The clock above the counter blinks 10:23 PM.
Four days since Hyunsung's delivery, and the night is just as chilly.
Inside, Kim Dokja is slouched in a way that makes it hard to believe he hasn't contracted a bad case of scoliosis yet. There's a desk calendar spread out before him for the purpose of circling shift dates with the same stubby pencil—Sangah's off Tuesday, inventory on Wednesday—and skimming a stack of work mail: late fees, a flyer for a laser disc player he'll never buy.
The Walkman hums at his hip, leaking the tail end of Siamese Dream by Smashing Pumpkins, which Han Sooyoung swore he'd love.
Briefly, he ponders what it would be like if he'd gone all out. Suit and tie, hair combed back, stuck in a cubicle under leaky ceiling panels, pecking at a keyboard with some stupid quotas?
He grimaces at the image of a tie strangling him, coffee breath in his face.
Nah, that'd suck, dreary, soulless, no space for the quiet chaos he likes. This job's better, whatever people think. Minimum wage, stale popcorn, and all. The store's a messy little haven, a spot to lounge around like an alley cat or mutter about stories without judgment. He's sentimental about them, always has been, tearing up at the good ones, yelling at the dumb ones.
Take The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, he still blesses the day it hit the screen, that BBC mini-series with its towel-waving weirdness. Seeing Arthur Dent bumble around on TV was a thrill, book pages alive, even though he couldn't help nitpicking every change.
Torture, sure, but the kind he'd sign up for again.
The bell jangles then, and it immediately pulls him out of his reverie.
That handsome regular steps in, bundled head to toe in black. He strides up to the counter with the same edition of Lethal Weapon he had purchased days earlier still clutched in hand. However, the case is scratched to hell, like he's been using it as a coaster.
Kim Dokja takes it, jaw tight, and runs a finger along the gouges. "You know," he decides to finally say, not hiding the irritation from his voice, "These aren't free. Stop bringing them back like this."
The stranger pauses, halfway through digging a few crumpled bills from his pocket, and looks up.
For the first time, it seems he is really looking, and boy is it unreal.
Born as stone, chiseled into the vague shape of a mortal, and then rectified for all to see, Kim Dokja realized that statues stood for forever hours in solitude; rain corroded smooth marble skin to charred fractures, chipping away at the singularity of its existence, its individuality.
That was him, this man.
Though, remaining bolden under the infinite grime and fictitious human blood were those eyes, obsidian-turned liquid amber in the radiance of a latent sanctuary belonging to a town of secret woes.
This man is somewhere else at the moment; Kim Dokja saw something reappear and then dissolve within that gaze. Like a solar eclipse, you're supposed to look away to save your helplessly mortal vision, but you just can't help your temptation; watching the anomaly of two opposing happenings unfurling at each other's actions is too serendipitous to save yourself from self-injury.
Dokja is not sure what to think when he merely slaps down his payment on the counter.
Maybe the guy's too tired to bolt tonight, but it throws him off, keeps him talking as he swallows the courage needed to speak.
"Seriously," he pressed, holding up the tape, "What do you do, kick these around? I'm gonna start charging you extra." He's not yelling, but it's late and he's exhausted.
The stranger shifts, clearly uncomfortable, and mutters, "It's fine." Low, rough, like he's dragging the words out to threaten him into agreement.
It is so not fine!
Dokja blinks, first time the guy's spoken more than a grunt—and it's not what he expects. Not an apology, not an excuse, just… something. He sets the tape down, noticing a corner of paper peeking from the sleeve.
Frowning, he tugs the folded scrap free and unfolds it.
"Day 190. She's back at that building."
Black ink, sharp scrawl, no sense to it.
"What's this?" he asks, confusion creasing his brow. "Are you leaving me notes now?"
The man's jaw clenches, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "None of your business," he says snappily, and turns toward the door.
"Yeah, well, keep your weird pen pal stuff out of my tapes," he calls after, dry but loud enough to carry through as he exits.
