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“You have a deadly spirit attached to you, child.” That’s what Hanbin has been told his entire life by his shaman grandmother. Every time she saw him, she’d throw rosaries at his feet and sprinkle salt behind him. He didn’t understand why. He hates how she always insisted he had a demon in his shadow. But she was always right. So if she said a spirit was clinging to him, it must be true.
She died today.
Hanbin stands in the funeral hall, bowing politely to visitors as the chief mourner, gloom painted across his face. The air is thick with incense and condolences. His black suit itches and his knees ache from how many times he’s bent them. But his mind is stuck on how much he wants to go home.
On his way out of the hall, he hears whispers of pity from the other mourners. Hanbin ignores them all.
He gets to his apartment without even realizing. It’s dark. He lights a few candles. The flame flickers gently against the walls. And he isn’t alone. That’s what no one understands. He will never be lonely.
“Hanbin-ah, I’ve been waiting,” Hao, his best friend, says from behind him, tone petulant.
Hanbin smiles and turns around. “I missed you too. I’m sorry. Were you waiting long?” he asks, already walking toward him, arms open.
He bumps into the table and the candles topple over. Wax spills and darkness swallows the room whole.
“Hao?” His voice rises. “Hao, where are you?” He fumbles along the shelves, searching blindly for the candle. “Don’t scare me like that. Where are you?”
Finally, he manages to light a candle. Hao has always preferred candles.
Hao is gone.
“Hao,” Hanbin calls, louder now, panic rising. “Hao—”
Before he can finish, the air is knocked clean from his lungs. His back slams against the wall. Hands close around his throat.
“Why did you turn off the light?” Hao hisses, face inches from his. “Do you not love me anymore, Hanbin-ah? You said you’d never leave me. Did you forget what you promised me?”
His voice is honeyed venom, smiling as he chokes him.
“I’m sorry,” Hanbin gasps, tapping weakly at Hao’s wrist. “Forgive me, Hao…hao. I can’t… I can’t breathe.”
“Then say it,” Hao whispers.
“I love you. I love you the most.”
That satisfies him.
Hao lets go. But before Hanbin can even catch his breath, he grabs him again—this time by the chin—and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is harsh. Hao’s teeth scrape his lip. His tongue pushes in like he owns it. Hanbin doesn’t pull away. He opens his mouth wider, chasing the heat.
Hao presses a knee up between Hanbin’s legs. It makes Hanbin groan but he doesn’t want it to stop. It burns in the best way, like punishment and reward all at once.
This is his oxygen.
He needs Hao’s hands on him, Hao’s mouth, Hao’s knee pressing right there, reminding him that he belongs to something. Without Hao, he wouldn’t survive. Literally.
****
It began when Hanbin was seven with a terrible accident.
When they pulled the bodies of Hanbin and his parents from the wreckage of the car, he was the only one still breathing. After his discharge from the hospital, he was sent to pack his things and move in with Grandma. He was in the attic, dragging a dusty box across the floor, when he heard it. A voice, soft like a whisper behind his ear.
“Do you want me to be your friend? You won’t be lonely anymore, Hanbin.”
He should’ve screamed or ran. But he didn’t. He turned toward the dark and took a step forward.
“Who are you?” he asked the empty room.
“I’m Hao. Can you be my friend? We can play together. Just us. Me and you. You and me.”
And Hanbin, thinking he was just another lonely boy, said yes.
That was the beginning.
His grandmother was right. He did have a spirit attached to him. But she was wrong about it being evil. Hao wasn’t a demon. Hao was his friend.
After that, Hanbin was never alone.
They played together every day, tucked away in his room. When he cried, Hao talked him down. When he was scared, Hao sang to him. When his grandmother made him go back to school, Hao became sad.
“I don’t want to stay here without you,” Hao had said.
“You can’t come to school,” Hanbin told him. “They won’t see you.”
Hao was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why don’t you swap me for your shadow?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can follow you all day. I’ll be wherever you are. And then at night, we can play like always. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Hanbin loved the idea. He loved it more than anything. So he said yes, and Hao became his shadow.
From that day on, Hao was always with him.
At school, Hao would push people away when they got too close. When Minjun smiled at Hanbin one day, Hao didn’t like it. Minjun tripped down the stairs the next. His nose broke and his teeth cracked.
Hanbin never said a word.
That’s just how Hao showed love. Hanbin understood that. He felt the same way. He wouldn’t want anyone talking to Hao. Hao belonged to him.
When Hao told him Grandma was trying to separate them—trying to kill him—Hanbin knew what he had to do.
She always said Hao was dangerous. She always tried to drive him out. But she didn’t understand. Hao was his best friend. His only friend. His shadow.
So one night, he took a pillow from his bed and walked quietly to her room. He stood at the door for a while. She looked so peaceful, like a ghost already.
He thought about her words. Deadly spirit. Demon. Shadow.
She was right. He did have a deadly spirit.
And he would protect him.
No matter what.