neck. "To this day, I still can’t fall asleep unless I leave my chair facing the wall."

I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know if she was a ghost. A dream. A hallucination. Or just some part of me I couldn’t carry anymore."

Then, quieter: "But maybe that’s the real horror. That sometimes, we create ghosts… just to have someone who stays."

The piano returned — faint, distorted like it was playing from a cassette that had been underwater. I leaned back. "Wherever you are tonight… whether you’re S, or someone like her, or someone like me… I hope the silence is softer now."

The music played gently underneath, carrying your voice like a lantern across the dark. The air in the studio felt a little thinner. I tapped the mic twice. Just habit. My voice came slow this time, almost reluctant. "I wasn't planning to share this one. But tonight feels like the right night."

Soft static curled under my voice like invisible fog. "I was nineteen. Staying in Daegu for a few weeks — trying to write, clear my head, play games. There's a place called Top PC — it was on the upper floor of a mall."

A short pause. A shift in tone. Memory clawing its way forward. "That day, I was distracted. Took the wrong elevator. Got off on a construction floor by mistake. Concrete everywhere. Rebar. The ceiling open to pipes. It wasn’t finished yet."

"Worse, the power cut right then. Elevators froze. So I had to find the stairwell."

A beat. My words slowed. "And that’s when I heard it. Footsteps. Not heavy, not loud. Just... wrong."

I remembered the sound clearly. Leather soles on raw concrete. Not rushed. Not careful. Like they belonged there. "I hid behind a cement pillar. Just in case. You don’t want to get caught trespassing on active construction."

"That’s when I saw them."

The room got quieter. Even the hum of my computer seemed to hush. "A man and a boy. The man wore this... long overcoat. Had a cape. Not a superhero cape — no, this was like a funeral coat. The boy looked about ten. Pale. Quiet. Both of them… out of place."

I exhaled — sharp and short. Like I needed to let the weight out before it sank me. "They were standing by the edge. No railing. Just open air. You could see the whole street below. They weren’t scared. They were holding hands."

The next words scraped through me. "And then… they jumped."

Even now, years later, it tasted like rust in my mouth. "I stood there. Frozen. My ears were ringing, and it wasn't just fear. It was the kind that rearranges your bones from the inside out."

"When I found the stairs, I ran. Two at a time, barely breathing. When I reached the ground floor, there was already a crowd. Murmurs. People pointing."

My voice cracked just slightly. "But I was the most horrified person there. You want to know why?"

Silence. Then: "Because on the pavement, there was only one body. The boy."

A long breath. "No sign of the man. No blood. No cape. No coat. The security footage? Mall said it just... glitched. That floor’s cameras were always faulty."

I let the silence sit. "I still don’t know what I saw. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he was something worse. Or maybe... maybe he was never there. Just a shadow that borrowed a shape. Maybe it wanted someone to follow."

The words hovered, then landed softly. "Some people think ghosts are the ones who haven’t moved on. But sometimes, the scariest ones are those who help others cross... and vanish after."

My voice shifted. A little warmer. But sad. "That day changed me. I never looked at rooftops the same way again. Not out of fear. Out of grief. Grief that maybe, even in death, some people are still trying to hold hands."

Soft, somber piano drifted in — slow chords stretched thin like foggy breath on glass. "So, to anyone listening tonight... if you feel like you’re standing on a ledge, even metaphorically... don’t hold a ghost’s hand."

"Hold someone real. Even if it's just a voice on the radio."

The music faded.

And far away, in a darkened, quiet dorm room… Sana blinked.

She was sitting on her bed, one knee drawn up to her chest, earbuds still nestled deep.

The rest of TWICE had long gone to sleep. Her phone screen was dark, but she didn’t press it again. She didn’t need to. The words were echoing in her chest. Her hand tightened around the edge of her duvet. She knew your name. Your real face. Not just the voice on the radio.

But this… this wasn’t parasocial, was it?

This felt different. Not admiration. Not even attraction. No, it was deeper than that. It was the way your stories mirrored things she never told anyone. Things she only felt. In the hollow parts. The spaces between comebacks and cameras and fan signs.

Your stories understood loneliness. Saw it for what it was. Not a weakness. But a shape. A presence. Something you could touch. Her lips moved silently, repeating your last line. "Hold someone real… even if it’s just a voice on the radio."

She let out a trembling breath, then tucked her phone under her pillow like a secret. Her heart beat faster, not with fear. But with a growing ache she didn’t have a name for. Yet.

Three days later.

The studio smelled like coffee, sweat, and soundproof foam — the holy trinity of late-night radio.

I leaned back in my chair, legs stretched out, sipping on a convenience store latte that had no right being called coffee. Beside me, Dokyeom sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop on his lap, balancing a slice of pizza on his knee like he was training for a culinary circus.

"You’ve got the emotional depth of a ghost marriage ceremony," he said around a mouthful of cheese, "and yet you still manage to sound hotter than 90% of idol rappers when you talk about death. I swear, your voice is wasted on sanity."

"Was that a compliment or a curse?" I asked.

"Both. Like ramen at 2 a.m." I snorted. This was normal. This was safe. Dokyeom clicked his tongue as he trimmed the last segment of last night’s episode. "Hey, the story of the suicide floor? Trending. Over 90k shares. People are comparing it to urban legends now. Some even claim they saw similar things in Daegu too. You’ve basically created a cult."

"That’s not comforting." "No, but it is brandable."

We both laughed — loud and easy. That kind of laugh that makes you forget for a moment that you speak to ghosts on air. Then he paused. Eyes on his screen. His mouth twisted like he bit into a lemon he didn’t expect.

"Uh... so." He set his laptop down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I was supposed to tell you this earlier, but I forgot. Because, you know, pizza." I gave him a look. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Technically." He flashed his usual innocent-grimace hybrid. "Okay, so... you got an offer."

I sat up straighter. "From who?"

He picked up his phone and flipped the screen toward me.

JYP Entertainment.

Subject: Collaboration Opportunity — Joint Radio Hosting Pilot with TWICE Member

I blinked. Then blinked again. "You’re kidding."

"Nope." Dokyeom grinned, doing little jazz hands. "Apparently, someone high up loved your voice. Said it’d pair well with one of their girls. Emotional contrast or something. They’re suggesting a co-hosted, biweekly late-night segment with a TWICE member."

I stared at the screen. Cold air crept in under my hoodie like a warning. "...Which member?"

"That’s the thing," he said. "They didn’t name her in the email. Just said she’s familiar with your work. Big fan. Requested you, specifically. That’s all."

I didn’t answer right away. My mind drifted — uninvited — to a dorm room late at night, a girl with earbuds in, lips repeating my words. "Do they know what kind of stories I tell?" I muttered. "I'm not exactly your average feel-good bedtime narrator."

"Yeah, but that’s the appeal." Dokyeom shrugged. "You don’t coddle fear. You hug it like an ex you still miss."

I gave him a deadpan look. "You need therapy."

"So do you." We laughed again, but this time it felt... softer. Offbeat.

A TWICE member. Requested me. Me. The faceless voice behind the mic. She already knew me. But I didn’t know which she. And somehow, that made it eerier than any ghost story I’d ever told. "So?" Dokyeom asked, stretching his legs. "You gonna accept?"

I didn’t respond right away. I just looked down at the email. My thumb hovered over the reply button. "Let’s meet in person," the draft line read. And under it, the signature of someone I hadn’t even seen yet — only felt. I scrolled through the email again, lips tightening. "They know a lot about me."

Dokyeom looked up, still chewing. "Like what?"

"Full name, real name. My Daegu years. Even my university major. They even mentioned the exact rooftop I broadcasted from during my early days. That was never public."

His chewing slowed. He tilted his head like a golden retriever hearing a flute for the first time. "That’s... specific."

"Yeah."

We exchanged a look. The fluorescent lights above flickered once. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was bad wiring. Maybe it wasn’t. "Creepy accurate, huh?" he muttered. "You think they pulled data from our archives?"

"That rooftop stream was analog. I didn't even archive the audio. Only a few dozen people heard it live. One of those bootleg setups, remember?"

Dokyeom rubbed his chin like a fake detective in a sitcom. "Well, JYPE is rich, bro. They probably have KCSI or something. Like, K-pop CIA."

I chuckled. "Right. And TWICE agents sneak through air vents to find hidden mixtapes."

"Don’t joke," he said, pointing a pizza crust at me like it was a holy relic. "Do you know how many people would kill to know who you are? You're basically Korea’s haunted pen pal. You say ‘goodnight’ and people cry. You sneeze and someone makes a fanedit."

I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was comforting how Dokyeom always tethered things back to reality. "Our station’s been careful, though," I said. "They never leaked my image, even internally. I trust them with that."

"Exactly." He leaned back on his elbows. "So if this got greenlit, it wasn’t from a leak. It was... chosen. Deliberately."

I looked back at the email. The words blurred for a second, like the screen was breathing. A part of me felt like I was being watched, not offered.

Dokyeom whistled low. "It’s like you got recruited into a movie or something. Mysterious late-night voice guy teams up with world-famous idol. What could go wrong?"

"That sentence alone should be illegal."

He cackled. "Oh, c’mon. You’ll be fine. You’ve danced with shadows and talked ghosts into therapy. What’s one idol with a fan crush?"

I paused. Thought of the last story I read. The girl who mailed her horror like a secret prayer. The way her pain bled through the paper. The way my voice cracked reading it. No. This wasn’t just a fan. There was something deeper.

"I’ll do it." I finally said, eyes still on the screen. "Atta boy." Dokyeom raised his slice like a champagne toast. "Let’s make romance horror again."

Interlude: Behind the Curtain

"You're sure about this?" the manager asked again, voice tight with concern as they held the tablet out, list of vetted radio personalities glowing on-screen. Sana didn’t even glance at it.

She sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a cold bottle of banana milk like she was lounging in a café—not making an unprecedented talent request to the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment. "Positive," she said with a disarming grin. The manager blinked. "But you haven't seen the shortlist—"

"I don’t need to." She tilted her head, letting her ponytail sway slightly. There was nothing unusual in her tone. Nothing demanding. Just lighthearted, playful… and absolute. "Just... him."

The manager gave a nervous chuckle, scratching behind their ear. "You’re usually the most bubbly during planning meetings. Joking, teasing, making faces… But this time—Sana-ssi, you’re being unusually quiet."

"Am I?" Sana turned to face them fully, resting her chin on her palm. She smiled. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The manager swallowed and nodded. "I'll talk to the board." She beamed, like a ray of sunlight. "Thank you." But the manager left the room with a strange cold creeping up their spine.

Late Evening – TWICE Dorm

The air smelled like grilled sweet potatoes and softener-drenched laundry. The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the hum of the fridge the only sound as Dahyun padded in to grab water. She stopped when she saw Sana, arms crossed on the counter, head down, a dreamy smile curling at her lips.

"Sana-unnie?" Dahyun asked, blinking. "You okay?"

Sana slowly turned her head, eyes shining like she’d just woken from a beautiful dream. "Mmm. Just thinking about his voice."

"Huh?" Dahyun opened the fridge.

"The radio host. You’ve listened too, right?"

"Yeah, a few episodes. Pretty popular these days." She took out a bottle of water. "Creepy but... poetic?"

Sana nodded slowly. "That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t try to scare you. He just... sees through things. People, pain, moments. It’s like he walks through the fog and comes back carrying the heart of it."

