Chapter 1 — Noise That Isn’t Sound
The first thing Han Jae-in noticed was that the room felt too full.
It wasn’t loud. The literature seminar was quiet in the way small classrooms always were—twenty students, desks pulled into a loose square, Professor Han Yoon-seok droning calmly about postwar symbolism while chalk tapped against the board at an unhurried rhythm. The windows were open just enough to let in the faint noise of campus traffic and the smell of coffee from somewhere below.
Normal. Entirely normal.
And yet Jae-in felt as if something had been laid directly on top of his thoughts, not pressing, not painful—just there. Like static without sound. Like a sentence forming behind his eyes that didn’t belong to him.
He shifted in his chair, pen hovering above his notebook. He told himself it was sleep deprivation. He’d stayed up too late rereading a novel he pretended to understand more deeply than he actually did. He’d had too much caffeine. His head always did strange things when he was tired.
Then the sentence finished forming.
‘He’s listening. Good. If I stay useful, he won’t drift.’
Jae-in’s pen slipped, dragging a crooked line across the margin of his notes.
His first reaction was embarrassment. A physical heat crept up his neck, as if he’d been caught imagining something inappropriate in public. He glanced around quickly, heart beating too fast, half-expecting someone to be staring at him.
No one was.
Professor Han continued lecturing, oblivious. A few students nodded along. Park Minjun sat two seats down, doodling in the corner of his notebook with the look of someone who would later ask for notes. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Except—
‘Stay useful. Don’t overstep. Offer help later.’
The voice wasn’t sound. It didn’t echo in his ears or interrupt the professor. It sat somewhere deeper, overlapping reality without replacing it. Clear. Calm. Female.
Jae-in swallowed and slowly turned his head.
Seo Yuri sat beside him, as she always did. Perfect posture.
Hair neatly tied back. Pencil moving steadily across her notebook as she annotated the reading with small, precise characters. When she noticed his glance, she smiled politely—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile that put professors at ease and made classmates trust her immediately.
‘He looks tired. I should remind him to eat.’
His breath caught.
The timing was too perfect. The words aligned too cleanly with the person next to him. This wasn’t like overhearing a stray thought or imagining what someone might be thinking. The thought continued even as she underlined a sentence, even as she adjusted her glasses with an unhurried motion.
‘Don’t stare. That makes him uncomfortable.’
Jae-in snapped his eyes back to the front of the room.
Okay. Fine. This was happening.
His mind scrambled for explanations with desperate efficiency. Auditory hallucination. Stress-induced dissociation.
Some kind of intrusive thought loop where his brain had latched onto Yuri as a template because she was nearby and familiar and competent in a way that made him feel safe.
That had to be it.
He focused hard on the professor’s words, forcing himself to write notes. Symbolism. Displacement. Postwar identity. The chalk squeaked softly.
‘He’s writing slower than usual.’
His grip tightened on the pen.
The thought wasn’t curious. It wasn’t surprised. It was observational, managerial, like a checklist item being quietly updated.
‘I’ll share my notes after class.’
Yuri’s hand paused for half a second, then resumed moving.
A coincidence, Jae-in told himself. Of course she’d offer notes.
She always did. She was vice president of the student council, a top student in the department, the kind of person who helped because helping was simply what one did.
‘That way he’ll rely on me.’
His stomach dropped.
There was no emotion attached to the thought. No malice. No excitement. Just certainty.
The certainty unsettled him more than anger would have, because it left no room for misunderstanding or denial.
Jae-in pressed his lips together and stared at the whiteboard until the symbols blurred slightly. He didn’t look at her again for the rest of the lecture. He counted his breaths. He told himself that if he ignored it long enough, it would go away.
It didn’t.
The thoughts didn’t comment on the lecture content. They didn’t narrate her actions in real time. They hovered just beneath the surface, surfacing in response to him—his posture, his pace of writing, the way he shifted in his seat.