The man doesn't look back, just pushes through the door, and vanishes into the night again. Dokja stares at the empty frame, the note sitting there like a question mark, and shakes his head.
"Jerk," he mutters, slotting Lethal Weapon into the rewinder with a little more force than needed. The machine whirs, drowning out the quiet.
Kim Dokja eyes the note, tapping an uneven beat against the calendar's edge with his fingers. He huffs, before shoving it under a stack of late fee notices. Out of sight, not out of mind, but close enough for now.
He leans back, chair creaking, and stretches until his spine pops, a small, satisfying noise that cuts through the store's hum.
The clock's at 10:49 PM, and his shift drags on like wet socks.
No more customers, just the CRT flickering static in the corner—he forgot to turn it off, but Dokja is too lazy to cross the room. He digs into his backpack instead, fishing out a heavily-tabbed copy of Dune.
The good one, Herbert's, not that '84 movie mess with Sting in a codpiece.
He flips it open and sinks into the sandworms for a minute. He's sentimental about this one—cried when the Baron got it, yelled when Lynch botched the ending on the screen version. Books are better, always, but he'll still watch the adaptations and mumble himself through every frame.
A thud snaps him out of Arrakis much later, something heavy, from the back aisle. It makes freeze, with the book halfway to his lap, ears pricking.
The store's dead quiet now, only that static buzz, and he squints toward the shadows beyond the counter. "Sangah?" he calls, half-hoping she's snuck in early for tomorrow's shift, silly as it is.
Nothing.
Just the shelves, the neon glow pooling weirdly on the floor. He sets the book down, slowly, and slides off the chair, sneakers silent as he edges around the counter.
Probably a fallen tape, after all, they're stacked like dominoes, but his pulse kicks up anyway, a dumb little thrill he'd never admit to.
The aisle is dark, the same sprawl of items staring back until… there it is, a VHS on the floor, face-up, label peeling: The Thing.
Kim Dokja snorts, tension easing. "Figures," he mutters, bending to grab it. But as he straightens, the CRT crackles louder, static spiking into a whine. He glances over, and for a split second, the screen's not blank—there's a flicker, a shape, too fast to catch.
Then it's gone, back to gray snow. His stomach dips, not scared, just unsettled, and he clutches the VHS tighter, as if it could pass for a dumb shield.
"Get a grip," he tells himself, and shuffles back to the counter.
The rewinder clicks off, job done, and he sets down the case, popping it open to check the reel. Habit, mostly, but it nags at him because that strange man had also borrowed The Thing not long ago either.
Inside, the tape's fine, but something else slips out—
He unfolds it, brow creasing: "Day 186. It resets again."
Same sharp scrawl, same black ink.
His jaw tightens, not another one. "What the hell, man," he groans, louder than he means, and places it next to the first note he retrieves from where he'd shoved it last.
Two now, both gibberish.
Kim Dokja navigates toward the return bin and curiosity burns a hole through his chest, painful and restless, tinged with a twitchy unease.
He tips the bin, various copies clattering onto the Formica—Die Hard, Predator, Terminator—and grabs the logbook, flipping to the list of names that may shed some light.
He skims and skims them until he reaches one that sounds most logical and matches up with the usual picks, Yoo Joonghyuk, who has gathered quite the number of rentals stretching weeks back.
Dokja doesn't remember any of this.
He starts with Die Hard, popping the case, nothing but the reel, a little battered but note-free. Predator next, sleeve warped—empty too. Then Terminator, case rattling as he shakes it, and a folded scrap tumbles out:
"Day 172. The fire's louder."
Black ink, sharp, same hand. His brow creases. Fire, what fire?
He digs faster, tearing through slips.
Rambo III yields another: "Day 180. She won't stay gone."
Lethal Weapon—not the one from tonight—has a third: "Day 198. It watches me fail."
More pile up. RoboCop: "Day 204. Tracks hum."
