The longer Taejun stared at the entity, the more horrified he became.
Its crimson gaze, once faint like embers, began to intensify with every passing second, as though his attention was feeding it.
The red deepened, pulsing, burning, until the orbs glowed with an unholy radiance that seemed to stain the air itself.
Then came the blood.
At first, it was subtle, thin crimson lines sliding from the corners of its eyes, but soon it welled up like tears from ruptured vessels, streaming down the faceless void where skin should've been.
The creature didn't flinch; it simply stared back, bleeding silently with an expressionless, unwavering intensity, as if mourning something… or judging him, and through all of it, its eyes never blinked.
Taejun's breath caught in his throat.
His shoulders trembled, something primal inside him snapped loose, and with sudden fear writhing across his face, he looked down sharply, casting his eyes to the pavement as if submission might shield him from whatever curse those eyes could cast.
His heart thudded like a hunted animal's.
The streetlight above him gave a mechanical ping, followed by the soft clack of changing gears.
The red glow turned green.
People began to move.
A ripple passed through the crowd across the street like puppets set in motion, their limbs resuming animation with eerie precision.
Even Taejun's legs, shaky and stiff, began to carry him forward.
He clutched his bag to his chest like a lifeline, fingers digging into the worn straps as he stepped into the crosswalk.
He didn't run, but each step was faster than the last, his pace urgent, trembling, tight with the need to escape.
He passed the spot where the figure had stood.
He couldn't help it—he turned to look.
Nothing.
The street behind him was empty, ordinary.
Just people crossing, faces blank or mildly curious, like nothing at all had occurred, only silence, and the receding sound of footsteps.
His heartbeat finally began to slow, each thump less like thunder and more like a whisper in his chest.
His grip on his bag loosened slightly.
He inhaled shakily and turned back toward the school path, but stopped dead in his tracks.
It was there again, right in front of him, but slightly different.
This time, its face was visible, no longer blank.
It was ghost-white, smooth, and unnatural, like porcelain boiled in moonlight, where the featureless void had once been was now a monstrous grin carved across the entire lower half of its face, stretching impossibly wide from cheek to cheek, filled with rows of jagged, irregular teeth, far too many, packed too tightly, like a grotesque parody of a child's drawing come alive.
Its eyes had vanished, or perhaps hidden behind the absurd tilt of its head, which now hung impossibly low, as if its neck had snapped and folded at the stomach like a broken marionette performing a sickening trick.
It wasn't bowing, it was bending, deliberately, its spine contorted at an angle no human body could survive, yet it stood tall all the same, grinning down at him from a posture that made no sense.
Taejun let out a strangled sound, not a scream, but something raw and involuntary, and stumbled back.
His heel caught on the pavement, and he collapsed onto the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
Pain shot up his arm as he landed, his bag knocked loose from his grip, breath knocked from his lungs.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut; the image of that grin burned behind his lids.
He didn't move, he didn't dare.
He simply lay there, trembling, hoping, praying that when he opened his eyes again, it would be gone.
He waited.
Seconds passed like hours.
Then, cautiously, he opened them.
The creature had vanished.
Only the other pedestrians remained, crossing without concern, their steps casual, their eyes now turned toward him, not in horror or alarm, but with vague confusion, mild judgment.
A few slowed down, watching him like someone who had simply tripped.
No one asked if he was okay.
No one noticed the terror painted across his face, the tears forming in his eyes, the sweat chilling his back.
They just stared, like nothing had happened, like nothing had ever been there.
And Taejun, still sitting on the cold pavement, knew he couldn't ask them, because he wasn't sure if any of it had been real, or if it was just beginning.
Taejun rose slowly, dust clinging to his palms, his knees aching from the fall.
He didn't look around anymore, he didn't want to see if it had returned.
He just began to walk.
His limbs moved out of necessity, stiff and hollow, his body operating on muscle memory while his mind remained dazed.
Behind him, unnoticed, the air seemed to ripple faintly, as if a presence moved just beyond the realm of light and understanding.