Dahyun froze with the fridge still open.

"He read that letter someone wrote," Sana went on softly, fingers gently tracing circles on the countertop. "The one about the girl and the thing in her room. The way he spoke—"

She closed her eyes. "It felt like he knew her better than she knew herself. Like he didn’t need to see her face, or body, or even hear her real name. He felt her. And that’s rare, Dahyunnie. You know how rare that is?"

There was a pause. "In our world..." she whispered, "we’re always seen—but never really known. People adore us, but not really us. It’s filtered affection. Edited worship. But he... he could fall in love with a ghost. Isn’t that beautiful?"

Dahyun took a small step back, closing the fridge door slowly. She smiled softly, careful not to let it show too much concern. "Sounds like you really respect him, unnie."

"Mmm." Sana's eyes didn’t move from the counter. "Or maybe... I just want to know how it feels. To be loved without being looked at. Not as TWICE's Sana. Just as... someone."

Dahyun sipped her water and gave a quiet nod. But something inside her twisted—like a gentle hand pressing just a bit too hard against her ribs. A creeping realization she couldn’t put into words. Not yet. Not when Sana’s smile looked so warm...And yet so frighteningly far away.

Dahyun’s Monologue: A Flicker Beneath the Smile

I’ve always loved being around Sana-unnie. She’s warmth wrapped in laughter, flirtation turned into an art form. When things are too heavy, she floats. When we’re too tired to smile, she makes faces until we do. She’s one of the hearts that keep TWICE beating. And I’m the younger one who leans on her…

But lately— I’ve been watching her lean into something else. It’s scary when the ones who make the light start finding comfort in the dark.

I used to think parasocial love was a one-way street. We walk it all the time, right? Fans fall for the image, not the person. They dream of us, not knowing who we are—just what we represent. We live with it. Smile through it. Learn to separate the screaming from sincerity. It's normal. Just part of the job.

But Sana-unnie…She’s walking that street now too. In reverse. The way she talks about him—the radio host. She doesn’t admire him. She knows him. Or wants to. She clings to his words like she’s been starved for them her whole life. Not because they’re scary. Because they see her.

And for the first time, I felt that weird glass wall—the one that usually separates us from them—It flipped. And now I’m on the other side, watching someone I care for…Turn into the kind of listener we protect each other from.

But what can I do? She’s still Sana-unnie. Still bubbly. Still playful. Still brings me my favorite drinks when I’m stressed. She still laughs loud. Still hugs tight. But I see it now. There’s something behind her eyes that doesn’t belong to any of us. Like she’s somewhere else.

I’m scared. Not of him. Not of her. I’m scared of the gap. That space between hearing and being heard. Between wanting and obsession. And what it does to people—even the ones with the brightest smiles.

Because even stars can fall. And I don’t know how to catch her...If I’m the one standing on the ground.

Dorm Hallway – Just Past Midnight

The soft hum of the fridge was the only sound left in the silence after their late snack.

Sana placed her cup in the sink, still smiling faintly—like her lips remembered an old joke but her eyes had long moved on. She turned to leave, slowly, her socked feet brushing against the floor.

"Unnie." Dahyun’s voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her. Stilled her. Sana turned her head, only slightly, but didn’t speak.

"What are you feeling… really?" Dahyun asked gently. "About this show. About... him." A silence. Not the kind that suffocates. The kind that waits.

Sana finally turned fully, fingers fiddling with the hem of her hoodie. She looked down, almost like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming.

"I don’t know," she said softly, with a laugh that barely qualified as one. "It’s like... when he speaks, it’s not just stories. It’s like he’s reaching through the static and saying something only I understand. Like he’s whispering to the version of me even I forgot existed."

Dahyun took a step forward, cautious. The unease in her gut pulsed again. "Sana-unnie... you know we’ve all heard him. He’s great. Really. But—"

"It’s not about him, Dahyun." Sana’s voice trembled slightly, but not from fear. From clarity. "It’s about... finally hearing someone who doesn't ask me to be pretty. Or fun. Or Sana from TWICE.

It’s just someone who speaks, and for the first time, I don't have to perform to be seen." Her eyes glistened. But they weren’t teary. They were hungry. "I feel like… he already knows me. And if I met him, really met him… he'd know the parts even I locked away."

Dahyun's breath caught. "Unnie..."

Sana blinked, slow, like she was waking up from a trance—or stepping deeper into one. Then she smiled. Wide. Dreamy. "You know what it feels like when millions love you but not a single one actually knows you?"

"He does. Somehow, he does."

She turned and walked down the hallway. The air felt colder. Dahyun didn’t follow. She just stood there, in the hum of the kitchen light, goosebumps creeping up her arms, wondering—what if love, when unheard, doesn’t fade…but grows louder in silence?

=================================

[The next Night, Late Night Radio Show – 1:03 AM, Station 10.7]

The red light blinked softly. Live. My fingers hovered over the volume dial as I leaned toward the mic, my voice dipping low and even. “And we’re back. Tonight… we received another letter. From ‘S.’”

I paused. “This one’s not like the others.”

The printed pages on my desk were warm from the lights above, but the words felt cold. “It’s titled: The One I Never Got to Say Goodbye To.”

I began to read.

He was the kind of quiet that filled empty rooms, the kind of presence that made silence feel like company. He worked behind voices—made others sound better, heard everything and said little. He had a laugh like the world hadn’t quite broken him yet.

I used to walk by the station’s glass lobby at night. Lights on. Shadows moving. I’d watch him, even when I wasn’t supposed to. Not out of obsession. Not at first. It started as curiosity. How someone could look so alive... just talking into a void.

Sometimes, I think I loved him before I knew his name.

I wanted to tell him. That his stories healed something in me. That his voice made loneliness feel less fatal. But I never wrote in. I was too scared to be another voice in a sea of fans. Too scared to break the illusion.

Then the accident happened. Not to him. To me. A slip in my world that made it impossible to reach his. I disappeared. Like a radio losing signal. And he kept talking, never knowing I had gone quiet.

But lately, I’ve come back. Re-tuned. I listen again. From the same distance. But it’s different now.

Because I don’t want to just listen anymore. I want him to know— I was always there. Watching. Hearing. Waiting.

Not for the end of the story. But for the part where the story finally sees me.

I stopped. The booth was dead silent. My fingers trembled faintly on the armrest. “That… wasn’t horror,” I finally said. “But it might be the most chilling story we’ve ever received.”

There was a weight in my chest. Not fear. Not romance. Something stranger. A whisper behind the ears that you were never truly alone. I adjusted the mic, speaking softer now. More vulnerable.

“If you're out there, S… whoever you are…I hope you’re okay. I hope whatever accident tore you away didn’t take all of you.”

“And if it did—I’ll keep the light on.”

[Meanwhile – Sana’s POV – Dorm Room, 1:18 AM]

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, the red glow of the radio station’s live stream light flickering faintly across her face. The others were asleep. Dahyun’s faint breathing from the other room barely audible.

Sana leaned in closer to the screen, lips parted slightly.

“He read it…” she whispered. “He really read it.”

A small smile. But her fingers didn’t move. Neither did her eyes. She wasn’t crying. But she should’ve been. Because something inside her was… breaking, slowly. Not from sadness. From aching purpose.

The kind that makes people wait in the dark for years. The kind that makes someone write and rewrite the same story—until the right person sees it. Until he sees her. Her reflection in the dark screen was almost unrecognizable. Not because she looked different. But because she was looking at herself through someone else’s eyes. And she liked it. Too much.

The red “LIVE” light dimmed. I raised my hand subtly toward the glass—two fingers in the air. Dokyeom caught the cue instantly. He slid his hand over the console and queued the soft instrumental: something ambient, gentle, like wind brushing over sand.

“We’ll be right back,” I murmured into the mic, then flicked it off. I stood up, heart thudding too fast for such a quiet booth, and pushed open the soundproof door. Dokyeom was leaned back on his chair, one headphone off, chewing on sour gummies like it was just another night in paradise.

I walked straight to him, tension stiff in my neck, and leaned on the side of his chair. “Tell me I’m not crazy,” I said.

“What?” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “That was a damn good letter, man. Gave me chills.”

“No—listen.” I lowered my voice. “That story...the guy she described. The way she talked about the booth, the voice, watching him from outside?”

I looked around instinctively, though no one else was there. “She’s talking about me, right?”

He stopped chewing. His brows rose slightly. “You think she’s really stalking you?”

“I don’t know!” I ran a hand through my hair. “I mean, at first it felt like one of those poetic ‘your-voice-saved-me’ kind of things. But tonight? She talked about an accident...a disappearance...coming back...like she never left but I never noticed.”

Dokyeom stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Bro. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I snapped. “I’m just asking you if this feels...off. Weird. Personal. Like she’s talking to me. Only me.”

He looked at the mixing board for a second, as if the sliders could answer. Then, calmly, he replied. “Okay. Yeah. It's a little weird.”

I opened my mouth, but he raised a finger. “But, come on. We are a public show. Thousands tune in. It’s natural someone connects more than others. Besides, she didn’t say your name. Maybe it’s just really well-written projection.”

I exhaled slowly. The buzzing paranoia still clung to the back of my neck like static, but...his tone helped. I slumped onto the extra chair beside him, rubbing my eyes. “You ever feel like being seen too closely starts to feel like being watched?”

Dokyeom whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep. Put that in the next episode.”

I smirked despite myself. “I’m serious, man.”

He leaned back in his chair, tossing the empty gummy bag on the desk. “Look. If someone was stalking you, I’d be the first to notice. We track our mail-ins, our audio logs, station IPs. You know that. Nothing suspicious came through. No flagged user, no cross-location pings. The team would've told me.”

I nodded slowly, letting it sink in. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Course I am.” He nudged my arm. “You’re just tired. That story hit weird. Your vibe's been off since she started writing in.”

“…Since the second letter.” Dokyeom raised an eyebrow. “The one about the train platform?”

I nodded. “The way she described how she kept her eyes on the guy’s back, not his face. That line—‘the back was enough. Because once you love someone enough, the front is too much to bear’.”

I looked down at my own hands, voice quieter. “That line didn’t feel made up.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Dokyeom sighed and looked at the screen showing the song timer ticking down. “We’ve got forty-three seconds till we’re back live.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. He looked at me sideways. “You okay?”

“…Not sure.” “Wanna skip the next mail-in?”

“No.” I sat up straighter, voice firm again. “If she’s watching… I want her to know I see her, too.”

The light turned red again.

[Three Weeks Later – JYPE Headquarters, 10:31 AM]

The elevator hummed quietly as I stood inside, hands in my coat pockets, eyes scanning the digital floor numbers rise with a soft ding. 10…11…12… Even now, I still wasn't sure what this whole thing was.

A talk show collaboration? Sure. But with an idol? An actual TWICE member? That part never stopped sounding strange.

The invitation was legit. The contracts came stamped, the clauses surprisingly flexible. Even Dokyeom had triple-checked the authenticity—JYPE’s media team themselves had reached out to our station.

But what still clung to my mind like fog was that no one told me which member wanted this. Not the producers. Not the writers. Not even Dokyeom. I had signed on blind.

The doors opened with a soft ding to the media floor. Glass walls, sunlight through beige blinds, quiet buzz of assistants pacing in heels or sneakers, coffee cups, and papers. I exhaled slowly.

