The Prime of College Life Is Undeniably Sophomore Year
It's no exaggeration to say that the golden age of college life is sophomore year. Freshmen are too green, knowing next to nothing and short on cash. Juniors start aging by the day under the weight of piling assignments and spec-building. Seniors? Don't even get started. So, sophomores—who've adapted somewhat to campus life and aren't yet fretting too hard about graduation—represent the freshest, most vibrant peak.
As long as they don't flaunt their smarts too obviously, professors won't exactly corner them with, "Hey, wanna try grad school in Korean lit? It's the real deal, pure honey." Freshmen start as blank slates, smearing colors onto a white canvas. By sophomore year, they begin layering on favorites or sketching their own pictures. And compared to upperclassmen, they're relatively less swamped.
That's why minor clubs see dismal attendance from juniors and seniors. Even major clubs struggle to hold onto them, let alone something weird like a ghost story club. Which is precisely why Park Seol-ha preferred obscure clubs over the big ones. She'd heard major clubs demanded insane activity levels, with seniors cracking down hard on discipline.
Especially if you couldn't hold your liquor—it was like a death sentence. The more socially connected you were, the more you'd drag yourself to drinks every other day. Sure, time for thesis papers and presentations was scarce, but these so-called "in-crowd" types wouldn't rest until they'd gotten their booze fix.
Park Seol-ha had the looks—prettily average, solid family background—to easily join their ranks. But she couldn't indulge in that freewheeling, debauched college life. The reason was simple. A famous shaman among her extended family meant some of the women in her line were born with spirit sensitivity—what folks nowadays call a medium's constitution.
It was useless for real life. If she didn't watch her mouth, she'd blurt out random dialects without realizing it. Or see things she had zero desire to witness. Like a middle-aged guy trudging down the street with the ghost of an old woman he'd strangled clinging to his neck. Or the horrific swarms of fetal spirits (aborted babies) plastered to the bodies of seniors who'd worked themselves ragged.
No wonder she avoided crowds. Despite persistent advances from classmates and seniors, she never showed at in-crowd mixers. To outsiders, she was the picture of pure, fragile beauty—pretty and quiet. But to her, it was just living as low-key as possible.
Still, humans are social creatures. Total isolation on campus was impossible. She needed something low-drama, not too mainstream, a quiet spot to coast along. That's why she joined the ghost story club, where she could dip into her intuition just enough to blend in. It helped that Lee Ji-ah, another girl, was already active there—no awkwardness.
Her role? Just chit-chat ghost tales or vetting minor mysteries and supernatural claims. Lee Ji-ah gathered data, club president Choi Yeon-jun scripted the stories, and YouTube channel runner Lee Chan-young handled editing and final cuts.
The fun part? Lee Ji-ah, utterly intuition-free, firmly believed she had the gift. And Choi Yeon-jun and Lee Chan-young were more into ghost stories than most girls their age. Watching them brought quiet amusement. Park Seol-ha figured she'd subtly lend her senses, help out, and coast through sophomore year unnoticed.
Until the rest of the club—united in their sudden push—decided to hit a real haunted spot for a ghost hunt and dig into its lore. Right up until that plan smacked her in the back of the head.
"Seol-ha, what's up? You've been off since earlier. Not hungry? Want something else?"
Normally, she'd thank club president Choi Yeon-jun for his concern. But not this time. She couldn't open her mouth easily. The mysterious man they'd met at the café before heading out for dinner was driving her insane.
Aside from being male, he was a walking enigma. Human? Beast? Vengeful spirit? Demon? God? Monster? She couldn't tell when "it" first strolled into the café—she thought she'd faint.
A razor-sharp blade hovering an inch from her eye? A runaway car with busted brakes barreling down a straight road to a cliff? Standing alone on the roof of a blazing skyscraper? Some grotesque, alien sensation she couldn't name nearly made her puke.
Not revulsion at him, but her stomach clenching in extreme tension from his aura, triggering nausea. Her heart hammered like it would burst. Her brain overloaded, unable to process the unprecedented situation and alien intel.
His appearance? Utterly ordinary male. Gloomy eyes, dark circles to his jaw, lips slack like he couldn't care less about stares, whispering voice like a snake. Her shallow spirit sight spared her from becoming a full shaman, so she couldn't pierce the truth. If she had a shaman's eyes, she'd have been mesmerized without a doubt.
A casual "Die" from him, and she'd have gouged out her tongue and eyes, strangled herself—merging spiritually with him, no question.
Meanwhile, the clubmates laughing and tearing into chicken now? She envied and pitied them. Envy because they chatted casually with that and stayed chill. Pity because they'd invited it into their lives without a clue what it was.
Park Seol-ha could see, hear, feel spiritual entities to a degree—which let her grasp that fate existed. Everyone's born with a tangle of life-threads, big or small. Small tangle? Short life. Big one? Endless possibilities.
Long and short, thick and thin threads tangle across the world—what the spirit realm calls fate. They knot messily or neatly, snap for reasons, or clump into new tangles. Order, law, chaos, disorder intersect in ways no one can fully predict or foresee.
Key point: threads only tangle with like threads. Vermin like rats or bugs chewing them spells disaster. Flames incinerating without ash? Pure ruin.
So what was the café guy? Thread-munching pest? Or devouring inferno? No—it was beyond that. A craftsman. Scooping up life's scattered threads at whim, stitching them with needle and machine into whatever form he pleased.
He could yank chunks from others' threads like tissue, fashion clothes, or patch rags with substitutes. No one could stop him. Fragile threads fluttering in a breeze couldn't defy a hand with colossal will.
But calling it a god? Terrifying. Acknowledging it as divine might shatter the world's foundation. Vengeful ghost, monster, demon, beast—even alien—none compared. It was just it. No analogies fit. Describe by looks alone: human. Human form, soul, will—definitely human.
"Um, President... you're really going to that haunted spot with him?"
"Of course. Everyone agreed. Contract's signed."
"Why? Did you sense something off? He just looked like a regular uncle to me."
"Fact: It's a fact."
As clubmates eyed her suspiciously, Park Seol-ha reluctantly nodded.
"Just... he doesn't seem like a pro."
"That's how the real ones are. The ones advertising 'powerful shaman here' often turn out duds."
"Fact: It's a fact."
"Heh, true. If I make it big later, I'll read fortunes for you all free."
"...Fine. But if it gets too dangerous, we turn back. Promise me that much."
"Deal. We're doing this for cash, sure—but people first, money second."
"Fact: It's a fact."
At least, if he's human, he'd spare fellow humans out of pity. Clinging to that thought, Park Seol-ha picked up the cold chicken.