Chapter Text
The first thing Seungcheol learned about living alone was that silence had way too much personality.
Like, yeah, he’d moved out for peace, but no one told him the quiet would creak, hum, and sigh like the building itself had trauma. The refrigerator made weird clicking noises, the pipes groaned whenever he flushed, and sometimes the light in the hallway flickered just long enough to make him reconsider his rent.
But it was fine. Mostly.
He was sprawled on his chair that night, headset on, controller in hand, deep into his fifth hour of a ranked match. His gaming room looked like a cave. Half-empty ramen cups, tangled wires, and one very determined guy yelling “how are you that bad?!” at complete strangers online.
“Bro, if you peek that corner one more time, I swear—”
He died. Again.
Seungcheol groaned so loud his upstairs neighbor probably felt it. He yanked off his headset, tossed it aside, and let his head fall back against the chair.
It was almost 3 a.m. The rain had started sometime after midnight, tapping against the windows. He figured he’d finish one last match, shower, maybe sleep before noon.
That was the plan.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Not a gentle tap either. Three sharp, steady knocks.
He froze.
No one visited him. Not at 3 a.m. Not when he literally knew zero people in this building.
For a second, he thought maybe it was the wind. Or his imagination. Then it came again. Louder.
He blinked at the door, annoyed. “You gotta be kidding me.”
He stood up slowly, like he was in a horror movie and knew it. His heart was doing that stupid fast beat thing that only happens when your brain’s like, you’re about to die, dude.
Another knock.
Okay. Yeah. Not the wind.
He walked over to the living room and grabbed the nearest weapon within reach—a frying pan from the sink and held it like it was Excalibur.
“Who’s there?” he called, trying to sound tough. It came out shaky. Not his proudest moment.
No response.
He tiptoed closer. Every horror movie he’d ever watched was suddenly playing in his head on repeat. He imagined opening the door and seeing some ghost girl with black hair hanging over her face.
He was already picturing his obituary: Local idiot gamer dies in apartment after ignoring every red flag ever.
The knocks came again.
He took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. You got this. Probably just a delivery guy. Or a neighbor. Or, I don’t know, a murderer. Cool.”
He unlocked the door, cracked it open just enough to peek through, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Standing there, drenched and pale, was a man.
A man he recognized.
Seungcheol’s brain short-circuited for a full three seconds.
“Wait—” He blinked, squinted, blinked again. “What the hell…”
The man just stared at him, water dripping down his hair, shirt sticking to his skin, eyes cold enough to make the air feel ten degrees colder.
It hit Seungcheol all at once. The face. The headline that had trended for days.
Yoon Jeonghan. The ridiculously rich, ridiculously handsome artist who had apparently died a month ago in a “tragic accident.”
Seungcheol’s mouth dropped open.
“AAHHHHHHHHHHHH YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!” he screamed, swinging the frying pan so hard he almost lost his balance.
The man—ghost? Zombie? flinched slightly. “Would you shut up?”
“SHUT UP? You—what—how—YOU DIED! I SAW YOUR FUNERAL ON TV!”
Jeonghan sighed, crossing his arms like this was somehow his inconvenience. “Do I look dead to you?”
Seungcheol opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He looked at the guy’s face. Too pale, too pretty. His brain couldn’t decide if he was terrified or starstruck.
“You… kind of do?” he managed, eyes darting from Jeonghan’s soaked clothes to the faint bluish tint on his skin. “Like, in a vampire kind of way.”
Jeonghan’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not a vampire.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what a vampire would say!”
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Yes—no—I mean, only when I think I’m being haunted!”
There was a beat of silence. The rain outside filled the air.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like dealing with this idiot was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
“Are you going to let me in,” he said flatly, “or should I just stand here until you finish your meltdown?”
“Let you in? You could be—” Seungcheol stopped. “Actually, what are you?”
Jeonghan tilted his head, wet hair falling over one eye. “I’m human. Idiot.”
And that’s how Seungcheol, brain fried, stepped aside and let him in. Just like that. Like the idiot he was. So stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Jeonghan brushed past him, water dripping onto the floor like he was trying to ruin the floor. He looked around, eyes scanning the place, frowning at the small pile of laundry on the couch.
“My mother didn’t even confirm if I was dead or not,” he muttered. “She just sold my apartment. How cruel.”
Seungcheol blinked, still holding the frying pan. “Wait. Wait. Why—what—how are you alive? And why are you here?”
Jeonghan sighed like explaining basic math to a toddler. “That car accident. It wasn’t my fault. Someone tried to kill me. I know they’re still looking for me.”
“And you came here?!” Seungcheol’s voice cracked. “To the most obvious place they’d check? Your old apartment? Do you not understand the concept of hiding?”
Jeonghan gave him a flat look. “Relax. I’m not staying. I’m here to take some of my emergency stuff from my secret safe. Then I’ll leave. You can go back to pretending you never saw me.”