"Morning, Mr. L/N." A young assistant in a sleek black outfit walked up, bowing slightly. She gestured politely toward a meeting room to the left. “The producer is waiting for you inside. The artist will join later.”

“Still keeping it a secret, huh?” I half-smiled. She returned a polite, neutral grin. “You'll understand soon, sir.”

Of course I will. I walked into the meeting room—clean, white, minimalist. One side was entirely glass, the other lined with posters of TWICE’s past eras. Some familiar. Some deeply nostalgic. Some… recent. Too recent.

"Ah, Y/N!" A warm voice pulled my thoughts. JYPE’s talk show producer stepped in—a middle-aged man in round glasses and a scarf that looked like it hadn’t left his neck since 2007. "We've been excited for this."

“You say that like I haven’t been dreading the mystery,” I muttered, settling in. He laughed. “That’s part of the charm. This is her idea, after all.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right. ‘Her’. Still not giving me a name?”

“It’s… sensitive. Let’s just say, she was very specific.” “About… me?”

He paused. Adjusted his glasses. “About everything.”

I leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Strange choice, though. An idol voluntarily choosing a psychological horror show host? Doesn’t exactly scream brand synergy.”

The man smiled faintly, but didn’t answer. I looked around the room again, eyes pausing on a framed photo of the “Feel Special” era. Nine girls, bright smiles, dreamy filters.

Which one was watching my show? Which one was listening in the dark?

[JYPE Media Room – Same Day, 10:42 AM]

The producer's voice echoed faintly as he flipped through a printed schedule. “She should be arriving any—”

The door clicked. I turned casually toward it, expecting perhaps a staffer, a stylist, or another assistant with iced coffee and paperwork.

But when the door opened—My breath caught.

She walked in.

Soft brown hair fell in delicate sheets over her shoulders, parted gently to one side, glowing faintly under the fluorescent light. Her ash-toned waves framed a gentle jawline and rested softly over the wide pointed collar of her blouse. The blouse itself—white, vintage, flared at the sleeves—peeked elegantly from underneath a sleeveless, beige A-line midi dress, tailored and subtle in its detail.

The overall palette was almost ethereal—soft pastels, neutral warmth. She looked like someone who had wandered out of a late spring romance film and simply strolled into this world. Cream ankle-strap heels clicked delicately with each step, dainty but confident.

“…Sana?” It slipped out of me before I realized I said her name aloud.

She smiled. And it wasn’t just a polite smile, or one meant for an audience. It was a quiet, knowing smile—one that pressed into her cheeks and warmed her gaze. Her eyes met mine and didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Like she had been waiting.

"Annyeonghaseyo." Her voice was soft but held the clarity of someone not used to hesitating. "I'm the one who requested this show with you."

I stood, half-awkwardly smoothing my coat as if it could clean up how stunned I must have looked. The producer gave a soft chuckle from the side and excused himself with an obvious smile, mumbling something about giving us a moment.

As the door clicked shut again, the room fell silent. It was just me and her.

"Wow… I didn’t expect you," I managed, gesturing for her to sit, voice lightly cracking from the back of my throat. "I mean… I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into horror content. Especially psychological stuff."

She sat gracefully, smoothing the hem of her dress with a natural elegance that made even that simple action look cinematic. “I know,” she said, tilting her head a little, smile still playing gently at her lips. “Most people think I get scared easily.”

"Don’t you?" I blinked. She laughed softly. It was breathy, like flower petals tumbling in spring wind. “I do. I still get chills from my own shadow sometimes.”

We both laughed lightly. And yet… she was here. Voluntarily. “So why my show, then?” I asked, voice finally settling into something casual.

She folded her hands on her lap, elbows relaxed on the table. Her posture was poised, refined—but not stiff. There was an unspoken ease between us already. “Because it makes me think,” she said.

That caught me off guard. “About what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where soft sunlight slipped through half-drawn blinds and painted slow lines across the floor. “…About things that we’re not usually allowed to say out loud,” she replied eventually. “Things that feel wrong to admit, but somehow… the stories on your show made them feel safe to imagine.”

That silenced me. I’d had fans before. Listeners who messaged in, who cried during episodes, who swore we helped them sleep at night, or not sleep. But this… this was different.

This was Sana. A memvber from one of the biggest girl groups in the world.

Famous for her bright laugh, her bubbly warmth, her charm that melted camera lenses—and here she was, sitting across from me in a retro-collared blouse, talking about the comfort she found in my strange little world of haunted whispers and emotional shadows.

“Didn’t expect to be the reason someone like you liked horror,” I admitted, letting a smile tug at my lips. “Most guests come to debate, not compliment.”

She tilted her head again, amused. “I’m not like most guests.”

We shared a brief silence. Not awkward. Just… weighted. There was no flirtation in her eyes. Not yet. Just warmth. Sincere appreciation. But behind her calm demeanor, something still lingered. Not darkness. Not danger. But something. Purpose.

[JYPE Talk Show Conference Room – Rehearsal Space]

The rehearsal room was warm with low lights, a hum of muted conversation buzzing in the corners as sound staff prepped mics and the camera crew adjusted the test angles for tomorrow’s shoot.

I sat across from her again—Sana, now barefoot with her heels neatly set aside beside her chair, the hem of her beige dress brushing the floor as she shifted comfortably in her seat. She wasn’t wearing the full stage-ready face of makeup now. Just soft tones, the natural flush of her cheeks, lips tinted like a fading memory.

“So,” I started, flipping open the concept notebook Dokyeom handed me earlier. “You said you had a topic in mind for this collab, right?”

She nodded, fingers gently playing with the rim of a paper coffee cup that had long gone cold. “It’s called The Echo Room,” she said, voice light but focused.

“Sounds psychological already.” I smiled faintly, tapping my pen on the page. “What’s the idea behind it?”

She looked up at me—directly. The kind of eye contact that doesn’t just meet yours, but searches. Not assertive. Not flirty. Just… sincere. And strangely unreadable. “It’s a story about… someone who leaves messages.”

“Like, voicemail-style?”

“More like anonymous radio broadcasts,” she said. “But they never reveal who they’re for. Just memories. Or confessions. Things they could never say face-to-face. The kind of things you only say when no one can answer back.”

That was… very on-brand for this show. And eerily poetic.

“The twist,” she continued, voice dipping slightly, “is that one day… someone starts replying. But not through calls. Just… things start happening in real life. Subtle things. As if someone heard the broadcast and wanted to speak back. But not through words.”

I blinked. Scribbled something down. “Creepy in a quiet way.”

“Exactly.” Her lips curved just slightly—not quite a smile, but the soft acknowledgment of being understood. But it was more than the concept. As she explained it further—layer by layer, about how the character (a woman) slowly begins to believe her messages are reaching the person she lost, and how her need to be heard becomes an obsession—I noticed it.

That shift. Subtle. When she was addressing the crew, joking with Dokyeom, giggling at something the PD said—she was the Sana everyone knew. Bubbly. Bright. Effortlessly warm. But when she turned back to me…

It changed. Her posture relaxed, her voice dropped just slightly, more melodic. Her gaze lingered longer—never invasive, never inappropriate—but present. As if she wasn’t just looking at me. She was studying me. And her words? They always circled back in a strange, unintentional loop. To me.

“I think the girl in the story… she’s not just lonely,” Sana murmured, almost absentmindedly. “She’s always been around people. Always adored. But she feels closest to the one person who never reached back.”

I hesitated. “…Is it about heartbreak?”

“Maybe.” A beat. Then her eyes locked onto mine again. “Or maybe it’s about needing to be known by someone who sees past the surface. Someone who listens—not just hears.” I felt it then. That slow tug in the air. Like the quiet tension in the moments before rain.

Her words weren’t threatening. Not even intense. But there was something in them… something deeper than fan-level admiration. A tenderness. A familiarity she was weaving without consent or clarity. A bond that existed entirely in her space—but made you feel like you were being drawn into it without resisting.

Parasocial? Maybe. But unlike what I’d studied in theory or seen in fans—hers wasn’t manic. It was soft. Velvety. Beautiful, even. And that’s what made it harder to detect.

“You’ve clearly thought about this character a lot,” I said, flipping a page, trying to stay professional despite the odd flutter in my chest.

“I lived her once,” she said softly.

I looked up. “…What?”

She gave a light laugh—almost as if she didn’t mean to say it aloud. “I mean,” she corrected, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve imagined being her. You know. Leaving something out there and wondering if the person it was meant for ever felt it.”

My throat tightened for a moment. There was nothing accusatory in her tone. No implication. But again—that shift. Like the ghost of a feeling dancing in the corners of her words.

Sana leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand, elbow on the table. Her eyes sparkled—not with flirtation, but something far more disarming. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching your work a little too closely?”

I smiled, deflecting. “That’s the point of a radio show, isn’t it? Hoping someone’s out there?”

She chuckled. “No, not hoping.” Her voice softened. “Knowing.”

That answer sat between us like the fog that rolls in slow. I didn’t feel unsafe. I didn’t feel alarmed. But I felt seen in a way that wasn’t quite normal.

She was still Sana. Still charming. Still graceful. But something behind that smile had gravity. Something that pulled the room ever so gently in her direction—one breath at a time. And yet…I didn’t mind. I didn’t even want to move.

[Whispers After One — Special Episode: Echo Room]

The red ON AIR light blinked to life. Soft instrumental hums floated beneath it—barely there, like whispers clinging to the edges of the night. The scent of paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee filled the cool air of the soundproof studio.

This was my sanctuary. Until tonight, my face had been a mystery even to my most loyal listeners. Only my voice existed out there—a drifting, nameless presence after 1 AM. "Whispers After One" was never meant to show. It was meant to haunt.

But now, there were cameras tucked into the corners. Their red recording lights burned small holes into the darkness. A quiet staffer approached me with a black satin mask—sleek, simple, covering half my face from just beneath my eyes down to my chin.

I accepted it without hesitation. Better this than surrendering the last fragile boundary I had left. Adjusting the mask over my nose, I took my seat behind the microphone. Across from me, in a matching soft pool of light, sat her.

Minatozaki Sana.

No heels now. Her pale shoes tucked neatly under her seat. That dreamy, oatmeal-colored dress catching the light like mist. Soft brown hair framing her face, falling naturally past her shoulders with a lazy side part. Her expression was... calm. Open. But that glint in her eyes—That same glint from the rehearsal, as if some secret rhythm only she could hear was playing in the background—It was still there. And somehow, it was directed only at me.

The cue light flashed.

3…2…1…

I leaned into the mic, voice dropping into the familiar, soothing register I always used when the world was sleeping. "Welcome back, lnsomniacs. This is Whispers After One… and tonight is special."

The theme music faded in—an eerie piano melody, light as fog, stitched with low ambient echoes. Perfect for the concept we built. "You know this show as the place where we explore the unseen, the unheard... the stories that brush past you in the dark."

My gloved fingers tapped lightly against my notes. "But tonight, we're not whispering alone."

I smiled under the mask, glancing across to her. Sana's lips tilted in a soft smile, almost shy. "Joining me is none other than Minatozaki Sana of TWICE," I said, voice steady but warm. "An artist you know for her light, her charm... and tonight, a very different side you'll hear."