All of the days are out of order, each cryptic and jagged. He skims the logbook again for dates—Joonghyuk has come by all month like clockwork.
He leans back, everything scattered, notes fanned out like a bad hand of cards.
The static from before whines again, sharper, and he glares at the TV with a startle.
"Shut up," he quips, before realizing he's talking to himself, and promptly stomps over to yank the plug. The screen dies with a pop, silence rushing back, and he stands there, breathing harder than he should. The store feels heavier now, walls too high, ceiling too low, shelves looming.
He shakes it off, stalking back to the counter. He doesn't pick his book back up—just stares at the notes, the tapes, the night pressing in.
Something's off, and he hates it, but he's not chasing it. Not tonight. He grabs his pencil, stabs a mean circle around next Friday on the calendar, and mutters, "Your move, asshole."
But Friday never comes.
-·=»‡«=·-
The bar's a warm blur of noise. Glasses clinking, laughter rolling over the jukebox's tinny croon, some new 90s ballad. He's slouched in a booth, picking at a basket of fries and a half-eaten burger, ketchup smudged on the wrapper. The place is packed, Sunday night, Seoul Town's finest drowning the week in cheap beer and grease.
Han Sooyoung sits across from him, her own basket shoved aside, fries scattered like she's staging a protest. She's mid-rant, voice cutting through the din "—and then she had the nerve to say my essay was 'derivative,' like she's some literary God," Sooyoung's saying, jabbing a fry in the air for emphasis.
"Hey. Earth to Kim Dokja. You in there?" She snaps her fingers an inch from his nose, sharp and loud, and he blinks, jolted back, hand pausing mid-reach for a fry.
"Huh? Yeah, I'm listening," he lies, voice lazy, rubbing his neck as he straightens.
"Something about… essays?"
Sooyoung rolls her eyes, scoffing loud enough to turn heads. "You're hopeless. I've been spilling my soul for ten minutes, and you're off in la-la land. What's with you tonight? Too much burger grease frying your brain?"
She's annoyed, but it's her usual brand.
Dokja smirks, snagging a fry and popping it in his mouth. "Maybe I'm just savoring the ambiance. You ever think of that?" He waves a hand at the bar, smoke curling in the air, a guy in overalls hollering at the TV screen, the buzz of a dozen conversations.
"Ambiance," Sooyoung mutters, leaning back with a dry laugh. "Right. This dump's a five-star retreat." She grabs her soda, straw rattling the ice, and takes a long sip, still eyeing him like he's a puzzle she's too tired to solve.
Jung Heewon slides up then, balancing a tray of drinks—two fresh sodas for them, a beer for the booth next door. She's all easy smiles, dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, apron smudged with something that might be steak sauce.
"You two good over here?" she asks, setting the glasses down with a clink. She's a bit of a multi-tasker. On top of working here, she's also a teacher's aide for the newly opened Martial Arts club at Sooyoung's university. Tall, wiry, the kind of friendly that's loud and unapologetic. The two women know each other, sort of. Not enough for nods, not hugs, and their edges scrape a little, bold on bold.
"We're surviving," Sooyoung says, smirking up at her. "Barely. You got anything stronger than this sugar water?"
Heewon grins, unfazed. "Not for you, lightweight. Stick to the fries—you're cranky enough." It's teasing, but there's a spark, a clash that's half-fun, half-real.
She turns to Dokja after, head tilted while saying,"You're awfully quiet tonight."
He shrugs, twirling the toothpick that kept his burger buns together between his fingers. "Just thinking. Lot of rough stuff goin' on." It's vague, but she lets it slide, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Hey, speaking of rough," Heewon says, leaning in a bit, voice dropping. "You hear about that accident a couple hours ago? 3:33 AM, out by the tracks?"
Sooyoung scoffs, loud and sharp. "Who hasn't? It's all over the papers, train went off the rails, big fireball, whole mess. You'd have to be living under a rock." She's dismissive, but her tone softens after, a crack in the armor. "Sucks, though. All those people."