Seungcheol blinked. “Buddy, there’s no secret room.”
Jeonghan’s eye twitched. “Please don’t call me buddy.”
He brushed past Seungcheol again, heading straight for the bedroom like he still owned the place.
“Hey—hey, you can’t just walk in there!” Seungcheol called, following him down the hall, almost tripping over the TV remote on the floor, “This is my apartment now, you can’t just—”
But the closet was already open.
Jeonghan stepped inside, his pale fingers tracing the edge of a painting fixed to the wall—some abstract thing Seungcheol had left up because it looked too expensive to mess with.
“You came back for that?” Seungcheol said, slightly breathless from trying to keep up. “You almost gave me a heart attack for a painting? I just left it there because it looked pretty.”
“It’s not just a painting,” Jeonghan said, completely calm. “It’s a secret door to my safe, you idiot.”
Seungcheol scoffed. “Yeah, okay, sure. And I’m Batman.” He stepped closer, grabbing the edge of the frame. “Look, it’s literally attached to the wall, so technically you’re the idiot—”
He shook it once, and the thing suddenly clicked. Then swung open like a hinge.
Behind it was a three-foot locker door embedded into the wall, with a digital keypad.
Seungcheol froze. “Oh. Okay. You weren’t kidding.”
Jeonghan smirked, smug and annoyingly beautiful even with rain still dripping from his hair. “I told you.”
He lifted his hand, fingers hovering over the keypad, but then stopped. His brow furrowed.
“Wait… why can’t I remember the code?” he muttered
Seungcheol swallowed, lowering the frying pan a little. “Um… sir… I’ll ask a different question.”
Jeonghan didn’t look away from the keypad. “What, idiot?”
Seungcheol pointed toward the full-length mirror. His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “Why can’t I see your reflection?”
Jeonghan turned his head slowly, eyes following the direction of Seungcheol’s finger.
The mirror showed one man standing in the doorway—wide-eyed, terrified, holding a frying pan….and no one else.
Jeonghan’s spot in the reflection was empty.
For a solid five seconds, neither of them moved.
The rain outside got louder, like even the weather was leaning in to see how this disaster played out.
Then Seungcheol whispered, “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” and took two steps back like the mirror was about to explode. “You’re a ghost ! You’re a literal ghost ! I let a ghost into my apartment !! I’m going to die and it’s going to be in my own bedroom and people on the news are going to be like ‘wow what a dumbass.’”
“I’m not a ghost!” Jeonghan snapped, spinning toward him. Which, honestly, wasn’t reassuring at all, considering he still didn’t have a reflection.
Seungcheol pointed frantically. “You’re not a reflection-having person either!”
“That doesn’t mean I’m dead!”
“Name one other reason you’d be invisible in a mirror!”
Jeonghan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then frowned at the mirror like he could bully it into cooperating. “Maybe it’s the lighting.”
“It’s not the lighting!”
“It could be the angle.”
Seungcheol grabbed his shoulders. “No angle makes you disappear, Yoon Jeonghan!”
Jeonghan shoved his hands off. “Stop touching me!”
“Oh my god ! I can touch you!” Seungcheol blinked, eyes wide. “So you’re like… a solid ghost? Oh my god you’re a physical ghost. Like a deluxe edition haunting!”
“Would you shut up?” Jeonghan said, running a hand through his wet hair. He looked genuinely stressed now, and not just in the dramatic-rich-boy way. “I don’t understand. I can’t remember the code, my reflection’s gone, and—” he stopped, staring at his own hand. “Wait.”
Seungcheol’s voice dropped. “Wait what.”
Jeonghan pressed his fingers against his wrist. Then again. Then again, harder this time.
“There’s no pulse.”
Seungcheol let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. “THERE’S NO PULSE.”
Jeonghan looked up sharply. “Shut up!”
“YOU’RE DEAD!”
“I’m not dead!”
“BRO YOU’RE SO DEAD!”
“Stop calling me bro!”
They stood there yelling over each other while the rain hammered on the windows like an audience losing its mind.
Finally, Jeonghan pressed both palms against the wall and took a slow breath he didn’t technically need. “Okay. I might be… slightly… not alive. Temporarily.”
Seungcheol blinked at him. “Temporarily not alive? What does that even mean? You can’t just ‘pause’ your aliveness like a Netflix show.”
Jeonghan ignored him, pacing back and forth, muttering something about “side effects” and “unfinished business.”
Meanwhile, Seungcheol crouched on the floor, head in his hands. “I moved into a haunted penthouse. I need to sage this place or call a priest or something.”
Jeonghan shot him a glare. “Don’t you dare bring anyone here.”
“Why not?”
“Because if they find out I’m… whatever I am… it’ll be chaos.”