Sana leaned into her own mic. "Annyeonghaseyo~..." she said, her voice as delicate and careful as if she were afraid to break the spell we’d woven in the room.

She glanced once, sideways, at me—not the audience, not the staff. Just me. "I'm Sana," she continued, "and… I'm really honored to be here, especially on a show I’ve secretly loved for a long time."

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible emphasis on secretly. The camera panned softly between us, slow and cinematic, bathing the scene in candlelight tones. I caught it then—listeners would hear the sweetness in her voice. They wouldn’t hear the tiny note of awe, almost reverence, buried underneath it when she spoke to me.

But sitting across from her now? I could feel it. "Tonight's theme," I said, sliding naturally into the next beat, "is something Sana herself proposed… The Echo Room." A soft chime sound marked the transition. "We'll tell a story," I explained, "about leaving memories in the void... and what happens when the void starts whispering back."

Sana inhaled softly, like the concept itself stirred something real inside her. She began: "Imagine… it starts simple. A girl sits by her radio every night, speaking into the silence." Her voice was slow, wrapped in velvet. Designed not just to tell—but pull you in. "She talks about her day. About her memories. About the things she regrets never saying when she had the chance."

Soft ambient echoes bloomed in the background, like faint footsteps down a hallway. I found myself leaning in a little too naturally, matching her tone. "At first, there’s no answer," I murmured. "Just the empty static of being unheard."

Sana’s eyes lifted slightly—catching mine for half a second, as if savoring that line. "But then," she whispered, "the things she talks about… start changing around her. A song she mentions plays in a store the next day. A childhood photo reappears where it was lost. A dream she shares… comes true."

The room seemed to lean closer with us. No one else spoke. Even the staff held their breath, watching the slow, eerie performance unfold.

Sana’s hands, resting lightly on the table, curled slightly. Her next words floated out like fog. "It’s not a ghost. Not magic. It's just… someone, somewhere, listening too closely."

I kept my voice steady. "And maybe," I said lowly, "someone who never intended to stay invisible forever." For a moment, it wasn’t acting. It wasn’t just a show. It felt real—a strange tether tying us, pulling her soft, mysterious aura closer across the table.

She smiled—barely. The kind of smile you'd give if you heard a secret only you were supposed to know. We let the music swell lightly, giving the audience space to breathe—or shiver—before easing into light conversation about loneliness, connection, unseen bonds.

Sana answered thoughtfully—always thoughtful—but whenever she directed a response to me, her voice softened even further. Her glances flickered a bit longer. Her smile tilted slightly more intimate. No one else would catch it. The cameras wouldn’t catch it.

But sitting there behind the mask, the air between us humming with unseen frequencies—I felt it. And for some reason…I didn’t mind at all.

The cameras whirred almost inaudibly. The background music faded down to near silence, leaving only the natural softness of breathing, the quiet clicks of shifting in chairs. We were deep into the middle portion of the show now—the part where the tone always sank a little heavier, a little deeper. The Echo Room was alive in the minds of the listeners now.

Sana tilted her head slightly, the smooth fall of her hair brushing her cheek. She rested her chin lightly on her palm, elbow on the table. Her posture seemed casual at first. But when she spoke next, there was something unfathomably tender in her voice, something that barely fluttered across the air like the wings of a moth.

"Sometimes..." she began, almost as if she were reminiscing instead of answering the latest question, "the scariest thing isn't the ghost itself. It's realizing you've been watched... and cared for... without ever knowing it." A small smile played at her lips—not mischievous, not playful. Soft. Almost… longing.

I nodded slightly, unaware of the undercurrent beneath her words. "Because," I replied thoughtfully, my mind on the story’s framework, "attention unseen is both a comfort and a horror, depending on the day."

"Mm," Sana murmured, low and gentle. "Depending on who’s watching." Her eyes flicked briefly to me again—not dramatic, not lingering. Just long enough that if anyone else had truly been looking... They might have wondered if that line was meant for the microphone at all. Or just for the man behind the mask.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my notes, brushing off the subtle tickle of awareness that something unspoken had passed between us. Probably just the atmosphere of the show. Probably just her talent for acting dreamy. The moment dissolved almost instantly as she leaned back, laughing softly at my next quip about radios "whispering back" too much and scaring people away from technology.

But there it was. A tiny drop of something left behind in the air. Invisible. Undetectable. Undeniably there. Recording continued. Unnoticed by me. But maybe not so unnoticed by Sana.

[Segment: Listener Q&A - Final Portion]

"And we're back," I spoke into the mic, smiling beneath my mask, "to the final portion of tonight’s Echo Room... featuring none other than Minatozaki Sana."

The small studio lights dimmed a little more for mood. The screen behind us flickered with soft visuals—moving mist, phantom lights, silhouettes that swayed without sound.

Sana turned slightly toward the camera, flashing a soft, shy smile that instantly melted the atmosphere. It was like watching sunlight fight its way through a heavy fog. "I’m excited," she said brightly, clasping her hands together on the table. "Listener questions are always the most fun!"

I chuckled. "You say that now... wait until you hear some of the ones our audience dared to send in." Dokyeom gave a small laugh from the control booth, muffled but still heard, like an inside joke shared behind the scenes. I shuffled the cards in front of me and pulled one randomly.

Question 1: "If you were haunted by a spirit, what kind of ghost would you want it to be?"

I leaned toward the mic a little dramatically. "Starting off easy," I teased. "Alright, Sana-ssi. Friendly Casper ghost? Romantic old-school spirit? Demonic possession? Pick your fighter."

Sana giggled, her laughter bubbling like soda but her fingers tapped lightly against the table—nervous energy? Excitement? It was hard to tell. "Mm..." she said, pretending to think seriously. "If I had to choose... I'd want it to be a gentle one. Someone who doesn't scare me... someone who's just... always there. Even when I don't see them."

Her voice dipped softer at the end. The audience probably heard it as cute. I just smiled and nodded. Unaware of how her gaze barely lifted from me—not the camera.

Question 2: "What scares you more — being alone, or being watched?"

I grinned beneath the mask. "Now we’re getting serious."

Sana bit her bottom lip lightly, thoughtful. "Being watched," she said immediately. Then, she blinked as if realizing she should elaborate. "I think... if you're alone, you can prepare yourself. Be strong. But if someone's watching you without you knowing, you can’t protect yourself. You’re... vulnerable. You can't hide."

Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.She wasn’t acting cute anymore. There was something achingly sincere behind her eyes.

I nodded slowly."There’s a strange kind of helplessness in it," I said, keeping the professional tone. "To be seen fully without your consent."

Sana smiled. A small, knowing smile. Almost grateful.

Question 3: "Have you ever had a feeling that someone cared about you... even without seeing them?"

I blinked at the phrasing. It was a little poetic for a listener submission. "Interesting question," I said aloud. "Kind of sweet too, in a creepy way."

Sana took a slow breath, and her voice dropped just a fraction lower. "Yes," she said simply. There was a silence—not heavy, but hanging, like a silk scarf caught on a branch. She tilted her head, looking down for a second, then lifting her gaze slightly—not to the camera, not to the script. Straight at me.

"Sometimes...you just know," she said. "When someone’s out there. Listening. Understanding you... even when they shouldn't be able to." Her smile didn’t falter. It just grew... softer. Almost sad.

I adjusted the mic settings casually, brushing off the odd pulse that tightened in my chest. Probably just the heavy nature of the show tonight. Probably.

Final Listener Submission: "If you could say one thing to someone who has always quietly supported you... without revealing who they are... what would you say?"

The card trembled slightly between my gloved fingers. Not from fear. Just... a sudden, creeping awareness of how delicate this atmosphere had become.

I looked at Sana expectantly. She smiled—a smile like slow, melting candle wax. Lovely. Strange. She didn’t even hesitate. She leaned closer to the mic, close enough that her breath was almost audible through the audio system. "I would say..." she whispered, "You’ve never been invisible to me. Even if you think you are. I’ve seen you all along."

The studio seemed to still. Even Dokyeom, busy behind the screens, paused briefly before resuming his work. Sana pulled back, her smile folding into a sweet little laugh. "Was that too dramatic?" she teased lightly, playful again. "I'm just getting into the theme!"

I laughed with her, nodding. "That’s what the Echo Room is for."

"To let all the unsaid things... finally be heard."

And with that, the final music cue rose gently from the speakers—soft, haunting, like the last ripple of a stone dropped into a dark, endless lake.

The cameras slowly powered down. The soft applause of the production staff filled the room. Not loud. Just a polite ripple. I removed my headset, stretching slightly, feeling the tightness in my shoulders from staying still so long.

Sana rose from her chair, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed her dress lightly, then looked toward me with a small, private smile.

"Thank you," she said, her voice meant just for me, not the room. "For letting me talk about things... I usually can't."

I nodded warmly, still not thinking too much of it. Just a beautiful, kind idol being grateful for a platform. Nothing more. Right?

[Post-Recording Lounge: "A Gentle Kind of Watching"]

The small studio gradually emptied after the last camera light clicked off. Producers laughed among themselves, wrapping cables, sharing inside jokes.

Dokyeom passed by, patting me on the shoulder. "Bro, you killed it," he said with a grin. "She killed it too. Good luck topping that one next week." I gave a humble nod, still seated, the studio warmth slowly cooling as the energy faded.

Across from me, Sana removed the small clip mic from her collar, her movements delicate. She stayed in her seat longer than expected, not in a hurry to leave.

A staff member brought in two steaming cups of herbal tea, leaving them on the low lounge table between us. "You can relax now," I joked lightly, pushing one cup toward her.

She chuckled, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic "It wasn’t stressful," she said honestly.."Your show... it makes people feel like they can say anything. Even scary things don’t feel so scary when you’re the one listening."

I blinked behind my mask, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Thanks," I said awkwardly. "That's kinda the goal... I guess."

The lounge lighting was softer here — low, amber, almost like candlelight. Outside the soundproof glass, the hallway buzzed with distant life, but in here it was quiet. Safe.

Yet there was something...something that stayed perched invisibly on my shoulder since the recording ended. A prickle between my shoulder blades.

Sana sipped her tea. She looked down at the swirling steam, then back at me — warm, unhurried. We sat there for a moment, not talking, just... existing. Until I broke the silence.

"Actually," I started, voice a little scratchy from hours of talking. "Since you mentioned feeling like someone’s always listening..." Sana's eyes lifted, alert but still casual. "...I got a weird story letter the other day."

She tilted her head slightly, the way a cat might when curious. "Weird?" she asked, voice dipped in curiosity.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing the tea on my knee. "Yeah. Listener submission. No return address. Just signed with an initial."

Sana set her cup down lightly, folding her hands on her lap. Listening. Really listening.

"The initial was ‘S’." Her lips curved slightly upward — not surprised, just vaguely entertained. "Mysterious," she said airily.

I gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Honestly, it started off delicate. Soft. Almost beautiful in a way." I tapped my fingers against the side of the cup unconsciously. "It talked about loneliness, watching late at night... finding comfort in just hearing someone else’s voice. Made me think it was just someone struggling emotionally, you know?"

Sana nodded, perfectly sympathetic. No cracks. No flickers. If anything, she leaned in just slightly, as if urging me to continue. And I did.

"But then..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "The second half changed. It wasn’t about loneliness anymore. It got...eerie."