Dokja nods, chewing slower now, the buzz of the bar sharpening around him. "Yeah. Heard it was bad—something to do with the cargo, right? Chemicals or something?" He's half-guessing, piecing it from snippets he caught on the radio earlier.
Heewon leans on the table, arms crossed. "That's what they're saying. Some guy at the counter swears it was sabotage, loose bolts or whatever. Another one's yapping about ghosts, like the tracks are cursed. It was really loud, scared my dog half to death" She chuckles, but it's thin, sympathy creeping in.
Sooyoung snorts, grabbing another fry. "Ghosts? Please. Probably just some idiot asleep at the switch. Happens all the time." She's flippant, but her eyes linger on the table, a flicker of something—pity, maybe—before she shakes it off. "Still. Messed up way to go. May God or whatever's out there rest their souls."
He hums in agreement, staring at his burger, the noise of the bar washing over him.
"Yeah," he says, quiet, almost to himself.
The jukebox flips to a new track, some fuzzy riff cutting through the bar's chatter, and Jung Heewon straightens, brushing a stray hair from her face. "Alright, gotta get back to it," she says, nodding toward the counter where a guy in a trucker hat is waving an empty glass like a distress signal. Her grin's quick, warm, and she's already turning, tray tucked under her arm as she weaves through the crowd, dodging a spilled beer with a muttered curse.
Dokja watches her go, then slumps back, poking at his burger like it's a science experiment. He lifts the bun, peering underneath, and his face scrunches—there's a tomato slice, soggy and red, lurking under the patty. "Oh, come on," he groans, loud enough to carry, shoving the basket toward Han Sooyoung with a pleading look.
"Sooyoung, take it."
She arches a brow, mid-sip on her soda before she sets it down. "What are you, five? It's a vegetable, not a war crime." She's grinning, though and still leans forward, snagging the slice with her fingers, popping it in her mouth with exaggerated relish. "There. Happy now, princess?"
"Immensely," he says, all deadpan, pulling the basket back and wiping his hands on a napkin like he's just escaped a close call. "You're a hero. They'll write songs about you—'Sooyoung, Slayer of the Dreaded Tomato.'"
"Would probably be an upgrade from what you listen to now," she fires back, nodding at his Walkman, still clipped to his hip. "What's on tonight, more of that whiny guitar stuff?"
Dokja smirks, taking a bite of his now-safe burger. "It's art, not whining. You wouldn't get it—too busy scribbling 'derivative' essays." It's light, a jab to keep her going, and she huffs, launching into a defense of her latest draft, words tumbling over the buzz of the crowd.
He half-listens, nodding at the right spots.
Later, the baskets are mostly crumbs, and Sooyoung's leaning back, stretching her arms with a yawn. "So," she says, casual but pointed, "how's it going with that difficult customer of yours? The one you were griping about the other night, still giving you hell?"
Dokja blinks, straw slipping from his lips. "Huh?" He sets the glass down, brow furrowing. "What customer?" His voice is curious, not sharp, just blank, like she's speaking a language he's forgotten.
She tilts her head, squinting at him. "You know, the guy—big, brooding, keeps messing up your tapes? You were all worked up about it, said he's been in every few days." She's fishing now, annoyance creeping in because he's spacing out again, and she hates repeating herself.
"I… don't know what you're talking about." His fingers dribble against the table. Once, twice." Tapes are a little scuffed but that's on me. And Nobody's been that bad lately."
It's honest, puzzled, and he shrugs, brushing it off.
Sooyoung frowns, mouth opening like she's ready to argue, then shuts it, eyes narrowing.
"Huh. Okay, maybe I got it mixed up," she mutters, nodding as if she's piecing something together in her head. "Thought you said—whatever, forget it." She waves a hand, dismissive of the issue. "You're still a space case, though."
"Always." He doesn't push it, just lets it slide, the bar's hum swallowing the moment as the jukebox kicks into another song, and the night drones on and on. He's smiling and laughing the entire time.