The entity followed without sound or weight, a silent monolith hidden in plain sight, its gaze fixed mercilessly on the back of the boy's neck.
Where it stepped, shadows lingered a little too long, and the air grew just a bit colder, unnoticed by the living.
Taejun didn't see it, he felt nothing, or maybe he was too numb to feel anything anymore.
By the time he reached the school gates, something strange hit him, not fear, but confusion.
The air seemed brighter, unnaturally so.
The school grounds were awash in vibrant morning light, as though someone had overexposed reality.
The sun hadn't changed, and yet the grass looked greener, the sky above too blue, and the colors of the school building almost cartoonishly vivid.
Laughter rang out from all corners of the courtyard, children running, playing, screaming with joy that seemed just slightly too loud, too rehearsed.
It wasn't just cheerful, it was exaggerated, artificial, like something trying very hard to be happy.
A group of kids skipped rope near the entrance, their faces frozen in smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Teachers waved from the doors with wide, eager grins.
Even the security guard, who usually sat slouched and bored in his chair, was standing tall and beaming like he'd just won the lottery.
There were balloons tied to the hallway poles, a banner fluttered overhead, reading: "Welcome, Bright Minds to School!" in colorful bubble letters.
Taejun blinked.
What day was it?
Why was it so festive?
He hesitated at the gate, one foot barely stepping inside.
It was hard to breathe for a second.
His chest tightened, a low throb pulsing at the back of his skull.
Then someone bumped into him from behind, a boy running late, panting, cheerful, and Taejun stumbled forward with a forced smile and a mumbled apology.
Inside, the noise grew louder.
The air was heavy with artificial delight.
It reeked of something beneath the surface, something rotting under the paint.
He looked around, trying to find a familiar face, something to anchor him, but everyone seemed different today.
All the while, in the pit of his stomach, a slow sickness coiled.
And behind him, just past the school gate where no one looked, the thing still stood.
Its head cocked just slightly to the side.
The crimson eyes had returned, narrowed now, not in confusion, but in purpose.
It had followed him, and it wasn't going to leave.
He stepped through the door of Class 1-2.
It was exactly as he remembered, almost exact.
The chipped windows let in warm slices of morning sun that fell across the desks in angled gold, dust swirling softly in their beams.
The desks themselves, thirty in total, were arranged in perfect rows, their surfaces dotted with pencil scratches, stickers, and years of restless fidgeting.
The floor, as always, creaked faintly in the middle, and the bulletin board in the back still held the same hand-drawn sunflower art from last week.
Nothing had changed.
And yet something had.
The moment Taejun crossed the threshold, a wave of comfort washed over him, not warmth, exactly, but familiarity, a safe routine.
His seat was still in the third row by the window.
The same chipped corner on his desk.
The same soft rattle of the loose glass pane whenever the wind touched it.
And around him, his classmates buzzed with energy.
They were more cheerful than usual.
Laughter bubbled up from every corner of the room, children chatting, giggling, drawing doodles together on the chalkboard.
A group of boys were showing off erasers shaped like monsters, roaring and laughing while pretending to battle.
Near the window, a few girls were braiding each other's hair, humming a nursery rhyme in perfect rhythm.
The air was light, energetic, filled with the scent of strawberry milk and freshly sharpened pencils.
No teacher yet, but no chaos either.
Just joy, smiling faces, warm chatter.
Everything Taejun had always longed to be part of.
And for once, the laughter didn't make him feel small.
He clutched his bag tightly to his chest for a moment, unsure if this was some trick or a dream, but slowly, something inside him softened.
The terror from earlier still lingered, buried like a coal in his chest, but here in this room, it dulled to a distant ache.
The eyes weren't watching him now.
The thing wasn't here.
Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
Maybe here, he could breathe.
He slid into his seat and glanced around again.
A boy two desks over caught his eye and gave a little nod, not quite a smile, but not cold either.