Her eyes widened a little — just enough. A picture-perfect actress playing a curious friend. "How?" she whispered.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the words slip out before I could second-guess them. "It started describing the room I usually record in. Like... in detail. The way the lights look when they’re dimmed. The way my voice sounds when I'm tired but trying to hide it."

I chuckled dryly. "At first, I thought maybe a staff member wrote it as a prank. But it was... specific."

Sana’s hand brushed the edge of the table, fingertips gliding slowly like tracing invisible patterns. Still calm. Still impossibly soft in her demeanor. "And the ending?" she asked.

I swallowed, the tea now lukewarm in my hand. "The ending said..." I paused, half-laughing at how crazy it sounded aloud, "something like, 'Don’t worry if you ever feel unseen. I'm always there. I know the way the light falls over your shoulders when you think you're alone. I watch.' "

The words hung in the lounge like thin smoke. Sana blinked slowly.Once. Twice. No horror. No visible shiver. Just a soft smile curling at the edge of her lips. "Creepy," she agreed gently. "But... maybe it’s not meant to scare you."

I gave a skeptical grunt. "I dunno. When I read it, it felt...directed at me. Like whoever wrote it actually watches me. Not just as a fan. Like... more."

I didn’t even notice how tightly I gripped the cup until my knuckles whitened.vm Sana noticed, though. Her fingers brushed her own wrist as if feeling a phantom sensation there. "Maybe..." she said, her voice a feather, "they just don’t know how else to show affection."

The room felt a few degrees colder despite the tea steam. I smiled thinly beneath the mask. "Hope they find a healthier way soon."

Sana laughed softly — a sound so musical and so delicate that it almost seemed to cleanse the air. Almost. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the clock. "You should keep the letter," she said, a little mischievously. "One day... it might mean something different."

I tilted my head, amused. "You think so?"

"Mmh," she nodded seriously. "Sometimes things that scare us now... become precious memories later."

Her eyes met mine then, steady and shining with something —something I couldn’t name. Tenderness? Amusement? Pity?

I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that sitting there, in the softened light, facing this dreamlike girl in her soft vintage dress and glowing skin, I suddenly felt—watched. Not the way a stalker watches. Not the way an audience watches. Something... closer. Softer. And infinitely harder to run from.

We finished our tea quietly after that. Small talk resumed, light and simple — favorite horror movies, the best seasonal foods, upcoming TWICE schedules. She laughed. I laughed. The uneasiness folded itself into the edges of my mind, tucked away.

When Sana finally stood to leave, she turned at the door, offering a small wave. "Thanks again," she said brightly, her usual on-camera smile blooming.

But her eyes, for just a split second before she turned away—held something else. Something that wasn’t meant for the cameras. Something that wasn’t meant for the world. Somethi1ng that was only meant for me. And I, oblivious to the gravity of it, simply waved back.

[Goodbye: "A Gentle Invitation"]

Sana adjusted her light cardigan over her shoulders, her delicate figure silhouetted briefly against the frosted glass door. The moment felt suspended —Not awkward, not rushed, but... charged with something unseen.

She shifted her weight onto one foot, tapping her knuckles lightly against her palm in a rhythm that didn’t match any song. Almost like she was... deciding.

Finally, she spoke. "Y/N-Oppa," she said, her voice lower, more intimate than earlier. Not the chirpy brightness she used for audiences. Something closer. Softer. Private.

I glanced up from where I was gathering my things, surprised she hadn't just left with the others. "Yeah?" I answered, trying — and probably failing — to sound casual.

Sana stepped closer. Not into my personal space, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her floral perfume, delicate like wild jasmine after rain. Her eyes gleamed with something playful — but not teasing. Not exactly.

"Would it be weird," she asked lightly, her thumb tracing a small invisible circle on the strap of her bag, "if we... exchanged contacts?"

The words fell into the space between us so gently that they almost didn't feel real at first. As if it were the most natural thing in the world — and yet, something no one else had dared ask.

For a heartbeat, I just blinked, registering it. Sana smiled — a smile that wasn’t the bright spotlight smile she showed the world. This one was slower. Sweeter. The corners of her mouth curved up almost shyly, her lashes dropping for a beat before lifting again to meet my gaze.

Goddamn, I thought helplessly. She must destroy men without even meaning to. Heat rose unbidden to my cheeks, and before I could clamp down on the reaction, I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "Uh... yeah, sure," I said, rubbing the back of my neck like some awkward high schooler. "No problem."

Sana’s smile widened just slightly, pleased but still understated, like a cat who got the cream without knocking over the bowl. I pulled out my phone quickly, trying not to look flustered, and handed it to her unlocked.

She accepted it without hesitation, thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Her contact name, when she handed it back, was simple: Sana-chan💞 with a small heart emoji tucked discreetly at the end. Not over-the-top. Not flashy. Just enough to make the memory of it burn softly in my chest.

"Text me later if you want," she said lightly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Then, just before stepping away, she paused — looking over her shoulder at me with a smile so gentle it felt like it wrapped itself around my ribs. "Or..." she added, voice dropping ever so slightly, "just when you feel... watched again."

A beat. A shiver. I chuckled under my breath again, half laughing at the way my heart knocked against my ribs without permission. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, pretending not to feel like a teenager all over again.

Sana gave a small bow — graceful, polite — and then disappeared through the door in a flutter of soft footsteps and fragrant air. Left alone, I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary.

Then at the door she had vanished through. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirred —the memory of the letter from "S," the eerie words about watching, about knowing the way light touched me when I thought I was alone.

But I shook it off with another small laugh. There was no way it was related.

The success after the Sana special episode was almost absurd.

Whispers After One exploded into trending charts, my inbox filled with interview requests, sponsorships, and curious fans demanding more collaborations.

But as the dust settled, the familiar quiet of the studio at night returned — just me, Dokyeom working behind the glass, the red ON AIR sign humming softly above.

Tonight was another normal recording...or so I thought.

The new pile of listener letters sat on my desk, neatly stacked and awaiting their turn. I skimmed through most of them easily, smiling at fan dedications, life stories, even silly horror stories that felt like they were written on the bus ride home.

But then my hand paused — brushing against an envelope. Cream-colored. No sticker. A faint scent of lavender. It was unmistakable.

"Another one from 'S'." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough that Dokyeom, adjusting the levels, flicked a curious glance up through the glass.

I placed it carefully on the desk, eyeing it warily for a second before flipping the mic switch back on.

"Welcome back to Whispers After One,"

my voice warmed the night air through every lonely apartment, every sleepy commuter's radio. "Tonight, we have another letter...from someone who's becoming quite a familiar whisper in our community — our mysterious storyteller, 'S'."

I tried to make my tone light, teasing — but a part of me already felt the temperature of the room dip. Something about the way this envelope felt...Something different from before. I broke the seal. Unfolded the soft paper.

And began to read:

Dear Whisperer, Have you ever seen a beautiful garden and thought it would last forever? A sanctuary you stumbled into by accident... A place you weren't supposed to find... Yet you stayed because the air was sweeter there than anywhere else But the longer you stayed... The more you realized you weren't just admiring the garden. You were part of it. The roots grew beneath you. They twined around your ankles. They held you there. You are the garden now. And the one who tended it smiles because you have no idea. Until next time, S

I finished reading.

The microphone crackled softly as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the letter. It was...beautiful. Elegant, almost poetic. But underneath the beauty was something deeply unsettling.

The imagery was sticky — roots, trapping, belonging without realizing it. I blinked a few times, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest.

Shaking it off, I reached for the mic again. "Well," I laughed gently, forcing a little levity into the show,

"S, you really have a way with words. I don't know if I should be honored...or a little nervous." I gave a soft chuckle, then leaned closer to the mic, speaking to all the listeners — but mostly, if I was honest, to S themselves.

"To our dear gardener — wherever you are listening —"

"Thank you for your words. But don't worry. I like gardens. Even if they hold onto me a little too tightly."

I smiled after I said it. It sounded charming enough, soothing enough for a late night crowd. But inside...my gut twisted a little. Was I...comforting someone I should be wary of?

The rest of the recording moved along like clockwork. A few lighter letters. Some fan theories about ghost sightings. I kept my energy calm, measured, like always.

Finally, when the ON AIR light dimmed and the outro music faded into silence, I exhaled and leaned back in my chair. The door to the recording booth clicked open and Dokyeom stepped in, stretching.

"Good one, man," he said casually, plopping down in the producer's chair with a yawn. "Numbers are gonna spike again after that. Everyone loves that 'S' stuff."

I hesitated. My hand was still lightly resting on the letter, tracing the bottom of the paper absentmindedly. I looked up at him.

My voice was lower now. Tightened. "Hey, Dokyeom," I said, trying to sound normal, "Can I...ask you something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, shoot."

I held up the letter slightly, waving it between us. "Am I the only one who thinks this is...weird?" I said carefully. "Like...not just storytelling. I mean—"

I swallowed. "It almost feels like they're watching me."

Dokyeom laughed lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Dude, you're just spooking yourself out. You host a horror-themed show. People are gonna lean into that vibe, you know?"

I frowned. "Yeah...maybe."

But I wasn't convinced.bThe way the letter described finding a place you weren't supposed to, being trapped there... The way it felt oddly personal. Like I was the visitor. I was the one tangled in someone's roots.

Dokyeom must have seen the lingering tension on my face because he softened. "Look," he said, leaning forward on his knees, "If it gets too weird, we can report it. We got enough eyes on this show now that management'll take it seriously. Okay?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

"No sweat," he said easily, standing and stretching his arms again. "C'mon, let's go grab coffee before you psych yourself into a horror story of your own."

I laughed a little — a genuine one this time — and shoved the letter into my jacket pocket.

But as I followed him out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling: Someone was smiling somewhere. Someone was glad I was tangled in the roots. And I had no idea who they really were.

[The Day After — At My Apartment]

It was still early — sunlight barely filtering through the half-closed blinds of my apartment — when the doorbell rang.

Not a normal knock. It was frantic, hurried, like whoever was on the other side needed to be let in now.

I frowned, setting my half-eaten toast down, wiping my hands on a napkin as I shuffled to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw a familiar, slightly disheveled mop of hair.

Dokyeom.

I unlocked it quickly. "Dude, what are you—?"

He didn’t wait for a greeting.He shoved his way inside, clutching a bundle of papers in one hand, his backpack slung half off one shoulder. His eyes were wide — bloodshot like he hadn’t slept. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill outside. "You need to see this," he blurted, voice low, almost hoarse.

I blinked. "What are you talking about? What's going on?"

He threw the papers onto my coffee table with a heavy slap. They spread across the surface — a messy fan of familiar creamy letters, each one bearing that same faint lavender scent.

"S."

I slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, my fingers hesitant as I picked one up. My heart was already hammering against my ribs before I even started reading.

The first letter:

Whisperer, I saw you today. The way you laughed at the coffee shop when no one else was around. You should be careful smiling like that. Someone might think it’s just for them. I would have waved. But you looked too peaceful. Next time, maybe I’ll sit closer. Maybe you’ll notice me. Love, S

I blinked slowly, skin crawling. I hadn’t gone to a coffee shop yesterday...had I?

Then it hit me — two days ago — after recording night. I had grabbed a quick coffee near the studio, wearing my cap low and hoodie up. There was no way someone could have recognized me that easily. Unless...Unless they knew exactly where I was.