“Oh right, now you care about chaos,” Seungcheol said, waving his arms around. “Meanwhile, I’m here losing my entire mind while you’re casually fading from existence!”
“I’m not fading!” Jeonghan said, voice firm, though his hand did flicker a little when he gestured.
Both of them froze.
“...Did you see that?” Seungcheol whispered.
“No.”
“Jeonghan.”
“Fine. Maybe.”
“You definitely flickered!”
Jeonghan turned toward the mirror again, eyes narrowing, as if sheer willpower could make his reflection come back.
“Okay. New plan. You don’t tell anyone I’m here, and I’ll figure out how to fix this.”
“Fix what, you being dead?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
Seungcheol groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No. No, no, no. New plan. You get out right now, and I’ll pretend this was all just a nightmare. Easy. Done. Goodbye.”
Jeonghan blinked at him. “You’re kicking me out? Me? The dead guy?”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Seungcheol said, waving toward the door like a frazzled exorcist. “Door’s right there, Ghost boy. Off you go.”
“I have nowhere else to—”
“Cool, tragic, not my problem. Go haunt your killer or something.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks. Now leave.”
And somehow, he did.
Jeonghan gave him one last withering look before stepping out into the hallway, muttering something about “uncultured idiots” and “lack of basic hospitality.”
Seungcheol slammed the door shut, locked it, double-locked it, then leaned his forehead against it.
Silence.
He stood there for a good two minutes, breathing hard. His brain was buzzing like a broken power line.
It’s fine, he told himself. It didn’t happen. None of it happened.
You just hallucinated a dead famous person. Happens to everyone at midnight. Totally normal.
He nodded to himself, feeling the faintest grip of sanity return. “Yup. I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived. Need water. Maybe therapy. But mostly water.”
He turned and started heading back to his bedroom.
Then came the knocks.
Louder this time.
Seungcheol froze mid-step. “No.”
The knocks came again, harder.
“No, no, no, absolutely not.”
He grabbed the frying pan again like it was his emotional support weapon and stomped to the door. “You devil! I compel you by the power of—”
He swung the door open mid-exorcism phrase and stopped cold.
Jeonghan was standing there again. But this time, his hair clung to his face, his shoulders were shaking, and holy shit…he was crying.
Seungcheol blinked. “…What’s wrong?”
Jeonghan looked up, eyes rimmed red, voice cracking. “What’s wrong? I’m dead!”
Seungcheol’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Oh… right. Yeah. Shit.”
“I tried to leave,” Jeonghan said, wiping his face with the back of his hand, though the tears just kept falling. “I can’t—I can’t touch anything. I tried to press the elevator button, and my hand went right through it!”
“Oh, that’s it? Dude, come on, I’ll press it for you.”
Jeonghan’s head snapped up. “That’s not the point!”
“Sure it is. You can’t press the button, I’ll press it, you go to the afterlife or wherever, and I get my rent deposit back. Win-win.”
But Jeonghan suddenly shoved past him, his whole body trembling. He stepped into the apartment, wild-eyed. “No. No, no, no. I’m not leaving. I can’t. I can’t touch anyone or anything outside this place. No one can even see me. There’s no way I’m leaving!”
Seungcheol just stared at him, frying pan limp in his hand. “You… you can’t be serious.”
Jeonghan looked dead serious. “I’m staying.”
“You can’t just haunt my place!”
“I’m not haunting it, I’m occupying it.”
“That’s literally the definition of haunting!”
Jeonghan threw his hands in the air. “Well, get used to it, because apparently, this apartment is the only place I still exist in!”
Seungcheol groaned and rubbed his face again. “Oh, fantastic. My dream apartment comes with utilities, bad plumbing, and a ghost tenant with abandonment issues and unfinished business.”
Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “You’re one snarky comment away from being my unfinished business.”
Seungcheol looked at him for a beat, then sighed. “Fine. You can stay. But if you start floating furniture or whispering my name at night, I’m moving out.”
Jeonghan sniffed, folding his arms. “You’re lucky I can’t roll my eyes any harder or I might disappear completely.”
“Yeah, tragic,” Seungcheol said flatly. “Go sit on the couch or whatever ghosts do. I need caffeine.”
Moments later, Seungcheol came back from the kitchen holding a mug like it was a weapon, steam curling up from the coffee he’d dumped three spoonfuls of instant powder into. His hands were shaking a little—not from fear exactly, just the sheer absurdity of everything that had happened in the past ten minutes.
Jeonghan was sitting on the couch, perfectly still, staring at his own hands. The ghost of a billionaire (literally) sitting on Seungcheol’s cheap Ikea couch. If Seungcheol ever told anyone about this, he’d get laughed off the internet.
He took a big sip and sighed. “Okay. I have so many questions.”
Jeonghan didn’t look up. “Of course you do.”
“Number one,” Seungcheol said, pacing a little, “how am I the only one who can see you or touch you?”
