Smile 1
It's that feeling from the day I moved in. The movers handled all the boxes, but I still felt utterly drained, wiped out for no good reason. Didn't feel like doing a damn thing—not even unpacking the backlog of stuff.
Hangover? Nah. Something's off with my body. It doesn't feel like my body anymore.
Forced my eyes open. ...Hmm. The 15th-floor, 28-pyeong apartment is right there. The TV and remote in the living room, unchanged. Even the ex-wife's unpacked crap she ditched before bolting—still the same. Looks identical on the surface, but something's wrong.
Sniffed the air. "Ah... the oxygen saturation in the air's different."
High probability of a carbon monoxide leak. I'm hypersensitive to environmental shifts. Pathetic, but hey—that's my ability... ability.
...! Threw open the curtains and windows to air it out. That's when it hit me. The light bouncing off the great view from these windows.
"Weird... what's with that blood-red sky?"
The sky's crimson, like someone's slapped a beet filter over it. Not sunset. It's 11 a.m.
"Fuck. This better not be a dream."
Polar aurora or some shit? Mild stress kicking in—cortisol dumping. The human brain craves logic. It pulls answers from what it knows.
...Beats me. Flicked on the TV. Back-to-back drama reruns.
[July 29 (Sun)]
Drank with O Nangryun on July 28, Saturday—so yeah, makes sense.
Stuck my head out the window to scope things. People soaking up that lazy Sunday morning vibe. Kids on bikes. Families pushing strollers, basking in the warm sun.
Got pissed for no reason. "Hey, you fuckers! The sky doesn't look fucked up to you?"
My yell didn't carry down. After surviving midsummer snow like some bullshit weather glitch... now a red sky? This is ridiculous.
Maybe I can get some info?
Flipped to a live news channel.
Expected some crap about a goddamn aurora over Seoul. But the announcer's words shattered my worldview.
"What?"
Perked up my ears and listened again. Just caught "sex" and "pussy." Those words always hit hard.
"They lost it?"
The pretty announcer's face was dead serious. But her words? Total gibberish.
Close-up on the announcer's eyes. That 30-something woman I recognize from TV. But her gaze was off. Unfocused pupils. Hollow stare. An indescribable creep factor.
Crystal-clear diction, every word punching into my ears. But zero news content. Just mashed-up nouns, verbs, adjectives—pure nonsense. The dry news tone makes it sound legit at first glance.
"What the fuck? Broadcasting glitch?"
The serious vulgarity droned on. Like she's high as balls on air. Yeah, heard announcers getting busted for drugs lately.
The male announcer took over the bullshit relay. Same unfocused eyes. Staring off-camera into nowhere.
To foreigners, it'd sound like smooth Korean news. Clear breathing, enunciation. But the message? Meaningless.
"Kinda↗ fun.↘ Crazy fucks."
Got chills, switched channels. MTV—live music channel. Perfect timing: my fave singer-songwriter Yu Hina's on. Killer composer, guitar wizard.
Sitting center stage with her guitar. "Phew..."
Familiar face eases the nerves. Lights hit her—she flashes a grotesque grin. Instant goosebumps.
That smile blooming on her face... corners yanked up to her ears. Exaggerated cheekbones popping. Clown-level creepy.
"Can a face even do that...?"
Tried mimicking in the mirror—impossible. Pure Joker nightmare fuel.
Camera zooms on her grinning mug. Sunken eyes, pale skin. That dopey leer? Shivers.
"What's her deal?"
She laughs and rakes the guitar strings.
- Drriiing.
Chords all fucked. She's barely touching the frets, playing impossible garbage.
Then she starts "singing."
[Graph skin extra cool refreshing spot fine thank you]
Voice crystalline—national treasure vocal cords. But this ain't a song. No clue what it is.
[Color panties sweat drops saliva discomfort air exercise looks attention]
[Song ace gotta do well tissue heat period start fuck.]
Chanting vulgarities with melody. Like her voice is choking out a forced tune. Feels like her real thoughts leaked into the lyrics.
Then, TV screen chills: Camera pans to audience. Every single one grinning Joker-style.
"What the... all high on a hit?"
Reminded me of that horror flick Smiley. Curse spreads devil grins person-to-person.
"No fucking way..."
Shuddered, changed channels. All live broadcasts fucked. Reruns seem normal.
Live home shopping caught my eye.
Her gesturing wildly next to stacked products.
Familiar shopping host. Same shit. Spouting nonsense in that salesy pitch. Guest nodding like he gets it.
"What the hell? Everyone's lost their minds?"
All live feeds insane. Reruns play straight... Woke up and the world's glitched? Or am I dead and dropped into another dimension?
Grabbed my phone. Contacts? Just best bud O Nangryun and some old ties I don't wanna call. Tanked my two-star Michelin fine-dining gig, now slaving at a game company.
Dialed O Nangryun first.
"The number you have dialed is not in service or..."