I set the letter down with trembling fingers. Dokyeom was pacing now, raking his hand through his hair over and over. "There's more," he said, almost in a whisper. I reached for another.

Second letter:

Dearest Whisperer, The halls you walk through aren’t as empty as you think. The echoes aren't just yours. Some of us follow quietly. Breathing in the spaces you leave behind. Every sound you make... Every sigh, every hum... It stays with us. We are so close. Love, S

I shuddered. The language wasn’t overtly threatening.

But there was something sickly sweet about it — like a cat toying with its prey, smiling while it tore. "Dokyeom," I said slowly, voice tight, "where the hell did you get these?"

He slumped onto the armchair across from me, hands dangling between his knees. "Management sent them to me this morning," he muttered. "Apparently...they’ve been holding back showing you some of the weirder stuff because they thought it was just a weird superfan thing. They didn’t want to 'stress you out' while the show's popularity was booming."

I stared at him. My mouth opened. Closed. I didn’t even know where to start. "And now?" I croaked.

He exhaled sharply. "Now they're scared too. Security at the building caught someone on cameras last week — twice. Hanging around the studio exit, then again near the parking lot. Same figure. Baggy clothes, hat down low, face hidden. Both times they were moving like they were looking for someone. Asking questions to random interns too."

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, voice cracking a little. "Man, they're trying to cover it up because the show’s hot right now, but...they know it’s bad."

I felt my entire body stiffen, my mind flashing back to the weird feeling I'd had last Thursday — like eyes on the back of my neck when I'd left late, the hairs standing up along my arms for no reason. I thought I was just tired. Paranoid. But it was real. Someone had been there.

I raked my hands through my hair, standing up, pacing now myself. "Okay. Okay, so what do we do? File a report? Get security to—"

"Already done," Dokyeom interrupted, lifting a hand weakly. "They're bumping your security up quietly. Only the top level of the building knows. They're trying not to cause a scene."

I scoffed bitterly. "Right. Because God forbid my safety messes up the profit margins."

He gave a humorless chuckle. Silence fell for a moment — heavy, thick.

I looked down at the letters again. The handwriting was so elegant. Almost fragile. Not the shaky scrawl you'd expect from someone this...obsessed. It was beautiful. It was deliberate. I picked up one more letter, the newest one. And this one...this one wasn’t even poetic.

Third letter:

Whisperer, It’s not fair that others get to have you when you were meant for us. They can't protect you like I can. They can't see you like I do. When the garden is full bloom, you won't remember them. You’ll only remember me. And by then, it’ll be too late to leave. Love Always, S

I dropped the letter like it burned me.

Dokyeom stood up too, the two of us just staring at the pile of letters like it might start moving on its own. The garden metaphor again. Always the garden. Only now...it was starting to sound less like a sanctuary. And more like a prison.

I broke the silence finally, my voice quieter, almost childishly hopeful: "Maybe...it's still just stories. Maybe it's all for the show. You know how some fans get carried away roleplaying..."

Dokyeom didn’t even bother answering. The look in his eyes said it all. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story anymore. It was real. And whoever "S" was...they were closer than I ever wanted to believe.

want:

[Scene: A Day Indoors — First Real Contact with Sana]

I stayed home that day.

The radio team had put out a public notice early that morning — "Today is a Healing Day," they said, inviting listeners to take time to reflect on the unfolding stories in my show, to imagine what paths tomorrow’s tale might take. Officially, it was framed as an artistic pause. Unofficially... It was because I wasn’t ready to face another letter. Not yet.

I sat on the couch for hours, absently flicking through the stack of strange, unsettling letters Dokyeom had brought over.

They weren't just growing weirder — they were growing darker.

One letter had spiraling phrases — sentences that looped in on themselves, almost hypnotic in repetition:

"You belong to the garden. You belong to the garden. You belong to me."

Another had a dried flower taped to it — the petals wilted and bruised, like it had been carried around for days before being attached. There was no writing on that one. Just the flower. And the faintest stain where it had pressed against the paper.

The psychological pressure was mounting. Thick and sour, like the air before a thunderstorm.

I needed a distraction. Something to pull me out of my own mind.

I picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, half-expecting to find nothing worth seeing.

But then, a reel caught my eye.

Sana.

Laughing with the TWICE members in matching pink outfits — filming behind-the-scenes clips for their "Talk That Talk" promotions, somewhere inside their "TIME to TWICE" episode. She spun around playfully, her hair flipping over her shoulder, her smile bright under the stage lights.

It felt almost surreal. Like watching a completely different world. One where people laughed freely, touched shoulders without fear, moved through crowds without second-guessing every gaze.

And then I remembered.

The night of our collab.

Right before she left the studio, she'd lingered — just a second longer than the others — as we exchanged numbers:

"Text me if you wanf. Or... if you ever feel watched. - Sana"

At the time, it felt playful. Maybe even a little teasing.

But now... Now it felt different. Almost prophetic.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her contact.

It was stupid. It was probably crossing a line.

But loneliness does strange things to people.

And fear... Fear makes you reach for any hand that looks steady enough to hold.

Without thinking much more, I typed out a short message.

Me:

"Hey. It's me. From the show. I... know it’s random but... thanks for giving your number. Might be needing that now."

Less than ten seconds later, my screen lit up.

Sana:

"Hi!!! I was hoping you'd text someday." "Is everything okay? You sounded serious."

Her fast response made my chest tighten strangely — like something inside me uncoiled just a little. Someone was there. Someone heard me.

Before I could even think of a proper reply, my phone buzzed again.

Incoming call: Sana.

I hesitated only a second before answering.

"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

There was a soft laugh on the other end — not her public laugh. No squealing, no showy giggles. Just a small, quiet exhale of relief.

"Hey you," she said warmly. "I'm glad you picked up."

I slumped back against the couch, the tension in my shoulders finally starting to loosen, if only slightly.

Her tone was different from how she'd been during filming. Less bright, more...grounded. Thoughtful pauses between words. Soft, almost musical chuckles when I said something awkward.

It wasn't the bubbly idol voice.

It was something real.

We talked casually at first. A little small talk about promotions, her exhaustion, her love-hate relationship with the "Talk That Talk" choreography. She teased me lightly about being "Mister Mysterious" for not texting sooner.

But eventually, she circled back — gentle, but direct.

"You sounded...like something’s wrong," she said quietly. "What happened?"

For a moment, I hesitated.

It felt stupid. It felt needy. Like dragging someone into a storm they had no reason to stand in.

But the words spilled out anyway.

Piece by piece, I told her about the letters. The garden references. The figure near the studio. The creeping sensation that whoever "S" was...they weren't just watching from afar anymore.

I expected her to react like most people would. Laugh nervously. Tell me it was probably nothing. Change the subject.

But she didn’t.

She listened.

Really listened.

Silent for long stretches except for the soft hum of acknowledgment every few sentences — the occasional murmur of sympathy that kept me talking when I wanted to clam up.

When I finally fell silent, there was a long pause.

And then her voice, softer than ever:

"I'm sorry you're going through this."

Another beat.

"You're not crazy for feeling scared."

Another pause.

"You're not alone either, okay?"

Something behind my ribcage cracked a little at that.

Not alone.

Sana's tone grew a little more firm — not harsh, but steady.

"Tell me about your radio show. Your team. The building security. How you get in and out. I want to know everything."

I chuckled weakly.

"Why? Gonna become my personal bodyguard?"

She laughed too — but there was a seriousness underneath it.

"I might not be able to fight but..." "My management can push some things." "We can make some quiet calls. Put some pressure on security. Maybe even sneak in a few extra guards without it looking suspicious."

I immediately shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.

"No, no. You don’t have to get involved. I don't want you stressing over—"

"I'm already involved," she interrupted gently. "You reached out to me. That means you trust me. That means you don’t have to carry this alone."

Her voice dipped even lower — nearly a whisper:

"Let me help."

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the simple human need to be seen.

But I caved.

I told her everything — the time slots I worked, the usually empty corridors, the neglected side exits. How easy it would be for someone determined enough to slip inside.

She listened in that same quiet, unwavering way.

When I finally stopped, drained and embarrassed, she simply said:

"Okay. I'll take care of it from here. You just focus on staying safe for me."

I almost laughed at how natural it sounded — for me.

As if we were already standing on the same side of the line.

As if somehow, in the span of one strange afternoon, I'd found an unexpected shield in someone I barely knew beyond a few hours in a dim recording studio.

We stayed on the call longer than either of us probably intended.

Talking about nothing and everything.

Letting the silence stretch out sometimes — not awkwardly, but comfortably.

I could almost forget, for a little while, about the letters.

About the garden.

About the shadows moving in the corners of my life.

Almost.

But when Sana finally hung up — promising to text me updates — I stared at the phone in my hand for a long, long time.

Something had shifted today. Subtle, but irreversible.

And whether it was a good thing or a dangerous thing... I didn’t know yet.

After the call ended, I lay back against the couch, my fingers mindlessly scrolling across YouTube. Without even thinking, I typed her name into the search bar. Sana TWICE moments.

One by one, the algorithm fed me a buffet of her clips — everything from downright suggestive stages where her every glance could melt concrete, to chaotic, adorable show appearances where she laughed until she couldn't breathe. I just let it autoplay, sinking into it all. The contrast was insane. How could the same woman who was doing that hip roll on stage just hours later be the same one who talked to me tonight so gently, so... thoughtfully?

Talking to her made me feel... lighter. As cheesy as it sounded, it felt like a bit of the weight that had been pressing on me for days finally floated up and away.

I smiled to myself, shifting the pillow behind my back. Maybe... Maybe this was how my listeners felt, too. When they called into the show with their horror stories, trembling voices and hearts still stuck in the moments they lived — and I listened. When I spoke back, tried to ease their nerves, and offered them some kind of shelter from the dark — maybe this was what they felt. A strange kind of peace. A quiet knowing that even if the world was insane, even if shadows crept close, someone else was there. Someone heard them.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, Sana's soft laughter from one of the clips playing faintly through the speakers. It sure feels nice.

Maybe too nice.

The next few days passed like an unraveling thread, pulling tighter and tighter around my chest.

At first, it was just the same — unreadable letters from "S" sliding into the show's inbox, their language growing steadily more desperate, more fixated. There were no overt threats... just descriptions. Descriptions of me. Of how I moved when I wasn’t on camera. Of the little habits I had that no ordinary fan would ever know.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Stress hallucinations, maybe. But then it started. Real glimpses.

At the corner of my eyes — while waiting at the crosswalk, while locking my car, while jogging late night — I caught flashes of a figure. Not directly coming at me like a typical stalker... no, that would’ve been easier. It was worse. Always in the periphery. Always vanishing when I turned fully.

Security around the building was tightened. Dokyeom was practically living in a constant panic, double-checking the CCTV files every hour. But we couldn't catch anything tangible yet.

Even so... Even so, I found myself still texting Sana almost every night.

Our conversations were strangely grounding. After the voice call that night, it had become a quiet ritual — I would text her little updates, and she would reply with simple, warm check-ins. No fake cheeriness. No excessive worrying. Just realness.

"Eat something good today?" "Don’t read the letters alone at night." "I’m proud of you for holding strong."

It was odd. Sometimes, it felt like she knew exactly what to say before I could even type it out.

Tonight, though... Tonight was different.