Jeonghan gave him a flat look. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. Fair. Number two: do you, like, glow in the dark?”
“What?”
“Just asking. For safety reasons. Like, if the lights go out, will you be like one of those glow sticks or—”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you walk through walls?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you possess people?”
Jeonghan frowned. “Why would I want to possess anyone?”
“I don’t know, revenge? Fun? Free Netflix account?”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, but can you?”
“I said I don’t know!”
Seungcheol took another sip of coffee. “Do you float when you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Oh my god that’s tragic. So you just… exist? Like a Windows screensaver?”
Jeonghan’s eye twitched. “I don’t know.”
“Do mirrors hate you or is that, like, a universal ghost thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you still pay taxes?”
That finally did it.
Jeonghan stood up so fast. “I DON’T KNOW!” he yelled, voice echoing off the walls. “We both found out I’m a ghost at the same time! You found out before me!”
Seungcheol froze mid-sip, blinking over the rim of his mug. “Okay, that’s… fair. But you don’t have to yell.”
“I’m dead! I think I get to yell!”
“Alright, yeah, that’s valid,” Seungcheol said quickly, setting his mug down and raising his hands in surrender. “You’re doing great for a first-time ghost. Really killing it—no pun intended.”
Jeonghan just groaned, dropped back onto the couch, and buried his face in his hands.
Seungcheol watched him for a moment, then sighed and sat down too, leaving a safe distance between them, like the air might actually start sparking if he got too close.
“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll figure this out. Somehow.”
Jeonghan mumbled through his hands, “You say that like you have any idea what you’re doing.”
“I don’t,” Seungcheol said. “But you don’t either, so I guess that makes us a team.”
Jeonghan peeked at him, unimpressed. “A team of idiots.”
“Exactly,” Seungcheol grinned. “The best kind.”
Jeonghan groaned again, but this time, it almost sounded like a laugh.
Seungcheol leaned back, eyes scanning the pale, drenched figure on his couch. This was insane. Absolutely, entirely, unfixably insane. But he had a feeling he’d never, ever get used to it.
“First of all, my name’s Choi Seungcheol,” he said, tone somewhere between proud and sarcastic. “I’m a gamer. Also a streamer. Kinda famous? I have fans. You may have heard of me. My gamer name is S.COUPS.”
Jeonghan squinted at him, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising. “If I had time to watch unemployed people play games, then I wouldn’t have sold my art for millions.”
Seungcheol blinked. Okay, first insult delivered like a dagger. Impressive.
“Jokes on you,” he shot back instantly. “I’m not unemployed. I get paid to play games. Bet it was your childhood dream. I mean, who wouldn’t want to get paid for playing?”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes, looking away like Seungcheol had just suggested he wear Crocs to an art gallery.
Seungcheol grinned, leaning forward. “Fine. Let’s get into serious business. What do you want?”
Jeonghan looked at him like he’d just asked him to recite the periodic table backwards. “What?”
“Ghosts exist because they have unfinished business. What is yours?”
Jeonghan blinked. “I don’t know. I came here for that locker. That safe. I need what’s in it.”
Seungcheol leaned back, a little relieved. “What’s in it?”
Jeonghan opened his mouth like he was about to explain, then froze mid-word.
“It’s the—” He blinked rapidly. “I don’t remember.”
Seungcheol’s jaw dropped a little. “Geez. Can’t be that important, then.”
“It is important.” Jeonghan’s voice was quieter, tight with frustration. “Something’s wrong with my memory.”
Seungcheol’s brain was firing a million questions at once. “Okay, okay. How did you even get here? Taxi? Supernatural floating skills? If you can’t touch anything outside this apartment, how did the rain hit you? How are you wet?”
Jeonghan’s shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug. “I don’t remember how I got here.”
Seungcheol blinked, rubbed his face. Of course he didn’t.
“It’s been a month since your accident. Where were you?”
“I remember it’s been a month,” Jeonghan said slowly, like he was trying to remember a grocery list from another life, “but I don’t remember where I was.”
“You don’t remember where you were for a month?” Seungcheol asked again, slower this time, like maybe repetition would fix brain damage or whatever ghost-memory-loss this was.
Jeonghan crossed his arms, chin tilted up. “What part of I don’t remember was unclear?”
“Oh, the part where you said it with attitude,” Seungcheol muttered.
Jeonghan scoffed. “Maybe you should take notes, it might help you sound smarter.”
Seungcheol blinked. “Are you—are you seriously throwing shade right now? You’re dead, man.”
“Yeah, and you’re still wearing pajamas with cartoon ducks,” Jeonghan shot back.
