The first thing I noticed when I woke up wasn't the light—it was silence.
The kind that feels like the world's holding its breath.
For a second, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The memory of the fog, the hall, the people calling themselves Mr. World, Mrs. Justice, Mr. Star—all of it—hovered like a half-remembered dream. If I hadn't woken up with a pounding headache and an open journal beside me, I might've written it off as grief and lack of sleep.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Kang Hyun-soo: "Wake up, philosopher. We've got work."
I groaned, thumbed a reply: "You ever considered letting a man mourn?"
A moment later: "Yeah, but I like free labor better."
That's how my day started—comfortingly normal.
By eight a.m., I was standing in front of Mapo Police Station, clutching an iced Americano and pretending to be awake. The world was wet and bright after the rain, sunlight glinting off car roofs and puddles. The city felt alive again, indifferent to what it buried.
Inside, the bullpen buzzed with the usual chaos—phones ringing, officers arguing over reports, the smell of cheap coffee thick in the air. Kang waved from his desk, tie crooked as always.
"You look like death warmed over," he said, pushing a folder my way.
"I heard that's the new detective aesthetic," I said. "What's this?"
"Complaint about an abandoned house. Locals say kids go missing there. Probably squatters, but the higher-ups want it checked."
"Classic urban legend mission," I muttered, flipping through the report. "Where's the fun in that?"
"You want fun, join a circus."
I smiled faintly. "I already did. You're the clown."
Kang threw a pen cap at me. It missed, which somehow made the gesture funnier.
Hours blurred into routine—paperwork, witness statements, bad coffee. The normalcy was… nice. After the hall, I needed ordinary like oxygen.
That's when I noticed it.
A woman at the counter was giving her statement about a missing wallet. Her tone was calm, eyes steady. But when she said, "I left it at home, I'm sure," something flickered in the air around her lips—black, faint but definite, like smoke curling from invisible fire.
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. The color vanished.
"Everything okay, Jihoon?" Kang asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Just spacing out."
When I looked again, the woman was finishing her sentence: "The guy who found it was so kind—returned it immediately." This time, the air shimmered yellow, warm like sunlight through glass.
Truth.
I froze, heart skipping. Yellow for truth, black for lie.
The colors didn't linger long—just enough for my mind to register before fading into the air. I stared at the woman's face, then at the paper in my hand, then at Kang.
He raised a brow. "You planning to solve cases by staring holes through people now?"
"Maybe," I said absently.
"Detective intuition again?"
"Something like that."
I couldn't explain it. Wouldn't. Who would believe me anyway?
Hey boss, I see lies in color now.
That's a one-way ticket to psych eval.
Still, I tested it through the day. Small things.
"Hyung, did you finish my report?"
"Of course." Black.
"Lunch's on me, promise." Black.
"Fine, fine, my treat." Yellow.
Each time, the color flared faintly and vanished. It wasn't vision, not exactly—it felt like the world whispered answers just before my brain noticed them. Truth and lies painted in fleeting shades.
By noon, I was half-tempted to test it on the commissioner but decided I valued employment too much.
Lunch break found me sitting on a park bench behind the station, watching pigeons fight over crumbs. The sun was sharp today, making the wet pavement shimmer. For once, I didn't mind the noise of the city.
I took a slow sip of coffee and stared at my reflection in the dark surface.
Truthseeker.
The word still felt foreign. A title from a dream I wasn't sure was a dream.
If I really was what those fog-covered people said—an Unlimiter—what did that even mean? That the world had rules no one else could see? That reality itself came with a user manual written in whispers?
Min-jae's face surfaced in my mind, smiling that lopsided grin.
"You're overthinking again, Jihoon."
Maybe I was. Maybe grief just rewired my brain.
Still, the colors didn't lie. Ironically.
I tilted my head back, watching sunlight slice through moving clouds. "What even is truth?" I murmured. "And if everyone lies a little… do I have to see it all?"
The pigeons didn't answer, which was just as well. I wasn't sure I wanted one.
After a while, Kang called from across the street. "Break's over, Socrates! Let's go scare some ghosts!"
"Coming!" I yelled back.
By late afternoon, we were driving toward Bukcheon District, where the complaint about the abandoned house had originated. Kang handled the wheel; I handled pretending not to be carsick.
"So," he said, "guy who filed the report says he heard chanting at night. You buying that?"
I shrugged. "People hear what they want to hear. Noise, echoes, imagination."
"Spoken like someone who hasn't had to clear teenagers out of an old factory at two a.m."
"Spoken like someone who's done it twice."
"Three times," he corrected. "Don't underestimate bored kids."
I smirked. "Understood, senior officer."
Kang eyed me sideways. "You're unusually calm today. You finally meditating or something?"
"Contemplating life," I said, deadpan.
"Oh great. Don't tell me you're writing poetry again."
"Not since you mocked my last haiku."
"It deserved it."
"Cruel man," I muttered, sipping from my cup.
He chuckled. "Seriously, Jihoon. You're young. Don't drown in thoughts all the time. Life's messy, not a riddle."
I looked out the window at the setting sun melting over Seoul's rooftops. "Maybe mess and riddles are the same thing," I said quietly.
Kang groaned. "There you go again."
But he smiled when he said it.
The city thinned as we drove east. Apartment blocks gave way to smaller houses, then patches of trees. The sky had turned gold, soft and sleepy. Kang turned the radio down, humming absently.
"Locals said the house's been empty for twenty years," he said. "Some kids went exploring last month—heard footsteps upstairs. They bolted. Typical ghost-story setup."
"Wonderful," I said. "Maybe we'll find Scooby-Doo."
He snorted. "Just don't faint when a rat squeaks."
"I'll let you handle the rats, senior officer."
He grinned. "Finally, respect."
The road curved, narrowing into a cracked asphalt lane lined with bare trees. Their branches clawed at the evening light. At the end of it stood the house—two stories, windows boarded, roof half-collapsed, walls smudged with moss. A rusted gate hung open, one hinge squealing with the wind.
Even in daylight, it looked tired.
Kang parked the car, engine rumbling to silence. "Here we are," he said. "The glamorous life of detectives."
I stepped out, stretching. The air smelled of wet earth and metal. The place felt forgotten, like the world had moved on without bothering to tell it.
Kang adjusted his flashlight. "Alright, rookie. You ready?"
I gave him a faint grin. "For what—rats, ghosts, or squatters?"
He smirked. "All of the above."
The sun dipped lower, light fading to a muted orange. I looked at the house, its dark windows staring back like blind eyes. The hum of the city was gone; only the soft whisper of wind through broken shingles remained.
Normal day or not, something about the quiet stretched too long.
Kang nudged my arm. "Don't start getting poetic again."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said. "Let's get this over with."
We walked toward the rusted gate together, flashlights clicking on in unison. The beam of mine caught dust motes drifting through the air, glowing gold for a heartbeat before vanishing.
And as I stepped across the threshold, I couldn't help wondering if the colors of truth would follow me inside.