''~°.HIDE AND SEEK.°~'' | YEONGYU

THE FIGURE

The calmness of it chilled him to his bones.

Too calm.

Whoever was out there wasn't knocking anymore. Just waiting.

His breathing came faster, shallower, his vision narrowing as his pulse roared in his ears.

"It could be him. Yeonjun said he was coming. But what if it's not? What if it's—"

Another soft knock. Just one this time. Slow. Deliberate.

"Beomgyu...open up."

The voice almost sounded like Yeonjun. But not quite. He wasn't even sure anymore...

A sudden thud made him flinch so hard he nearly dropped his phone.

Something...or someone...pressed lightly against the door. The faint sound of fabric brushing wood, a shoe scuffing the floor.

They were still there.

Waiting.

His thumb hovered over Yeonjun's name in his call history. But he didn't press it.

Another long stretch of silence.

Then...

"I know you're in there...I saw you." the voice sounded amused...as if this all was just a source of their entertainment.

Beomgyu pressed his back harder against the wall, clutching his phone so tight his fingers ached. His chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths.

Every sound felt amplified...the faint creak of wood outside, the blood rushing in his ears, even the hum of his fridge down the hall.

Then—

Buzz.

His phone screen lit up in his shaking hands.

A new text.

__________________

Yeonjun [7:18 PM]:

I'm not there yet. Don't open the door. Don't respond. Don't make a sound.

__________________

The words burned into his brain.

Not there yet.

It's not Yeonjun.

His stomach lurched violently as his knees nearly gave out. His fingers trembled harder over the glowing screen, smudges of sweat streaking the glass.

Another knock. This one slower. Heavier.

"Beomgyu..."

That voice wasn't Yeonjun's...Yeonjun wasn't even here yet...

He backed further into the corner of the room, gripping his phone like it could shield him. His breathing was too loud. Way too loud.

"They know I'm here. They know. Don't respond. Don't move. Don't breathe."

The door handle rattled.

Just slightly.

Enough to make his stomach twist.

A low, muffled sigh came from the other side of the door, the sound sending chills racing down his spine.

Then silence.

Beomgyu didn't move.

Couldn't move.

His back was pressed hard against the wall, his phone clutched so tight in his fist his knuckles ached. His eyes were locked on the door across the apartment, waiting for another sound. Another knock. Anything.

But instead—

Thud.

The sound came from behind him...the window again.

His breath hitched.

Another sound followed...a faint squeak. Like something sliding across glass.

His head was reeling.

Slowly, mechanically, his head turned toward the bedroom window.

The curtains were still drawn tight, fabric trembling slightly as though stirred by a breeze. But there was no breeze. The window was closed...

Another faint sound.

Tap.

Then something heavier.

Thud.

Beomgyu's pulse roared in his ears as his eyes locked on the outline behind the curtain.

A gloved hand.

Pressed flat against the glass.

The faint glow of the streetlamp outside caught on it, illuminating a dark smear that spread beneath the palm.

Thick. Wet...

It wasn't just a hand.

It was leaving a mark.

The hand shifted slightly, dragging downward with a slow, deliberate motion. The smear followed, a streak of crimson sliding down the glass.

Beomgyu clamped a shaking hand over his mouth to muffle the sob that clawed its way up his throat. His body screamed at him to run, to hide, to do anything—

But his legs wouldn't obey.

The hand stilled and pulled away.

For a moment, silence settled heavy in the room...so suffocating it felt alive.

Then it started.

A sharp, metallic sound ripped through the quiet like claws on a chalkboard.

Beomgyu flinched violently, trying his best to not make any noise.

Yet the noise outside dragged on, slow and deliberate. Something sharp was scraping across the glass behind the curtain.

A knife.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, he was beyond terrified now.

They weren't just pressing against the window anymore.

They were carving something into the glass...

His pulse thundered painfully in his ears as he stared at the curtain, paralyzed.

Each new screech sent a chill racing down his spine.

It wasn't random.

The strokes were measured. Precise.

He pressed his phone harder to his chest, the plastic case slippery in his sweat-slick fingers.

His breathing was too loud. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sound kept drilling into his skull.

Then suddenly—

silence.

No more scraping.

No more movement.