It was past 1:30 a.m. I had just wrapped reading another eerie letter sent by "S," the paper oddly scented like flowers this time. I was sitting in the main lounge of my penthouse, half a bottle of water untouched beside me, lights dimmed low out of habit. There was a weight in the air. A heavy, wet kind of silence, like the city itself was holding its breath.

My phone buzzed beside me.

It was Sana.

"If you feel off, don't hesitate to call. Even just for a second."

I smiled faintly, thumbs poised over the keyboard.

"I'm okay. Just tired. Letters getting a bit heavier. Thanks for always replying to me. I’m glad I can talk to you."

Seconds after I sent it, the little 'typing' bubble popped up. She replied instantly.

"Always. You're not alone."

I leaned back against the couch, letting my eyes drift shut for just a moment. The comforting ring of her words curled around me, pushing the cold fear aside, even if only barely.

Then—

THUD.

A sudden, low sound, coming from the front door. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I sat up straight, pulse spiking.

Maybe just the wind, I tried to rationalize. Maybe—

CRACK.

The sound of the lock snapping echoed through the apartment.

I bolted upright, cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The front door creaked inward slowly, almost mockingly, and I saw it—

A silhouette.

Lean. Perfectly still in the doorway.

The only light in the apartment now came from the glowing TV screen and my phone. The figure stood between me and the faint city lights pouring in from the high windows.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Sana's name lit up the screen.

"Did you hear something?"

I didn’t even have time to answer.

The silhouette stepped inside.

For a frozen heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The silhouette stood like a shadow carved into the air — wrong and still. Not overly tall. Not thick-built either. A thought crossed my mind in the sliver of silence: Is it a woman...?

The shape was slender, compact. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t brute strength — but precision. Like a blade.

My hand, slick with sweat, slid towards my phone still lit up from Sana’s last text. Carefully. Slowly. I swiped up and fumbled to call Dokyeom.

The line barely rang once.

"Bro, listen, don't freak out—someone broke—"

But the slight hiss of my voice was enough.

The figure’s head snapped up. Her body jerked like a wound spring finally released.

In an instant, she lunged. Fast. Too fast.

A glint of white — a mask over her lower face — was all I could register before she closed the distance.

Instinct took over. I swung the doorframe between us hard like a shield, the heavy wood slamming against her shoulder and throwing off her angle.

"SHIT!" I barked, diving sideways into the corridor outside my main living room.

My penthouse wasn't cramped — it was practically a maze. Open floor designs twisting into sharp halls, lounging areas, a half-visible studio space. Plenty of space to move. But also plenty of blind corners.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me — no longer cautious, no longer sneaky. She was full predator now.

I sprinted, ducking through the first archway into the guest lounge. Breath ripping in and out of my lungs, I slammed the door shut and locked it — Just in time for her to slam against it from the other side.

The whole frame shuddered.

My hands flew over my phone.

"Dokyeom, call the cops! She's in! She's INSIDE!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

The line was crackling, chaotic on his end.

"I'M ON IT! Bro — BRO — are you okay?! Stay somewhere tight — hide — don't fight her alone!"

From the other side of the door, I heard it — Not yelling. Not banging. But a giggle.

A sick, childlike giggle muffled behind the door and her mask. High-pitched. Almost... gleeful.

A new kind of terror slid into my bones. She wasn’t just trying to scare me. She was enjoying this.

I backed away from the door, scanning the room.

Windows? Not an option — too high. Emergency staircase? Across the penthouse — no good from here.

The lock gave a warning groan. She was forcing it.

I took a breath that burned my throat and pivoted, dashing towards the hall again. If I could loop around the apartment’s back corridors, maybe I could get out through the service entrance.

I didn’t look back.

My bare feet slapped against the marble as I raced into the back hallway — a place usually reserved for delivery routes and cleaning staff.

Behind me, the door crashed open.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" A voice sang out — distorted and almost giddy from behind the mask.

It was definitely a woman’s voice. Young. Sweet. Horribly out of place.

I didn’t answer. Just ran harder.

She chased after me, her footsteps light, too light, like she knew this terrain better than I did.

A framed photo on the wall shattered near my head — thrown. I ducked instinctively, heart pounding, eyes blurring with fear and sweat.

I barreled down another turn — closer to the kitchen now, closer to the back exit — when my phone buzzed again.

A text popped up from Sana at the worst possible time:

"What's happening? Tell me!"

Shit.

I had no time to answer.

I heard her laugh again, closer this time.

And then — At the far end of the hall, silhouetted against the faint lights of the kitchen — there she stood again.

Waiting. Arms spread, like she wanted me to run into her.

The only option was sideways — a narrow door leading to the wine cellar. I crashed into it without thinking, slammed it shut behind me, breathing in short, stabbing bursts.

It was pitch dark. Only my phone’s dying glow gave me any view.

I pressed my back against the thick wood door, muscles locked tight.

No sound.

Not even footsteps now.

Had she... stopped?

I dared to glance down at my phone again. Sana was still texting frantically.

Another buzz.

"If you can, lock yourself. Hide. Help is coming."

And then, chillingly:

"Don't let her find you before they arrive."

I tightened my grip on the door handle, locking it from inside with a heavy twist.

But even in the dark, I could feel it. The overwhelming, suffocating sensation.

She was still close.

Maybe even listening at the door.

My body stiffened — every nerve alight.

A slow, deliberate tap... tap... tap began against the wood.

The tapping continued. Gentle at first. Then harder. Almost... playfully testing the wood.

I crouched down lower in the darkness, heart smashing against my ribs, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

How the hell did Sana know? I hadn’t messaged anything after I ran.

Then my screen lit again — the old voice recorder app, blinking red.

A sudden realization made my gut twist. Somewhere during the panic earlier... I must have accidentally pressed the voice record button. It sent her a partial audio clip — fragments of me running, gasping, the crash of something shattering, and my half-whispered curses.

She must’ve heard enough. Pieced it together.

Smart girl...

A shudder ran through me. But no time to think deeper.

Suddenly — creak The window above the wine racks on the far side of the cellar cracked open.

The sharp night air whooshed in, carrying the city’s distant noise.

I bolted my gaze to it.

No. Not her. It was too small for a human to fit through without extreme effort.

Still — another weak point.

My phone buzzed again.

Dokyeom.

I yanked it to my ear, voice low but shaking.

"Bro, bro! Where the hell are the cops, man?!"

He was panting, too — like he’d been running.

"They’re coming! Five minutes out!"

"I don't have five minutes!" I hissed, cutting my voice low when another soft creak came from the door.

"Tell me quick — are the outside maintenance pipelines still intact along the building?" I demanded, swallowing panic.

There was a tiny chance — tiny — the old metal maintenance lines running down the side of the tower could bear some weight.

Dokyeom didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah! Yeah, the security never got rid of ‘em yet, especially on your floor! They're thick — old-school steel shit."

I sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from the door to the half-open window.

"I'm going down the pipes."

"WHAT?! BRO, NO —"

"I'M NOT WAITING TO BE SLAUGHTERED, DOKYEOM!" I barked.

I could almost hear him pulling at his own hair over the call.

"FUCK — be careful, PLEASE, man! I’m racing there too! I swear!"

I didn’t answer — already scrambling toward the narrow window.

Another tap-tap-tap echoed behind me — faster now, desperate.

The door handle twitched.

I squeezed myself through the tiny window opening, my shoulders scraping against the cold stone. One foot out, then the next.

The wind whipped at my shirt. The city lights stretched below me like a sea of fireflies.

I clutched the old maintenance pipe with both hands.

It rattled slightly under my grip.

Hold. Hold... please hold.

I slid my body flat against the side of the building, gripping the rusted metal tighter than I’d ever held anything in my life.

Below me? At least a dozen stories.

Death in one bad slip.

Behind me, a horrible slam rattled the wine cellar door. She was breaking through.

Without another thought, I started shimmying down.

Hand over hand. Legs tight around the pipe.

The old metal bit into my palms, scraping skin. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting.

Three floors down. Four.

The lights of the penthouse were getting smaller above me.

The window I’d crawled out of shone faintly — And then I saw it.

The figure.

She leaned out. Mask still on. Watching me.

I could feel her gaze burning into my back.

No shout. No threat.

Just watching.

My chest tightened painfully. I forced myself not to look back again.

Another floor down. Another.

The shouts of security guards started echoing from below — faint but growing.

Sirens wailed distantly — getting closer.

My hands, numb and raw, finally found the ledge of the emergency balcony on the service floor.

With a desperate grunt, I swung myself onto it, collapsing to my knees, gasping.

The guards burst into the service floor hallway a second later, weapons drawn, yelling.

I stumbled up, waving both hands.

"I’m friendly! I'm the tenant! She's upstairs!"

They surrounded me instantly, some guiding me behind them, others radioing furiously.

Through the chaos, I glanced up one last time.

The penthouse window.

Empty.

She was gone.

Like she was never there.

The guards hustled me through the service hall. Sirens were wailing closer now. Somewhere below, more security teams flooded in.

I could barely stand straight, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a truck. The call with Dokyeom was still echoing faintly in my ear — "I'm almost there! Hold on!"

And then — the sharp screech of tires outside. A black van pulling up violently at the emergency lot.

The doors flung open before it even fully stopped.

And there she was.

Sana. Bursting out of the van. Running toward me like the world was ending.

I blinked, stunned, barely processing the guards parting instinctively around her.

She wasn't in some armored jacket or casual airport fit. No. She looked like she had just dropped everything and came exactly as she was.

Sana was in a black satin slip dress, delicate lace tracing the neckline, thin straps barely clinging to her soft shoulders. Over it, she had thrown an oversized pastel pink cardigan, its huge, plush fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

Her hair was a soft mess of loose waves, half-up, half-down, with gentle brown and reddish hues catching in the emergency lights.

A few strands clung to her damp cheeks where — My heart squeezed painfully — where tears were already spilling.

Tears. For me.

Minatozaki Sana, the goddess of a million fantasies, was crying over me.

She ran without hesitation, the hem of her dress swishing against her thighs, cardigan sleeves slipping down her arms.

When she reached me, she didn’t say a word. She just crashed into me.

Her arms wrapped tight around my ribs. Face burying against my chest.

The scent of soft rose shampoo and skin-warm silk hit me all at once.

"You’re safe — you’re safe — you’re safe —" she whispered, half-sobbing against me.

I stood frozen, my battered hands hovering uselessly in the air, mind spinning.

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

Her body was warm, trembling slightly against mine. The silk of her dress brushed against my jeans, the pastel cardigan brushing my arms.

I finally — shakily — wrapped my arms around her back.

Held her.

God, she felt fragile. And beautiful.

Dokyeom's voice broke through the daze, rushing over behind her.

"Y/N! Bro, you're — Sana?!"

He stumbled to a halt, clearly thrown by the scene.

Sana didn't even look at him. She just squeezed me tighter, her small hands fisting into the back of my shirt.

"I was so scared... I thought I'd hear..." Her voice cracked, raw and trembling.

I found myself speaking before I even thought.

"I’m here. I’m okay. You saved me again, Sana."

At those words, she finally pulled back just a little. Looked up.

Her eyes — usually sparkling mischief or teasing charm — were glassy, wide, full of so much relief it hurt to look at.

Under the harsh security lights, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Her fingers brushed my jawline lightly, as if checking if I was truly solid.

"I should’ve come faster... I should’ve..."

