The helmeted researcher, after confirming that they would report the findings to the Object Association, seemed to relieve some of the tension among the police officers. Although the Association was known for its slow response times, the police appeared confident that the high-profile nature of this case would push the Association to act more swiftly.

“Well, we’ll stay here. Feel free to continue your investigation,” one of the officers said with a casual wave, retreating to a chair placed in the corner, seemingly done with the scene.

The researcher gave a polite nod in gratitude and resumed inspecting the site.

Apart from the body and traces of blood, there were no signs of footprints or other clues. As the researcher waved the mental contamination detector over the area, the readings fluctuated wildly. The closer the detector came to where the body had been, the higher the contamination level spiked.

The traces left behind suggested that the source of the mental distortion was likely an "Object" in Mapo District.

However, despite the detector showing “danger” on the scale, it wasn’t due to the presence of a dangerously strong contamination. The readings were skewed by the influence of an entirely different source.

The researcher discreetly glanced back, catching sight of a Golden Reaper peeking from behind a corner. The little creature’s face was filled with playful curiosity.

The moment their eyes met, the Golden Reaper startled and darted out of sight, hiding deeper in the alleyway. Despite the playful nature, it was hard to imagine this little Reaper was responsible for any kind of malevolent contamination.

The Golden Reaper wasn’t exhibiting any harmful intent; in fact, it maintained a cautious distance, close enough to observe but far enough to avoid disturbing the researcher’s equipment. Ever since their first encounter, when the researcher had leapt from a building to escape it, the Golden Reaper had seemed to take extra care not to cause any discomfort.

Peeking out again, the Reaper slowly revealed its face, only to freeze in shock upon realizing the researcher was still watching. It quickly covered its eyes with its tiny hands, as if hiding, and disappeared once more.

A small laugh escaped the researcher’s lips from inside the helmet.

Despite the equipment functioning properly, the Golden Reaper’s antics made it hard to take the situation seriously. It seemed too innocent to be a threat. Still, the researcher maintained caution, knowing that some Objects, despite their friendly demeanor, could unintentionally bring disaster to those around them.

The school gate buzzed with the usual morning rush of students greeting friends, chatting, and laughing. It was a typical, lively scene, but for the weary student walking through, it only made his pounding headache worse.

My head is killing me.

Ever since the nightmares had started, his headaches had grown worse—especially when he crossed the threshold into the school. No matter how much he tried, focusing during class was nearly impossible.

The strange part was that the headaches intensified every time he entered the school grounds.

It was unusual, but he brushed it off, thinking it was just his subconscious protesting against the idea of school.

As he massaged his temples, trying to ease the pain, a classmate from the next class nudged his shoulder. She had been on library duty with him for the past month, and although they hadn’t been particularly close before, they had grown familiar enough to chat during their shifts.

“Still got that headache?” she asked.

Without waiting for an answer, she started offering suggestions—like taking medicine—before dashing off to her own class with a wave.

The exhausted student slumped into his seat as soon as he reached the classroom, laying his head on the desk. Sometimes, when the headaches were this bad, the best remedy was to simply close his eyes and avoid thinking altogether.

The warmth of the bathwater felt heavenly, and the sweet, chilled punch was a delightful complement to the experience. Floating in the bubbly water with a bowl of fruit punch in hand, the sensation was almost as comfortable as lying in his bed back in the isolation room.

And the background noise made it even better.

“Kyu-hing-hing.”

The sound of a pitiful, plaintive voice came from the source of his punch bowl—none other than the White Angler Reaper, whose body he had hollowed out to craft the dish. Its tiny arms and legs had been nibbled away, turning it into a convenient, if rather unhappy, container.

The combination of the Reaper’s aggrieved expression and the colorful punch was strangely amusing.

Beside him, the Angler Reaper had joined him in the bath, sticking close but wearing a dissatisfied expression. It seemed to envy the White Reaper’s new form as a fruit punch bowl. After observing for a moment, it took its own hand, turned it into a knife, and sliced a perfect circle around its stomach, hollowing itself out to fill with punch.

The Angler Reaper floated on the water, staring at him with hopeful, shining eyes, practically begging him to eat. Unable to resist, he scooped up a bit of the punch from its belly and ate it. The Angler Reaper beamed with joy, clearly pleased, while the White Reaper glared at it, as though offended by the competition.

Seeing this disdainful look, he decided to nibble on the White Reaper’s tail, prompting another round of its familiar whines.

“Kyu-hing-hing!”

White Reapers always have the best reactions, he thought with a grin.

As he played with the Reapers, the bathhouse grew busier. Mini Reapers splashed about, the Orange Reaper lay submerged in the water, while the Sprout Reaper lounged contentedly on top of it, giggling.

The scene in the bath was full of lively activity, with Mini Reapers bobbing in the water like floating cereal in milk.

After the school library duties were done, the sun had already dipped low in the sky, painting it with shades of red and orange.

“Ah, it’s late,” his classmate said, checking her phone. “It’s already 5 p.m.”

Without another word, she picked up her pace, heading toward the gate.

Does she have plans? he wondered.

“Because of the serial killings,” she said, catching his questioning look. “They say all the murders happen after six.”

“Oh, that,” he muttered, not particularly concerned.

But she didn’t seem amused by his indifference. She shot him a serious look. “Be careful, okay? Make sure you get home before six. It’s dangerous out here.”

Without waiting for his response, she sprinted off, leaving him behind.

Though he hadn’t been too worried, he decided to head home quickly anyway. He passed the crime scene he had walked by earlier that morning, now quieter with fewer people around.

As he rushed past the familiar tall staircase, he felt a strange gaze on him.

Peering out from the shadows, golden eyes followed his every move, eerily similar to the ones he had seen earlier.

The more he tried to ignore it, the worse his headache became.

5:45 p.m.

He glanced at the time. There was still plenty of time to get home.

Maybe I should just check it out, he thought. The headache might go away if I look.

Driven by frustration, he crossed the police tape and ventured into the alleyway where the golden eyes had been watching. Following the faint scent of something pleasant, he wandered deeper, but found nothing.

5:55 p.m.

The time was inching dangerously close to six. He decided to turn back but noticed something was wrong.

No matter how far he walked, the alleyway seemed to stretch on endlessly, refusing to lead him back.

Is this an Object’s doing?

Panic seized him. He threw down his backpack and ran, sprinting through the alley in a desperate attempt to escape.

Caught between the fear of being trapped by an Object and the terror of the nearby serial killer, he ran until his lungs burned.

Finally, he broke free, emerging back at the familiar cordoned-off stairwell.

Breathing heavily, he glanced back at the alley. It looked perfectly normal now, just an ordinary alley.

I’ll have to come back for my bag in the morning, he thought, too scared to retrieve it now.

6:01 p.m.

As he checked the time and prepared to leave, a familiar voice rang out.

“I told you to get home early.”

The voice was the same as before, but now it sounded strange, wrong.

He looked up, his gaze drawn to the top of the stairs, where a silhouette stood against the backdrop of a glowing, yellow full moon.

It was the girl he had parted with earlier—wearing the same school uniform—but something about her was off.

Her figure seemed to absorb the light, casting an impossibly long shadow down the steps.

“You should have gone home earlier,” she said.

The shadow spilled down the stairs like the blood he had seen in his dreams.