It started as a whisper in subway ads and late-night forums:
"Escape the burden.Come Dream With Us.One Session — and You'll Never Wake Up the Same."
At first, no one took it seriously.
Just another wellness scam.
But after the third case of catatonic patients walking into traffic with smiles on their faces, Ji-Hyuk started listening.
By the time he tracked the origin, seventeen people had vanished after attending "sessions."
All within a four-kilometer radius.
All with perfectly clean dreams.
Too clean.
No emotion. No trauma. Just blank slates.
Wiped minds.
And something — something else — filling the space.
The address led him to an abandoned laundromat in Sillim-dong. The windows were papered over, and the door was sealed with a glowing charm — one designed to repel surveillance.
Not magical. Not Berafean.
Fold-tech.
He placed a hand on the charm, and it recognized him.
Flickered.
Then allowed him in.
As if inviting him.
He stepped through.
The inside was cold. Silent. The washing machines had all been gutted, replaced with smooth recliner chairs and metallic headsets shaped like bone crowns.
Seven people sat in the chairs.
All smiling.
All asleep.
But it wasn't sleep.
It was submission.
Ji-Hyuk moved toward the console in the back — a pulsing orb of memory threads woven into a psychic circuit.
Fold machinery.
He touched the control glyph — and it spoke.
Not in words. But in emotion.
Welcome, Echo Host.Integrity: 92%.Resistance: Fluctuating.
Ji-Hyuk yanked his hand away.
"Echo Host."
They had tagged him.
Marked him as a point of entry. A carrier.
He turned to the sleepers.
Their eyes opened.
All at once.
But their pupils weren't human.
They were spirals.
One by one, they stood.
Their smiles never changed.
Ji-Hyuk raised a glyph of suppression.
"Stay down."
But they didn't listen.
Because they weren't people anymore.
They were hybrids — folded consciousness printed over human frames.
And the worst part?
They remembered his name.
"Yi Ji-Hyuk," one of them said — a young woman with a scar that hadn't been there seconds ago. "You dream louder than the rest. That makes you valuable."
Another stepped forward, arms open. "The Fold doesn't want to harm you. It wants to honor you."
Ji-Hyuk's eyes narrowed.
"You honor me by erasing others?"
The hybrids nodded in unison. "We erase pain. You understand that better than anyone."
"Then try me."
He struck.
The fight was fast.
Not brutal — but surgical.
These weren't warriors.
They were puppets.
Ji-Hyuk moved through them with fluid grace, disabling their limbs, severing their neural sigils without killing.
Because killing them wouldn't stop the Fold.
Only resisting would.
As the last one fell, twitching but alive, the orb pulsed again.
A final message appeared in his mind.
Dream Cycle interrupted.Adapting.Next echo: Sora Ji-Hyun.
His breath caught.
That name—
He hadn't heard it in years.
Not since Earth.
Not since he buried her.
Later, back at Yeonho's shop, he didn't speak for a long time.
Just stared at the burning pieces of the orb.
Maeryn stood by the window, watching the stars.
"They're not just infecting," she said softly. "They're building a network. Memory nodes. Fold-spires. Dreamwalk beacons."
Yeonho was pale. "Like a hive intelligence."
"Worse," Maeryn replied. "Like a reality farm. Every mind they rewrite becomes another foot in the door."
Ji-Hyuk stood.
"I need to find her."
Yeonho blinked. "Who?"
"Sora Ji-Hyun."
Yeonho's eyes widened. "That name—wasn't she—?"
"She died before I left Earth."
Ji-Hyuk's voice was low.
"But the Fold just said she's next."
That night, Ji-Hyuk stood on a rooftop in Mapo-gu, staring into the sky.
The city pulsed with lights.
But not all of them were human.
Some of them… were watching him back.
He closed his eyes.
And whispered a promise to no one but himself:
"If you touch her memory…I'll show you what pain really is."
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