‘He hasn’t slept enough.’
‘Coffee later would help.’
‘If he forgets, I’ll remind him.’
Jae-in felt strangely… exposed. Not in the sense of being seen through, but in the sense of being accounted for. Reduced to variables that could be adjusted.
When Professor Han finally dismissed the class, chairs scraped softly against the floor as students stood. Jae-in moved too quickly, shoving his notebook into his bag as if speed alone could put distance between him and the voice.
“Han Jae-in.”
He froze.
Seo Yuri stood beside his desk, holding her notebook against her chest. Up close, she smelled faintly of citrus soap. Her smile was the same polite curve it always was, eyes warm, unthreatening.
“You looked like you were struggling to keep up today,” she said gently. “Do you want my notes?”
‘Offer casually. Don’t make it feel like a favor.’
Jae-in stared at her.
For a terrifying moment, he wondered if she could tell. If she could see the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his face had gone pale. If this was some elaborate joke, some social experiment he hadn’t consented to.
Then she tilted her head slightly, concern flickering across her expression.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
His chest loosened by a fraction.
She didn’t know.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t communication.
It was one-way, invasive, and utterly unfair.
“Yeah,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded normal. He hated that. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
Her smile deepened, just a touch.
‘Good. He accepted.’
The word accepted sent a small, unwelcome warmth through him.
They walked out together, Yuri matching his pace without comment. She didn’t crowd him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t ask invasive questions. Outwardly, she was exactly the kind of person anyone would want nearby—competent, kind, quietly attentive.
‘He walks too fast when he’s anxious.’
Jae-in slowed without meaning to.
The thought smoothed, satisfied.
‘Better.’
He noticed it then—the way the noise shifted. When he complied, even unintentionally, the thoughts became softer, less frequent. When he resisted, even internally, they sharpened.
That scared him more than the thoughts themselves.
They parted ways near the student council building. Yuri waved, already turning back toward her responsibilities.
‘I’ll message him later. Not immediately. Don’t overwhelm him.’
Jae-in stood there long after she disappeared inside.
The walk back to his apartment felt unreal, like he was moving through a stage set of his own life. Campus paths. Familiar cafés. Students laughing, arguing, living their normal, uncomplicated existences.
No voices followed him.
At first, the quiet was a relief.
He unlocked his apartment door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him with a soft click. The space was small but tidy—single bed, narrow desk, shelves lined with books he’d bought and never finished. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
He set his bag down and leaned against the door, exhaling slowly.
Silence.
No thoughts. No static. No strange overlapping awareness.
Just him.
His heart began to race.
The relief curdled into something colder, heavier. Without the noise, the apartment felt empty in a way it never had before.
Too empty. Like a room after someone leaves without saying goodbye.
He pushed off the door and walked deeper inside, checking corners he knew were empty. The bed. The kitchen nook. The bathroom.
Nothing.
The rational part of his brain seized on that. Good.
Hallucinations didn’t usually turn off so cleanly. This proved it was stress. Anxiety. Something temporary.
So why did the quiet feel wrong?
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His mind replayed the thoughts unbidden—not the words themselves, but the feeling of them. The way they’d wrapped around his actions, shaped his movements without touching him.
He realized, with a jolt of shame, that part of him had liked it.
Being noticed. Being adjusted for. Being… managed.
The idea made his stomach twist.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, forcing himself to breathe evenly. This was nothing. He’d sleep it off. Tomorrow would be normal. He’d go to class, hear nothing, laugh at himself for overreacting.
As if summoned by the thought, his phone buzzed on the desk.
A message from Seo Yuri.
I’ll send you the notes once I clean them up. Make sure you eat dinner.
Jae-in closed his eyes.
The apartment remained silent.
That was what frightened him most.
Because somewhere, deep down, he understood something he wasn’t ready to admit.
The noise hadn’t been the intrusion.
The silence was.