I shook my head, voice thick.

"No. You were perfect. You always are."

She gave a soft, watery laugh — almost disbelieving. The most heartbreakingly beautiful sound.

For a moment — just one suspended breath in time — we stood there. Surrounded by chaos, guards, shouting, sirens.

But all I saw was her.

The city didn't exist. Only Sana in her slip dress and cardigan, holding me like I was something worth crying for.

How... How did it come to this? I asked the universe silently as I stood there, feeling Sana's heartbeat faintly against my side.

When had she gotten this close to me?

We had only texted for a few days. Shared a few voice calls. A handful of conversations at most.

Yet somehow, in those late-night talks, in those quiet, vulnerable exchanges... Sana had slipped past every wall I'd built.

I wasn't someone who attached easily. I wasn't some naive dreamer waiting to be swept away by kindness. I was the host of one of the most famous shows in the country — the man who dealt with psychological horror, who listened to stories of fear, despair, loneliness... and taught others how to find comfort after it.

I was supposed to be the safe space. The listener. The one unshaken.

And yet, Sana — Minatozaki Sana — with her soft chuckles, her introspective silences, her oddly thoughtful questions — had disarmed me so easily after that one night.

Without realizing it, I'd begun looking forward to her name lighting up my phone. To her voice notes that made the long nights less heavy. To the way she seemed to understand — not as an idol, not as a fan — but as someone who had seen shadows too and still chose light.

I wondered if that was what made the difference. If that was why she felt less like a sudden miracle and more like something inevitable.

The flashing lights from the police cars snapped me out of my thoughts. Reality hit like a cold slap.

"Sir, we need your statement." A stern officer approached, not unkindly.

I nodded, stepping slightly forward — but immediately felt Sana tug on my sleeve. Her small hand curled around my wrist stubbornly.

I looked down at her. She wasn’t letting go. Not even for this.

Her cardigan slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulder for a second before she hiked it up. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her gaze was fierce, almost daring anyone to say something.

Let them take pictures, she seemed to say. Let them make headlines. She didn’t care.

I gave her a small, tired smile and let her stay pressed against me as I spoke to the officers.

"There was an intruder. Female. About my height, maybe shorter. Slim build. Masked." I recounted everything carefully — the silhouette, the attack, the pipelines, the narrow escape.

Dokyeom occasionally chimed in, adding what he had seen, backing me up.

Sana just stayed there. Head occasionally leaning lightly against my arm. Breathing slow, steady — as if anchoring herself to me.

The staff from my show arrived too, their faces pale and worried. They rushed to my side but paused when they saw Sana clinging to me like a lifeline.

Whispers broke out. Cameras clicked in the distance.

I should've cared. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve thought about consequences.

But... I didn't.

Instead, I gently tightened my arm around her shoulder.

Because the truth was — as much as she needed me right now, I needed her too.

[One Week Later]

Time moved strangely after that night. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was just her.

That day — the day Sana came running, the day she clung to me under the flashing sirens without a second thought — she offered me something I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Her presence. Not words. Not promises. Just... her. Her warmth, her stubborn loyalty, her very existence beside me.

I wasn’t someone who ever let my mind wander into ridiculous daydreams. I didn’t believe in miracles or "what ifs" when it came to people like her.

Even during our collab, when we laughed between recordings, when she made those bright jokes only she could deliver, I'd chalked it up to chemistry — professionalism — a dreamlike, fleeting moment in a life full of passing strangers.

But now... Now I could see it clearly. Minatozaki Sana cared. More than a colleague. More than a fan. More than just polite concern.

She cared like someone who felt something real — and wanted me to feel it too.

And for once, I let myself want it. Want her.

The investigation moved fast.

Turned out — The intruder wasn’t a random criminal or a twisted anti-fan. No, it was a fan of mine. A girl, barely past twenty, who'd built up an entire world inside her head — a world where I belonged only to her, a world where anyone near me was the enemy. Including Sana.

She had been stalking from afar for months, building fantasies from my shows, from my voice. And when I started hinting about growing close to someone, even unknowingly, something in her snapped.

Thankfully, Sana had pushed for management intervention the night we first talked seriously. Her instincts had been dead-on.

Because of her, security tightened around me without me even knowing. Because of her, the girl was caught before anything worse happened.

The police later announced she was being transferred to a mental rehabilitation program after the court deemed her psychologically unstable.

It should have been the end of it. A clean break. A return to normal.

But something had shifted. Something between us.

During that week, Sana made time for me in ways that were almost reckless for an idol.

Between rehearsals, she sent voice notes. Late at night, when the city slept, she called — soft-spoken, careful, asking nothing except if I was okay. On her rare free afternoons, she showed up, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, takeaway coffee in hand, grinning like she had every right to be there.

No cameras. No management breathing down her neck. Just Sana. Just... us.

And every time she appeared, the invisible gap between us shrank a little more.

Small moments grew roots:

The way she'd swing her legs lightly while sitting on my couch, hair tied messily. The way she'd lean closer when I spoke, as if my words were some fragile secret she didn't want to miss. The way she'd smile sometimes — not the big, dazzling Sana-smile the world knew — but a quieter one, softer, just for me.

Things between us... Grew.

Maybe too fast. Maybe too recklessly. But at that point — I didn't care.

(Another week later)

The kitchen hummed with the low whirr of the blender as Sana scooped handfuls of ice into the machine. The pastel pink of her cardigan sleeves were rolled up, and her dark hair was tied back loosely, tendrils falling around her face, giving her that effortlessly lovely look she always carried without knowing.

She was humming. A soft, sweet melody, barely recognizable unless one listened closely — the same tune I'd once played on the outro of my most famous radio episode. The same tune she'd clung to on sleepless nights. The same voice that had comforted her... even before we ever met properly.

And now, two days after we officially started dating, she was mine. No — I was hers. Sana smiled to herself, stirring her slushie in the tall glass, thinking how surreal it was — the voice that helped her breathe during hard nights was now the man whose arms could be wrapped around her if she so wished.

The universe had folded itself neatly into her hands.

The dorm door clicked open quietly. Footsteps padded in.

Sana glanced over her shoulder, still smiling faintly as she sipped her slushie.

It was Dahyun.

The younger girl looked a little restless, fidgety even. Something was on her mind.

Sana didn’t say anything first. She waited, stirring the icy drink slowly, letting Dahyun find her words.

"Unnie," Dahyun said after a beat, voice tentative. "Can we talk?"

Sana nodded, inviting her closer with a gentle glance. Of course, she would always have time for Dahyun.

Dahyun came up beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the pink-tinged slushie as if it could give her answers.

"I know about you and... Oppa," Dahyun said finally, a small smile twitching her lips. "I'm really happy for you. You deserve it."

Sana smiled too, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Dahyunnie."

But the younger girl didn't leave it at that.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the counter, a subtle tension stiffening her posture.

"But…" Dahyun hesitated, looking at Sana closely now. "Unnie, that night... when the whole stalker thing happened… I couldn't shake this weird feeling."

Sana said nothing, only continued sipping her slushie with an unreadable expression.

Dahyun licked her lips nervously.

"You were too calm," Dahyun said slowly, choosing her words with care. "Too prepared. And when I remembered… the 'S' in the signed letters… it didn't sit right. It felt like someone trying too hard to fake being someone else."

Sana swirled her straw through the ice, the sound crackling sharp against the glass. For a moment, it was just the hum of the kitchen appliances and the slight buzz of city life outside their windows.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Sana spoke.

"You're smart, Dahyun."

Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it, something so heavy and knowing that Dahyun shivered despite herself.

Still, Dahyun pushed forward.

"Unnie… tell me the truth."

Sana turned fully now, setting her slushie down carefully.

She studied Dahyun's face with a fondness — almost like a big sister patiently watching a little sister trying to piece together a difficult puzzle.

"There was no random stalker," Sana said calmly.

Dahyun blinked, frozen.

"It was me," Sana said, voice steady, almost eerily calm. "I orchestrated everything."

The words dropped like stones into a still lake.

Dahyun gaped at her, mouth parting, eyes wide.

Sana tilted her head slightly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"The letters? I wrote them. The woman who entered Oppa's place? I hired her to just scare him, not hurt him. She vanished right after, as instructed. The supposed 'arrest'? Faked. I made sure everyone thought she was taken to rehab, to tie the story off neatly."

Dahyun backed up a step without realizing it.

"W-Why?" she stammered. "Unnie, why would you…?"

Sana smiled, soft, sad, infinitely tender.

"Because I fell in love with him," she whispered. "Long before we properly met. When I listened to his show, when his voice was the only thing that felt real during my loneliest nights. He wasn’t just a host to me. He became my anchor."

Dahyun shook her head slightly, disbelief warring with understanding. This wasn’t the Sana she knew — the bubbly, playful, slightly airheaded unnie.

This was something deeper. Something far more intense and haunting.

"You manipulated him into trusting you," Dahyun whispered.

Sana shrugged lightly.

"I guided him," she corrected. "I gave him someone to turn to when he needed comfort. And he did. He chose me when he needed safety."

Dahyun stared at her, struggling to form coherent thoughts.

"That’s not love," Dahyun said, a little harsher than she intended. "That’s... parasocial. That’s obsession, unnie."

Sana’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened.

"Parasocial?" she echoed, almost amused. She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Dahyun’s shoulder.

"If I wanted to possess him, if I wanted to destroy him, that would be obsession. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to give him something he didn’t even know he was missing."

Dahyun swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

"Unnie… do you even realize what you did?"

Sana smiled again — that same ethereal, bittersweet smile.

"I do," she said. "And I don’t regret it."

She picked up her slushie again, sipping it quietly, as if the confession she just delivered wasn’t earth-shattering.

"I love him," Sana said simply. "And now, he loves me. Naturally. Not because I forced him, but because I was the one who was there when it mattered most."

Dahyun felt like she was underwater, trying to surface.

"Are you… planning to tell him?"

Sana tilted her head again, playful, almost childlike.

"No," she said lightly. "And neither will you."

Dahyun opened her mouth to protest but Sana was already stepping forward, wrapping her arms around Dahyun tightly.

Her embrace was warm — sickeningly warm — and Dahyun could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

"Because you love me too, right?" Sana whispered into her ear. "You're my precious little sister. I know you won’t hurt me."

Dahyun stood there, paralyzed, as Sana pulled back with a dazzling smile.

For a moment, Dahyun almost believed it too.

Almost.

Later that night, when Sana was back in her room and Dahyun sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the TV that wasn’t even turned on, a heavy silence wrapped itself around the dorm.

The world outside buzzed as usual — cars, neon signs, the endless hum of the city.

But inside, everything had changed.

And somewhere, far from the knowing, I sat oblivious — smiling at my phone, reading Sana’s latest text:

"I miss you already, Oppa. Sleep well, my love."

======================================

How far would you go for love? Where does devotion end and obsession begin? Is it wrong to create opportunities… if in the end, the feeling becomes real? Is a love born from lies still love… if it brings happiness?

In the end — Is it better to never know the truth?

Or is ignorance... the cruelest kindness of all?

#twice #sana #nayeon #jeongyeon #momo #jihyo #mina #dahyun #chaeyoung #tzuyu #twice x male reader #twice sana #minatozaki sana #sana minatozaki x reader #parasocial relationships #twice x reader #sana smut #twice smut

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