Clocking In
"I'm here."
"Yeah."
I half-reclined on the office sofa, eyes glued to the wall-mounted TV blaring the news, and tossed out a half-assed greeting. It had been exactly one week since I'd unraveled the deep grudge and curse tangled up in S-man's family, turning the whole clan into proper followers of Jesus. S-man showed up at my office instead of his cushy corporate gig, clocking in at 9 a.m. sharp and punching out at 5 p.m. on the dot—a perfect eight-hour grind. Me? I was the big-hearted boss who didn't cling to employees like some boomer asshole when they bolted at quitting time.
"Coffee, sir?"
"Load it up with enough sugar to give me diabetes and drop me dead any second now."
Three perks since S-man started working here:
1. The break room coffee upgraded from instant Maximo to premium Cano.
2. Shady case intel-gathering was all on him.
3. No salary to pay.
Kicking off the morning with S-man's sugar-bomb coffee, I tuned into the news that's been yapping nonstop for half the day lately. S-man, our intel guy, hovered by the sofa with a intrigued look, like he'd dug up something juicy, staring at the screen right alongside me.
Yes, this is Jo Ara-ra live from the scene. A bizarre disappearance was reported at this apartment complex in Seoul's Geumcheon-gu. The Seoul Metropolitan Investigation Team and National Forensic Science Institute have secured the area and are investigating.
The victim's family—Kim, last name withheld—is protesting at the management office, claiming the building is haunted. No official details yet, but management says CCTV caught the boy boarding the elevator alone late at night... and vanishing without a trace.
Residents are gripped by panic, demanding swift action from authorities. This is Jo Ara-ra on site.
"Apartment complex kidnappings. Isn't this some recycled urban legend playbook?"
"I scrolled through old internet archives, and yeah, apartments have a bunch of staple ghost stories. Want a rundown?"
"Hit me."
"First up: the Infinite Staircase. Simple premise—you're trapped forever in stairs that never end, no matter if you're going up or down. Mostly from rundown old buildings without elevators or with busted ones."
"Second: the Psychopath Killer. A psycho outside the building mouths numbers at a witness, and plot twist—those numbers match the witness's floor and unit. Chills, right?"
"Simple to the point of cliché."
"There's more. Midnight rooftop ghost encounters, or hide-and-seek in the basement with a ghost buddy. But the one closest to this mess? Elevator ghost stories, hands down."
Yeah, elevator legends—I heard plenty as a kid. Ride at a specific time, mash certain buttons, do some dumb ritual, and poof—otherworld express. Not the whole story, though. Variations like ghosts popping out of infinite mirrors, or the elevator stalling on a pitch-black empty floor.
No need to spell it out—this ties straight to the obvious one. So we gotta check if it's real? Already did. Solo runs in apartments, high-rises, hospitals, colleges—swapped spots and times like crazy. All I got was a long-haired chick riding along or a half-torso dude crawling in. They seemed more pissed at me spamming the stop button than anything sinister. No culprits there.
The "mash buttons at X time for otherworld portal" bit? Pure bullshit.
"What's your take? Supernatural?"
"Tough call. I crunched elevator layouts, CCTV angles, blind spots—physically impossible for a kid to vanish inside without being seen. But writing it off as normal feels off too. Plenty of red flags."
"Like?"
"Victims are all kids, 8 to 13. Peak curiosity, zero impulse control, endless energy—grade schoolers. Way too targeted."
"Like some lolicon or shotacon perv cherry-picking brats? Or a kid-trafficking ring?"
"Exactly. And no other ages hit. With the news blasting this daily, prankster middle and high schoolers must've tested it a dozen times by now."
True that. Cocky, style-obsessed punks bragging about otherworld trips or guts tests, sneaking into complexes everywhere. Government and cops only piped up about no elevator pranks after the fact, warning of copycats or accidents.
Key point: fearless types like me verified it hands-on—no results. S-man's "too artificial" vibe checked out.
"But calling it human crime? Nah. No one's snatching kids from 24/7 CCTV without a trace. Closest case I found: Cecil Hotel disappearance. Now called Elisa Lam drowning to avoid misconceptions."
"Oh yeah, that one's infamous. Girl in a glitchy elevator mashing buttons alone, hiding from something, bolts into the hall yelling at... nothing? Gone."
Top overseas elevator case—I've seen the clips.
"You know it. Kidnapping theories, parallel worlds—wild speculation. But truth came out: bipolar meds, psych history from SNS and records, body in the rooftop water tank. Accidental slip and drown."
"Similar vibe, but not quite. Lam walked out on cam; these kids board and never exit."
I looped leaked CCTV from another complex on YouTube. Every kid boards on their floor, punches down to 4F, elevator hangs there till someone else calls it. If anyone boards elsewhere? Kid's gone. Even if someone joins on 4F—poof.
Common thread: every elevator lingers on 4F. Nothing else jumps out. Footage tampering? Laughable. Insane perps yanking kids through shafts undetected? Korea's cops have every camera scrubbed, building combed—no way they'd miss that.
Can't be one perp anyway—nationwide simultaneous hits. Not like some shadow mega-crime syndicate mobilized thousands overnight.
That thought hit me: I was straight-up denying the supernatural. Real ghost shit? Nah, probably not. Han Daeri ain't got time for fairy tales.
Ding-dong. Doorbell. I nodded at S-man. He peeked through the peephole, cracked the door cautious-like.
In walked a couple—neither too young nor old. Prime newlywed age.
"Uh, this the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office?"
"Yes, it is."
I slid a business card to the guy, ushered them to the client table, sent S-man for warm milk. Caffeine's a bad vibe for the jittery—milk calms 'em, reminds 'em of mommy's tits, loosens tongues.
They sipped the warm milk with puzzled looks but downed it. Can't waste Cano on randos.
"Feeling calmer?"
"Ah, yeah. Usually places like this hit you with coffee—yours is quirky. Figures for a supernatural office, huh? Haha."
"We haven't summited Mount Delightful yet, so no need to fake jolly. You're here 'cause of trouble, right? Stuck us in the Unpleasant Valley."
"Huh... yeah. Heard from a friend you're unique. No offense."
"Speak freely. Spill it—we'll help however we can."
Weird timing for weird guests. Peaceful morning nuked—me and S-man tumbling into the valley. Fresh trek to Mount Delightful just kicking off.
"If you've seen the news... our kid's one of the missing. Cops give stock 'we're investigating' lines—no leads. We've been up three days straight, hoping he'd knock and say hi..."
"Sniff! What about our Jin-woo?!"
"...Then exhaustion hit—we both crashed at once. And get this: same damn dream. Ominous, freaky one."
"Details?"
"Like our boy was trapped behind an invisible wall. Crowds ignoring him like he wasn't there. Wall too thick—he couldn't cross... dream ended."
Recorder rolling, I mulled their words, pressed on.
"Rough distance between you and him? Meters fine."
"Huh?"
"From your view—how far did he seem from the wall?"
"Uh... 10? 15 meters?"
"Lemme think... yeah, around 10."
About 10 meters. Got it.
"Jumped ten mirrors without knowing. Haha."
I chucked the salty-as-hell Cano—anti-sugar bomb—and slammed S-man's head on the table. Wood shattered like glass.
The couple lunged—I grabbed 'em, hurled through the window. Thick invisible wall crumbled like sand.
Beyond: infinite mirror offices, identical to ours, stretching forever.