The quick tap-tap of keys filled the quiet, dim room.
Rin Nakamura sat bent over her laptop, the blue light making sharp shadows on her thin, sporty face.
Her short dark hair, tied back in a messy bunch, touched her neck as she typed. Her fingers moved fast on the keys, a habit from years of breaking into computer codes.
The company's computer system—a dishonest business taking money from hard-working people in Seoul—broke down under her attack. Its security walls fell apart like wet paper.
She smiled slightly, a bit of satisfaction showing through her usual doubt. It was an easy way to earn money, even if it barely paid the rent for her small apartment.
The room smelled of old noodles, with empty food boxes piled up on the counter next to a sink full of dirty bowls.
Her worn leather jacket hung over a chair, its lines showing it had been used for many late-night jobs.
On the table, her sketchbook was open. A drawing of Hana's smile looked up at her—soft pencil lines showing the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes.
Rin felt a tightness in her chest.
Hana had given her the book two years ago, a quiet gift handed to her with a laugh:
"For when you need to see something real, Reel."
Now, it was all she had left of her.
A loud crackle suddenly broke the silence. Her old radio, sitting on the window ledge, made static noises like an animal dying.
She frowned, reaching over to turn the knob.
"ECHO tests… something leaked from a lab…"
A voice spoke roughly through the noise, quiet and unclear, before fading into a hissing sound.
Rin's sharp dark eyes narrowed, a feeling of worry starting in her stomach.
Another crazy person broadcasting strange ideas.
Seoul had been full of them lately—Project ECHO, some voice-technology experiment that went wrong, quiet talk about labs and leaks.
She shook her head, pushing the thought away. Worry didn't help her pay bills.
Outside, the city made a low, rumbling sound—a bright mix of markets, tall buildings, and the far-off beat of K-pop music from the Gangnam area.
She liked the noise, the busy feeling; it helped her not think about Hana being gone.
But tonight, it felt… strange.
Too quiet, like the air before a storm.
She looked at the sketchbook again, Hana's face making her feel sad.
They had been very close once—nights spent drawing together online, laughing over cheap noodles, Hana's voice a warm feeling that connected Rin to something gentler.
Then Hana got a job in Busan, and they stopped talking as much.
Maybe it was Rin's fault.
Too careful about her feelings, too stubborn.
Her laptop made a soft sound—she had access.
She leaned back, downloading the files quickly.
"They won't know what hit them," she said quietly, her voice a bit rough.
The radio crackled again, louder, more insistent.
"Something contained… broke open…"
Rin stopped moving, her hand above the keys, holding her breath.
She turned the knob, but the static sound covered the words, like a wall of white noise.
Then—a scream, high and painful, cutting through the night outside.
She jumped up and ran to the window, pressing her face against the dirty glass, her rough fingers holding the edge.
Below, the street was like a bad dream.
A metal cover over a shop window made a loud noise somewhere ahead.
Wind?
Or something else?
The radio crackled, making static, then a quiet humming sound—like someone breathing without making noise.
A man walked unsteadily—slow, with jerky movements, his head hanging down like a broken toy.
Rin felt sick to her stomach.
Not someone drunk.
Maybe not even human.
His skin looked loose, pale and like wax, as if it was too big for his body, and his arms and legs moved with a creepy, insect-like way.
More figures walked slowly into the light from the street lamps, their movements wrong—too stiff, too planned, their arms and legs bending in ways that made Rin feel uneasy.
Their eyes shone, pale and not blinking, like shiny coins, and their mouths were open, showing sharp, uneven teeth that didn't look right for their faces.
The radio made a noise again, "ECHO… making things louder…" before stopping completely.
Rin's heart started beating fast in her ears.
She grabbed her lead pipe from the corner—a heavy, cold thing she had kept since a job went wrong in Itaewon.
Her hands shook, just for a moment, before she made them steady.
She opened her sketchbook and started drawing quickly with her pencil: the unsteady figures with their arms that were too long and their loose skin, the strange quiet feeling that was covering Seoul like a dark cloth.
It was something she did without thinking—drawing helped her feel steady when things felt crazy.
Another scream, closer, made the window shake, followed by a wet, rough sound that didn't sound like a person.
The lights flickered, then went out.
Her laptop screen went dark, making the room feel closed in and dark.
"Damn it," she whispered, holding the pipe tighter, its weight a small comfort.
Heavy steps made a thumping sound in the hallway—too heavy, too uneven, a dragging sound with a soft clicking noise, like claws tapping on the floor.
She opened her door a little, looking into the dim hallway.
Mr. Kim, her neighbor who always wanted to know what she was doing, walked past slowly. His face looked relaxed and strange, his mouth hanging open in a droopy, unnatural smile.
His skin looked patchy, with dark lines under it that seemed to move slightly, and his head moved from side to side as if something was pulling it.
His eyes—empty, shiny, with a sick yellow color around them—looked right at her.
"Rin…" he whispered, his voice quiet and wrong, an empty sound that buzzed like a lot of flies.
His tongue came out, too long and black, touching those sharp teeth.
She slammed the door shut, her heart hitting hard against her chest.
The radio made a buzzing sound one last time—"Lab… Seoul…"—then was quiet.
Her mind worked fast, putting things together: ECHO, the strange people, the leak.
They weren't just sick—they were wrong, changed into something that looked like people but wasn't, their bodies twisted and dangerous.
She had to leave. Now.
She put her laptop in an old bag, put it over her shoulder, and grabbed her jacket, hiding the sketchbook inside.
Holding the pipe up, she quietly went into the hall, feeling scared in every part of her body.
The air smelled bad, like something rotting and like metal, and the walls seemed to have a soft clicking sound coming from them—those things, the mimics.
They were here, their loose, shaking bodies hiding nearby.
And they knew her name.