Seungcheol looked down at his pants, grimaced, and pointed at him. “Alright, listen here, Casper with an ego. I’ve been trying to be nice because, you know, tragic death, shock, existential crisis, whatever. But you’re testing me.”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes so hard Seungcheol swore he heard it. “Testing you? Please. You’re just mad you don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Cut it out, ghost boy.” He looked at Jeonghan, serious now. “You’re not scaring anyone. No one can see you except me, okay? No one can touch you except me. So maybe, for your own good, you should behave.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me, because I swear to god—”
“Quick question,” Seungcheol interrupted, raising a finger. “Are you threatening me right now? Because it’s kinda hard to take your threat seriously when you’ve got tears in your eyes.”
Jeonghan froze, blinking fast. “Tears?”
“Yeah, man,” Seungcheol said, nodding helpfully, the corners of his mouth twitching. “They pooled up when I said behave. Seems to me you’ve got some issues.”
He said it in that sing-song, patronizing tone that instantly made people want to throw something.
Jeonghan’s voice went sharp. “Yeah. The issue is being dead ! ”
Seungcheol tilted his head like a therapist trying too hard to be empathetic. “Mmm-hm. And how’s your relationship with your mom? Absent father figure? Because that reaction to a man telling you to ‘behave’ is screaming unresolved trauma.”
Jeonghan stared at him in disbelief. “Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?”
Seungcheol shrugged, unfazed. “If you get teary-eyed over someone telling you to behave, then yeah, kinda feels like we should unpack that.”
Jeonghan’s expression darkened. “I don’t need unpacking.”
“Sure,” Seungcheol said mildly, leaning back. “That’s exactly what someone who needs unpacking would say.”
Jeonghan swung his arm like he was going to smack him. Seungcheol instinctively raised a hand, and the fist went right through him.
“Holy shit!” Seungcheol yelped. “I thought we could touch!”
Jeonghan’s eyes widened, horror and confusion flashing across his face. “We could. You literally grabbed my arm earlier.”
Seungcheol reached out and hesitated for half a second before poking Jeonghan’s shoulder. His finger didn’t phase through this time. It was solid. “Okay, now try touching me again.”
Jeonghan hesitated, brow furrowed, then slowly reached out. His fingers brushed Seungcheol’s hand and it registered. Solid. Real.
Seungcheol’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit. It works!” He held his hands up. “Okay, try hitting me… gently.”
Jeonghan glared, then lightly tapped Seungcheol’s forearm. It connected.
Seungcheol flinched dramatically and held his hand. “Yeah, that worked. Nice form. Now—don’t touch me.”
Jeonghan immediately lunged, like he was testing the rules, but his hands just passed through Seungcheol again.
Seungcheol leaned back. “Holy shit! Okay, okay, wait, this is wild. You can touch me but only if I let you. Dude. This is wild ! Consent-based haunting!”
Jeonghan just stared at his hands like they’d failed a very basic life or death test. “This is horrible,” he muttered, shaking them out. “I can’t even haunt properly. What kind of ghost doesn’t get haunting privileges?”
Seungcheol snorted. “Maybe you didn’t qualify. Like you died but the afterlife HR looked at your résumé and went ‘eh, no haunting experience.’”
“Okay quit making lame jokes and shut up,” Jeonghan said, glaring at him. “I have no powers. I can’t move things, I can’t walk through walls, I can’t scare people, and now apparently I can only touch one single idiot gamer who won’t stop talking.”
“Aw,” Seungcheol said, fake sympathy dripping off him. “Poor baby ghost can’t go boo.”
Jeonghan gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re very close to finding out if ghosts can still commit murder.”
Seungcheol grinned, absolutely unbothered. “Unlikely. You can’t even touch me without my permission, remember? Kinda hard to murder someone when you need consent first.”
Jeonghan hesitated, bit his lips. “Okay, um... I wanna touch you.”
Seungcheol blinked. “That sounds weird.”
“I know,” Jeonghan said quickly, scooting closer on the couch like this was the most logical conversation in the world. “It sounds weird to me too. I just—” He waved his hands a little, frustrated, “—I don’t know, it’s like everything feels off. I can’t remember half my life, and the half I do remember feels like it happened yesterday. But also... like forever ago.”
Seungcheol tilted his head, watching him ramble.
Jeonghan kept going, the words tumbling out faster, like he was surprising himself by even saying them. “Since the accident, it doesn’t feel like time even moved. It’s like I blinked and suddenly I’m here, in my own apartment, except it’s not mine anymore, and I can’t even touch the world around me. But it’s just—” he made a small helpless gesture “—I also feel like I haven’t felt anything in forever. Literally.”
Seungcheol’s mouth opened, then closed. His brain short-circuited for a second because okay, yeah, that was... kind of sad. And somehow he’d missed when the conversation turned from banter to this.
“Can you... just, I don’t know. Touch my hand or something?” Jeonghan asked, quieter this time. “Just to make sure I’m not... fading or whatever.”
Seungcheol sighed again, like he was agreeing to something deeply stupid, and finally reached out. His fingers brushed against Jeonghan’s, and—yeah, it worked. Solid. cold. Very real.
