The Name That Shouldn't Exist

The first time Yoon Jiho sees the name Jung Soo-min, he doesn't react. Not outwardly. But something inside him fractures. The text message lingers on his screen, a single line that he cannot unread.

"Soo-min-ah, it's been long enough, hasn't it? You've played the part well—lived the life, walked the streets, worn the name. But it's time to stop pretending. Come home. Where you belong."

His grip on the phone tightens. His hands feel clammy, a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. Soo-min. It means nothing to him. It means everything. His mind immediately shuts down, rejecting it. It's a wrong number. A scam. A mistake. It has to be. He deletes the message immediately and turns off his phone, tossing it onto the counter. But the name is already there, burned into his thoughts like a wound he doesn't remember getting. The apartment feels smaller. The walls press in closer. His heart is beating too fast, his breath uneven. He needs air. He needs distance.

But even as he steps outside, letting the cool air bite at his skin, the name won't leave him. It sticks to him like wet fabric, like something lodged in the back of his skull, whispering, whispering, whispering. He walks without thinking, taking turns that he doesn't recognize, moving through the city like his body knows something his mind refuses to acknowledge. The streets are familiar, but unfamiliar. The people, the sounds, the smells—everything is too sharp, too loud. His temples throb. Something is wrong.

And then—he stops.

A sign stands across the street, lifted high above the head of a man whose face is lined with exhaustion. His fingers are curled so tightly around the edges of the cardboard that his knuckles have gone white, but the words are clear.

MY SON DID NOT RUN AWAY. MY SON WAS TAKEN.

PLEASE HELP ME FIND MY SON, JUNG SOO-MIN.

Jiho's breath catches. His knees lock. The city around him seems to freeze. He can't move. He can't blink. His stomach twists violently as he forces himself to look at the photograph taped beneath the words. A young boy. Round cheeks. Dark eyes. A face that he knows.

Something in his skull cracks open.

His legs buckle slightly. He barely catches himself against the cold metal of a street pole, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He knows this child. He knows him. But that's impossible. His vision blurs at the edges. The city feels like it's tilting. The pressure in his head builds, suffocating, relentless. His fingers dig into his palm so hard that his nails nearly break skin. He can't breathe. He needs to leave.

He turns away, forcing himself to keep walking, forcing himself to forget. But he knows—he knows something is unraveling.

The House That is Not a Home.

The walls here do not hold memories. They erase them.

There are no windows. There is no time. No past, no future—only the now. The endless now. The people in the rooms do not ask questions. They do not speak unless spoken to. They exist because they have been told to exist, and when they are told to disappear, they will.

Some still fight. The new ones, mostly. The ones who still remember what it was like before.

A woman stands near the entrance, watching as the latest arrivals sit huddled together, their eyes darting around, searching for something—an exit, a miracle, a way out. They will not find one. They never do. The man beside her exhales, adjusting his coat as he studies them. "They're quiet," he observes.

"They're learning," the woman corrects.

The newest ones haven't spoken in hours, but their eyes betray them. Fear. Anger. Hope. It clings to them like an infection. That will be fixed soon enough. She steps forward, heels clicking against the cold floor, and gestures toward one of them—a man in his thirties, his body still tense with resistance. She kneels beside him, resting a gentle hand on his knee. He flinches but does not pull away.

"What is your name?" she asks softly.

The man's jaw clenches. He does not answer.

She smiles. "That's alright," she says. "You won't need it much longer."

His eyes flicker with something—recognition, horror, realization. He doesn't speak, but his breath turns sharp, quick. He knows.

She straightens, smoothing down her skirt. "Bring him to the next room," she instructs. The guards move immediately, dragging the man to his feet. He struggles at first, but it doesn't last long. The others watch, wide-eyed, their fear swallowing the room whole. No one moves to help him. No one dares.

The woman watches as the door shuts behind them. There will be no screaming. He will learn, just like the others did. The man beside her leans in slightly, his voice low. "And the girl?"

The woman hums in thought. "She's remembering," she says finally. "Not fully. But enough."

The man rolls his shoulders. "And?"

She turns, a small smile on her lips. "And it's time to remind her she's been out long enough don't you think?"

Yoon Jiho—A Name He Shouldn't Know.

Jiho doesn't know why he searches the name.

His hands move before he can stop them, fingers typing something that shouldn't mean anything.

But it does.

The articles come up immediately. 19 years ago.

JUNG SOO-MIN (7) MISSING. LAST SEEN NEAR HOME. CASE CLASSIFIED AS RUNAWAY.

Jiho stares.

The photo loads slowly. A small child. Round cheeks, dark eyes.

He knows this face.

The second he sees it, his stomach drops.

The pressure behind his eyes intensifies. A headache? 

No.

Something else.

Something worse.

The dull ache shifts into something sharper, something violent, as if his mind is trying to fight against something that has been buried too deep.

And then—

A flash.

A dark room. A whisper.

"If we don't move, they won't see us."

Jiho recoils. The breath is knocked from his lungs.

It's not real.

It's not real.

It's—

His phone rings.

An unknown number.

He does not move.

He watches the screen, paralyzed, as the call ends.

A voicemail.

With slow, mechanical movements, he lifts the phone to his ear and presses play.

Static hums through the speaker.

Then—

"I might see your hair."

The phone slips from his grip.

His body is frozen. His blood turns to ice.

And in the silence that follows, something inside him finally starts to crack.