"What?"
Tried all saved contacts. All "not in service."
"Huh? Phones down?"
Smartphone signal's full bars. Internet fine. Opened a portal news site.
News glitched too.
Title's intact, but the rest? Keyboard-smash hell. Every article, every bit of content—trashed letters.
Like reporters hammered keys randomly on submit.
"What's with this pic?"
Portal news stock photo: a cat. Bushy-haired dude's selfie too—probably the photographer.
"Fucked up... way too fucked up."
Site layout normal. Content? Wrecked. Same with my usual communities.
New posts flowing at normal rate, but all garbled combos.
......!
Posted on the community. No login needed—guest post OK.
Someone'll reply. Outside, families strolling peacefully... sky color aside, seems normal...
Weeeeng—
Kitchen crawling with flea flies. Hate those bastards.
"What's this smell now."
Stale stench from the house. First time smelling something this eerie. Fear from a scent? New.
"Fuck. Bullshit."
Cursed to psych myself up.
Drag—
Had to vent. Flea flies so thick, nauseating. Waved 'em off—still swarming.
"Haa..."
Cancer'd anyway. World changed? Who gives a shit.
But... need Febreze and Raid. Two weeks left tops. Don't want flea eggs in my corpse post-mortem. Gonna exterminate those fly shits before I go.
Started cleaning. Filled two 20-liter trash bags.
Headed out—buy supplies at the convenience store too. Trash bags in each hand. Shorts, elevator lobby.
"Whoa?"
My reflection in the elevator metal. Haggard face. Above my head, red numbers counting down.
242:33:35
242:33:34
242:33:33
Hours, minutes, seconds ticking away—visible.
"I'm not hallucinating, right?"
Palm's height above my head. Red, creepy font draining. Waved hand—no physical snag.
"No medium or light source—how?"
Supernatural terror surged. Can't explain with science.
Countdown persists. Fixed like pinned in spherical coordinates over my head.
"Fuck... I'm screwed? Urban legend world? What."
242 hours? Roughly 10 days left. Ticking by the second.
That... my remaining lifespan?
Red numbers screaming anxiety. Goosebumps exploded.
Clunk—
Door opening—heart dropped. Neighbor lady heading my way. Nam Seohee, tight with the ex-wife. Wife used to crash at hers. Influencer, apparently.
Sashaying over. Long hair in a messy bun, flaunting that long neck. Hips swaying, ass swinging. Her walk screams I'm a sexy bitch.
Damn, she's hot for real.
Nodding acquaintances. Awkward after she got wasted once. She's avoided me since.
Elevator crawling up slow. Gulped.
Her reflection in the shiny metal.
......!!!
Above her head: [5, 12, 0].
[5, 12, 0]
(Fixed blue numbers, comma-separated)
Not counting down like mine—static. Different font, blue hue. Mine uses colons (:), hers commas (,).
Only mine counts?
Nam Seohee stared ahead, eyes vacant. Inhaling, her tits softly jiggled under thin fabric. Eyes naturally drifted south.
Gasp...
More shocking than the numbers: her outfit. Tight dress hugging every curve—no filter. Basically naked. And no bra.
......!!!
Perky nipples and areola edges crystal clear. Yanked gaze away in panic. Eye-rape's a crime now.
Bold as fuck...
Metal like a mirror. She didn't notice my peek. Perfect proportions. Body built for sex. Especially that tiny mole above her left collarbone, linking neck and shoulder. Snow-white skin makes it pop.
Why she loves off-shoulder dresses. Flaunts that mole like a trophy.
Ah, that mole...
Flashback to last summer, right here in this elevator.
Late night, heading home. Bumped into drunk Nam Seohee at the elevator. Light yoga gear, sweat-glistened skin sparkling under fluorescents.
"Hey there~ Just off work? Hehe~"
Sloshed, she stumbled into me. Light catch—her scent fogged my brain. Citrus-vanilla mix. Sweat blended with cleansing cream.
Got a close look at that collarbone mole.
"Stands out, right? My mole."
Pointed it out, grinning. Barely standing.
"Got moles all over. Wanna guess where else?"
Teasing words—gave a timid nod. #MeToo era. Words were landmines.
"Yeah? Congrats."
Deadpan reply—pouted.
"Tch. Lame. Guess my mole spots?"
"Dunno??"
Teased imagination. Tight yoga fit showed slim waist, thighs smooth.
"Ask your wife. Not showing just anyone!"
Doors opened—she stumbled home. Haven't crossed paths since. Probably regretted it sober.
Snapped back. Nam Seohee still behind me. Eyes slid from collarbone down.
Off-shoulder, gossamer thin—like cicada wings. Veins faintly visible.
Date-night fit for her man?
Even hookers skip this. Stared at her perky tits.
Fuck.
Dopamine flood! Areolas and nipples translucent. Might as well be naked...
Goddamn.
Learned the neighbor's hidden moles after two years.