Jeonghan exhaled, eyes fluttering shut, and let out this soft, ridiculous little hum—half content, half disbelief. Like a cat being petted for the first time in centuries.
“Oh my god,” Seungcheol muttered, staring at him. “You’re actually purring.”
“I’m not,” Jeonghan said, not even opening his eyes. His tone though was way too pleased. “It’s just…warm. I forgot what that feels like.”
Seungcheol tried to ignore the way his chest did something weird at that. Or how the sound—that sound—went straight to his spine. Great. Perfect. He was getting emotionally compromised by a ghost.
“Okay, cool, experiment successful,” he said a little too quickly, trying to pull his hand back.
Jeonghan’s grip tightened immediately, his fingers cold but steady. “Just a second more,” he mumbled.
Seungcheol froze. He could literally feel the pulse in his own hand picking up.
Oh my god, calm down, he’s dead. Dead. You’re holding hands with a ghost, not auditioning for a romance drama.
Finally, Jeonghan opened his eyes again, blinking like someone waking up from a long nap. “Okay,” he said softly. “You can let go now.”
Seungcheol did. Maybe too fast.
Jeonghan smiled faintly. “Thanks.”
Seungcheol coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh. No problem. You know, just helping the dead reconnect with their… uh, sensory experiences.”
Jeonghan smirked. “You’re weird.”
“Yeah, well,” Seungcheol muttered, “takes one to haunt one.”
And that made Jeonghan laugh—quiet, startled, almost human again.
Seungcheol suddenly blurted, “Can you take off your clothes?”
Jeonghan froze. “...Excuse me?”
Seungcheol’s eyes went wide. “No! Not like that—I meant—” He waved his hands wildly. “You just look cold, alright? You’re still wet from the rain and I still don’t get how that’s physically possible for a ghost, but whatever. You’re dripping on my floor, and maybe you could, I don’t know, change into something warm.”
Jeonghan gave him the most unimpressed look possible. “You could’ve started with that instead of sounding like a pervert.”
“Yeah, well,” Seungcheol muttered, glaring at the ceiling, “sorry I didn’t go to ghost etiquette school.”
Jeonghan just shrugged, tugging at his wet collar. “Fine. We’ll test it out.”
Before Seungcheol could even ask what that meant, Jeonghan started unbuttoning his shirt.
“Oh.” Seungcheol blinked, watching fabric fall away from pale skin. “Guess you can.”
“Thank god,” Jeonghan said dryly, wringing out his shirt. “Imagine being stuck forever in soggy clothes. That’d be worse than death.”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol looked away, “tragic.”
And then Jeonghan’s fingers went to his belt.
“Whoa, whoa, wait—!” Seungcheol held up both hands like he was stopping a car. “Okay, uh, we’re not testing that out here. Go to the room. Please.”
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “You invited me to undress and now you’re shy?”
“I didn’t invite you to—oh my god.” Seungcheol rubbed his temples. “Just—go to the room before you traumatize me.”
★★★
Jeonghan emerged from Seungcheol’s room about five minutes later, hair damp and sticking up in every possible direction, wearing Seungcheol’s old university hoodie.
And absolutely nothing else.
“Do you own any pants?” Jeonghan asked like he was the one being inconvenienced.
Seungcheol froze mid-sip of his coffee. “Do you—why—what—where are my sweatpants?”
“They’re ugly,” Jeonghan said simply, tugging at the oversized hoodie that hung halfway down his thighs. “This is better. Very... haunting chic.”
“Haunting—” Seungcheol nearly choked. “You look like you robbed a college freshman!”
“Well, at least I’m warm now,” Jeonghan said, spinning slowly in a circle, clearly enjoying himself. “Wow. Look at that. Ghosts can wear mortal clothes. A breakthrough for science.”
Seungcheol pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not even supposed to be doing experiments in my house.”
“I’m adapting,” Jeonghan said, dead serious. “To my new environment.”
“Yeah? Well, adapt with pants on.”
Jeonghan just smirked, padding barefoot toward the couch. “You’re just mad because I look better in your hoodie than you do.”
“I’m mad,” Seungcheol said flatly, “because if anyone sees a half-naked guy in my apartment, I’m the one who’s getting arrested.”
“Relax,” Jeonghan said, flopping onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh. “No one can see me but you….I think.”
Seungcheol paused. “...right.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Jeonghan looked up, smirk spreading. “Unless you’ve been hallucinating me this whole time.”
Seungcheol groaned. “Don’t. Start.”
But Jeonghan only laughed, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over his hands. “If I am a hallucination, you’ve got great taste.”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol muttered, “and terrible luck.”
For a few minutes neither of them said anything. Seungcheol had that weird, self-conscious awareness of being near someone who shouldn’t technically exist.
He cleared his throat. “Can ghosts eat?”