Another girl near the front offered a friendly wave when she noticed him looking, her pigtails bouncing as she turned back to her coloring book.
It was subtle, but real.
Connection.
Acceptance.
He'd never felt this before, not like this.
And something shifted in him, just a little.
A flicker of determination bloomed in his chest, fragile but strong enough to burn through the weight on his shoulders.
He would do it. Today, he would make a friend.
Someone to talk to.
Someone to eat lunch with.
Someone who might say his name.
Maybe things would finally change.
Maybe today would be different.
He smiled, small, hesitant, but sincere.
For the first time in weeks, Taejun didn't feel like he was merely surviving; he felt like he might belong.
The minutes stretched on, yet no one seemed to mind.
The classroom thrummed with energy like a beehive in sunlight, children buzzing from desk to desk in little clusters, their voices bouncing off the walls in waves of laughter and cheerful chatter.
Some played finger games, clapping in perfect rhythm as if they'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Others gathered at the chalkboard, doodling suns and cats and oddly proportioned stickmen, the colored chalk dust smearing over their fingers and sleeves.
A group of boys had formed a tight circle on the floor, playing a fast-paced game of rock-paper-scissors that escalated into soft, harmless shoves and dramatic groans of defeat.
One girl stood on her chair, singing a song no one recognized in a lilting, echoing tune that sounded almost too polished for a child's voice.
Others joined in by humming, not all in harmony, but somehow in unison.
It was like the classroom had turned into a stage and everyone had memorized their roles, moving seamlessly, joyfully, like gears in a clockwork play.
Taejun stayed in his seat, watching it all unfold with cautious fascination.
This wasn't the chaos of bored children left unsupervised.
No one threw paper balls.
No one fought.
No one even seemed to glance toward the door in impatience.
They were content, maybe too content, like they were trapped inside a moment of perfect cheerfulness and didn't realize the seconds were piling up unnaturally.
He glanced at the clock.
Still ticking, but it felt like time had slowed.
Then, without warning, the door creaked open.
Every head turned at once.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized, as if pulled by the same invisible string.
The children stopped mid-laugh, mid-clap, mid-song, their faces instantly smoothing into serene smiles.
Even the girl who had been singing on her chair stepped down as if waking from a trance.
The room fell into a peculiar silence, not fearful, not reverent, just prepared.
And then came the voice.
"Good morning, my precious stars," said Ms. Jang as she stepped inside, her voice soft as velvet and sweet like syrup left too long in the sun.
She wore her usual soft yellow cardigan, buttoned up to her neck, and a long beige skirt that swayed with every step.
Her smile was delicate, flawless, and didn't waver for a second as she surveyed the class with those bright, watchful eyes.
The students stood in unison.
"Good morning, Teacher Jang!" they sang together, their voices rising like a choir rehearsed to perfection.
They bowed low, holding the position just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Taejun rose with them, bowing too, though his eyes never left her face.
She nodded once, still smiling. "Today was so bright and beautiful today. Shall we start with something special?"
The lesson began not with books or chalk, but with her asking each student to share their "joy of the morning."
One by one, hands shot up, and the children spoke with eerily enthusiastic voices.
"I got strawberry milk in my lunchbox!"
"I got even better, my puppy kissed me on the nose!"
"I woke up and there was a rainbow in my room, haha!"
Every response was soaked in sugary glee, each child beaming like a spotlight had landed on them.
Ms. Jang nodded to every answer with that unwavering smile, her head tilted slightly to the side, just enough to look curious, but somehow still.
Taejun hesitated when it was nearly his turn.
He could feel her eyes drifting toward him, slow and expectant.
The children around him began to glance in his direction too, their gazes not mean or mocking, just watchful, encouraging.
He felt sweat gather under his collar.
What would he say?
He couldn't say anything.
And behind that false warmth filling the room like perfume, he felt it again, that distant pressure, like something was watching him from just beyond the walls.
Something that wasn't Ms. Jang.
Something that had followed him here.