Jeonghan shrugged. “I don’t have an appetite for anything.”
Right. Of course. No snacks for the dead.
Seungcheol nodded slowly. “Cool. Cool. What about sleep?”
“Ghosts don’t sleep. Obviously,” Jeonghan said, like that was the most basic fact in the universe. “I mean, I’ve only realized I’m a ghost less than an hour ago, but I’m adapting fast. Spirit world’s already, like, talking to me or whatever.”
Seungcheol blinked. “...Talking to you?”
“Yeah,” Jeonghan went on, completely serious. “It’s all vibes and energy and late-night radio static. Stuff like ‘beware the living’ and ‘don’t get attached’ You wouldn’t get it. But I can feel it, you know? Ghosts are stronger at night. More powerful. It’s when we—” he gestured vaguely around his head “—channel the moonlight and the sadness of human souls. I think that’s how it works.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Also,” Jeonghan added, crossing his arms like a professor wrapping up a lecture, “I’ve seen a lot of horror movies. None of them show ghosts sleeping. Not one. They just float and scream and open doors. No naps. No blankets. We’re nocturnal by nature.”
Seungcheol stared at him for a full three seconds before saying, “Right, okay. I’m gonna sleep. You can sit here by yourself, Mr. Nocturnal.”
“Fine,” Jeonghan huffed, turning toward the TV. “But I’m watching Netflix. Ghostflix. Whatever.”
“Great,” Seungcheol muttered, heading for his room. “Enjoy communing with the moonlight or whatever the hell.”
★★★
Seungcheol tried to sleep. Really, he did. He laid there staring at the ceiling, arms crossed, blanket pulled up to his chin like that’d protect him from the fact that there was a literal ghost sitting in his living room.
He closed his eyes. Opened them again. Closed them. Rolled over. Rolled back.
There was a ghost. In his house. A ghost wearing his hoodie.
Yeah. Totally normal night.
He sighed into his pillow. How the hell was he supposed to sleep knowing some dead guy was out there flipping through Netflix like it was no big deal? Maybe this was all a stress dream. Maybe he’d wake up and it’d just be his computer overheating again.
He turned again, stared at the wall, and muttered under his breath, “Just go away when I wake up, okay? Please.”
Then, somehow, between his brain’s panic and exhaustion, sleep actually took him.
When he woke up, it was still dark. His phone screen said 5:03 a.m. The kind of hour that didn’t feel real yet. He groaned, throat dry, feeling extremely thirsty.
He got up, stumbled out of his room, feet dragging across the floor. Just water, he thought. Just drink some water and go back to bed. Simple.
Except, halfway to the kitchen, he froze.
There, in the faint blue light spilling through the window, was Jeonghan. Sitting on the couch, still. He wasn’t floating or glowing or doing anything horror-movie-worthy.
He was crying. The kind of crying that wasn’t loud but constant. Tears ran down his cheeks. He kept wiping them, like he could stop it if he just tried hard enough, but it didn’t stop.
Seungcheol froze. For a second, his brain screamed ghost crying in the dark, ghost crying in the dark, like a broken alarm bell. Every horror movie instinct told him to nope the hell out. But he didn’t move. He just stood there.
“Are you okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Jeonghan didn’t look up. “…No,” he sobbed. “I’m dead. I’m a ghost.”
Right. That. Seungcheol exhaled. What was he supposed to say to that?
Anyone else would’ve screamed, maybe passed out, maybe called a priest. He just scratched the back of his neck and walked closer instead. His legs moved before his brain caught up.
The couch dipped slightly, and Jeonghan didn’t even look up, just kept wiping his tears, like it didn’t matter that someone was next to him. Seungcheol didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what you were supposed to say to a ghost having an emotional breakdown.
Cheer up, at least you don’t pay taxes anymore? Yeah, no.
So he just sat there.
The apartment was silent except for Jeonghan’s quiet sniffles and the low hum of the fridge. The city outside was starting to wake, slow and far away.
Seungcheol leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He had no idea what the hell he was doing. But somehow, sitting there in the dark, next to this crying ghost, felt like the only thing that made sense.
Jeonghan sat there for a long time, his fingers tangled together like he was trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke.
“I keep thinking it’s not real,” he said. “That maybe I’ll wake up. That maybe this is just... one long fever dream after the crash.” He let out a small, uneven laugh. “But then I remember I don’t have a pulse anymore. I don’t get tired. I don’t even blink unless I think about it. That’s how I know it’s real.”
Seungcheol didn’t interrupt. He just sat back, elbows resting on his knees, watching Jeonghan unravel sentence by sentence.
Jeonghan wiped his face again, his eyes puffy and red—funny how ghosts could still look human when they cried.
“It’s messed up, you know? I died. Like actually died. My life’s over, and yet I’m still here, sitting in my own apartment that doesn’t even belong to me anymore.”
Seungcheol wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt tight. He wasn’t built for this. He could handle trolls in his chat, angry sponsors, late-night existential dread about his career—but not this. Not a dead man crying about still existing.
“I don’t understand how this works,” Jeonghan said, his tone caught somewhere between frustration and despair. “How I can be here. Why you can see me when no one else can. Why I remember some things and not others. I know there’s a safe in that closet.” He pointed vaguely at the bedroom. “I remember I kept something important there. But I can’t remember the code. I don’t even remember my birthday ! Isn’t that pathetic?”
“Not pathetic,” Seungcheol said quietly.
Jeonghan shook his head. “It feels like I’m fading. Like someone’s erasing me piece by piece, and I can’t stop it. I thought I was in control of my life, but I don’t even get control over my death.”
He went quiet for a while. Seungcheol thought that was it, that maybe the storm had passed, but then Jeonghan’s voice cracked again.
“I thought it was an attempted murder,” he whispered. “That maybe someone wanted me gone but failed. But now…” He gave a small, broken smile. “Guess they succeeded, didn’t they?”
Seungcheol couldn’t even look at him for a second.
“I keep trying to piece it together,” Jeonghan went on, voice shaking. “Why it happened. Who did it. But now it all feels so irrelevant. What’s the point of revenge when you’re not even part of the world anymore?”
He pressed his palms into his eyes, like that would stop the tears. “I just don’t want to disappear. That’s all. I don’t care about justice or unfinished business or whatever. I just—” his breath hitched “—I just don’t want to fade away like I never existed.”
Seungcheol swallowed. He wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t. That he’d find a way to help him. But that would’ve been a lie, and lying to a ghost felt like asking for karma to sucker punch you later.
Jeonghan let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t even do half the things I wanted to do,” he said. “I spent so much of my time painting. Locking myself in studios, chasing exhibitions, trying to prove something. I thought I had time. You always think you have time.”
His voice got smaller. “I didn’t go skydiving. I didn’t travel much. I never learned to swim. I never had an epic true love story. I didn’t even get to see my last painting finished. It’s probably still sitting on there”
He looked up then, eyes glassy and lost. “It’s stupid, right? Worrying about bucket lists when you’re already dead.”
Seungcheol shook his head slowly. “No. It’s not stupid.”
Jeonghan gave a tired laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “Maybe not. But it feels pointless.”
Seungcheol didn’t even realize when the sky started softening—when the edges of the night turned pale and blue and the world started waking up. He just sat there, staring blankly at the wall across the room, the sound of the clock ticking way too loud for how quiet everything else was.
He hadn’t looked at Jeonghan in a while. Didn’t know what to say anymore.
It was Jeonghan’s voice that made him turn.
“...S-Seungcheol,” Jeonghan’s voice broke, small and shaky.
Seungcheol’s head turned immediately and his heart just stopped.
Jeonghan looked wrong. The edges of him were…blurring. Like he wasn’t fully in the room anymore. Like the light was passing through him.
“What’s happening to me?” Jeonghan asked, panicked. His voice was trembling, his hands hovering in front of him like he didn’t know where to put them. “Why—why do I look like this?”
“You—” Seungcheol swallowed hard. His mouth went dry. “You’re…” He couldn’t finish. The words felt cruel just sitting on his tongue.
Jeonghan looked down at his hands, watching them flicker, half-there.
“I’m disappearing,” he whispered, then louder, his voice breaking, “I’m disappearing, Seungcheol. I don’t want to. Please—I don’t want to disappear.”
“Hey—hey, stop, you’re okay,” Seungcheol said quickly, even though his chest was tight and he knew that was a lie. He reached out, trying to grab Jeonghan’s arm…but his hand went straight through.
It felt cold. Like touching the air where something used to be.
Jeonghan froze, eyes wide, tears streaking down his face. “W-why did it pass through? Did you not want to touch me?”
“What? No. No, I wanted to.” His voice cracked too, frustration spilling through it. “I am touching you, goddamnit. I am consenting, okay? Why can’t I—why can’t I hold you?”
He tried again, reaching out, desperate now, his hand shaking as it went straight through Jeonghan’s arm, like the world itself was rejecting the contact.
Jeonghan was fading faster. His tears were still falling, but even they were starting to vanish halfway down his cheeks.
“You don’t understand,” he said, crying harder. “I don’t want to disappear, Seungcheol. I don’t want to go wherever dead people go. I didn’t even live yet. I didn’t—” he choked on the words, “I didn’t even get to finish anything. I didn’t even get to exist properly.”
And Seungcheol couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t even lie and say it’d be okay.
He just watched as Jeonghan’s outline grew fainter and fainter in the first light of dawn, until it was almost just a shimmer in the air.
Seungcheol’s throat hurt, his chest ached, and all he could think was—he’d never felt this helpless in his life.