Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jimin didn’t sign up for this.

He didn’t sign up for struggling—for every day feeling like a countdown to when he would have to face the reality of his empty fridge, his overdue rent, and the feeling that everyone else seemed to be moving forward while he remained stuck, alone in his apartment.

The one-bedroom apartment that was more of a shoebox than anything else. The walls felt too close, the silence suffocating, as though the apartment itself was conspiring against him.

The peeling wallpaper and the thin, cracked windows that rattled with every gust of wind served as constant reminders of how far he'd fallen.

A graduate now, yes. But what was the point of a degree if every job he applied to either required experience he didn’t have or offered wages too low to even consider?

He had been hopeful once, certain that he'd find a position that valued his hard work. But weeks had turned into months, and nothing had come of it. He had applied everywhere, from cafes to bookstores, but the result was always the same: silence, followed by rejection.

His phone lay on the desk in front of him, screen cracked, a reminder of just how long he’d been putting off replacing it. His finger flicked through job ads one after the other, each more demoralizing than the last.

Entry-level positions for ambitious go-getters, one ad read.
Must have experience.

The other? Flexible hours!
Must be available full-time.

Each time he saw the same requirements, Jimin felt his stomach twist. What about me? he thought bitterly. What about the ones who just graduated?

The frustration boiled inside him, and he let out a long sigh, pushing the phone aside.

His apartment was small, and the walls felt like they were closing in. The dull hum of the refrigerator echoed in the background, its contents a joke at this point: a half-open box of expired cereal, a lonely packet of instant noodles that had been sitting there for too long, and some take-out containers that were more a reminder of loneliness than anything else.

Jimin had always been independent, but this… this was different. Every day was a struggle, and the loneliness had a weight to it that only seemed to grow heavier. He could see the signs of stress etched in his reflection every time he passed the cracked mirror in the hallway: the dark bags under his eyes, the tired slouch of his shoulders, the hollow stare he gave himself.

It was almost 12:30 in the afternoon, and Jimin hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet. He barely had the energy to stand up and make something. The thought of going out to find food was exhausting. But the bills, they were there, looming, reminding him that time was running out.

Maybe I should just sleep through it all, he thought. Maybe if I just don’t think about it, it’ll go away.

But the thought of not being able to pay his rent, of losing this place, weighed even heavier. Jimin couldn't afford to keep pretending things would get better on their own.

His phone buzzed again, interrupting the cycle of self-doubt and frustration that had started to sink into his bones. The screen lit up with a message from Taehyung, his best friend since high school. Taehyung was the one person who seemed to understand the weight Jimin carried, even if only a little.

Over the years, their friendship had weathered many storms, and Taehyung was always the one to cheer him up when everything felt impossible. Even when Jimin didn’t have the energy to try anymore, he would push him with his laugh, his reckless optimism, and his refusal to let Jimin stay stuck in his own head.

Jimin stared at the message for a moment, his fingers hovering over the screen, unsure whether to be hopeful or skeptical. Taehyung had a habit of sending weird, sometimes cryptic messages—half jokes, half things that might actually turn out to be true. It was a part of who Taehyung was: unpredictable, always pulling Jimin out of his spirals with a bizarre sense of humor.

Taehyung [12:03 PM]:
yo. still broke? i might have smth for u. kinda weird tho lol.

Jimin’s heart skipped, a brief flicker of curiosity fighting through his weariness. The word weird immediately stood out to him, though. He knew that tone all too well. When Taehyung used words like that, it meant something strange was coming his way. A part of him wanted to laugh it off, but another part of him—one that was desperate for any kind of opportunity—felt the familiar tug of hope.

Jimin tapped out a reply, his fingers sluggish as he stared at the message.

He couldn’t help but think of all the strange things Taehyung had suggested in the past—none of them had worked out, but the last time Jimin had felt this hopeless, Taehyung had dragged him to a bar that turned out to be the perfect distraction. Maybe this time, Taehyung had something that would actually help.

Jimin [12:05 PM]:
Define weird.

The text came almost immediately. Taehyung had clearly been waiting for this question. Jimin could almost hear his best friend’s casual chuckle, the grin on his face as he sent this message.

Taehyung [12:07 PM]:
well.. theres this gas station outside town. my friend worked there. for like a night.

and then dipped lol

Jimin blinked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. One night? His mind began to whirl as he tried to piece together the meaning. A gas station?

Jimin [12:09 PM]:
What happened?

Taehyung’s reply came instantly, almost as though he had been preparing for this exact question.

Taehyung [12:12 PM]:
i don’t know exactly, but he quit. the place is weird, but theyre hiring for night shifts, and the pay’s crazy good

it’s been open for ages, but people keep quitting

ig the owner’s desperate for help

Jimin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed the information. Weird, off, people quitting. None of that sounded appealing. The idea of working at a place where people kept quitting didn’t exactly scream great opportunity to him. But then, his eyes landed on the next message, and something inside him shifted.

The pay Taehyung had attached was more than Jimin had expected—more than he could have ever imagined for a night shift. It was an amount that would cover everything: rent, food, utilities. It was exactly what he needed right now, more than he realized. His stomach gave a twist, and his breath hitched slightly as he stared at the numbers. The longer he stared, the more the temptation grew.

It was too good to pass up.

For a moment, Jimin felt himself teetering on the edge. But... the doubts crept in, small at first, like whispers in his mind. What if it was all a scam? What if it was something worse? Something dangerous? He could already hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head, warning him about making hasty decisions, about stranger danger—all those things that had been drilled into him as a child. But no, this was different. He needed this. He needed something to go right, and this could be it.

The thought of another job interview, of another rejection, of another closed door, gnawed at him.

Jimin [12:14 PM]:
And you’re sure this is legit?

Taehyung’s hesitation was almost palpable through the screen. Jimin could practically picture him biting his lip, weighing how much he should say, how much of the story he should reveal. The next message that came through was less lighthearted, a shift in Taehyung’s tone that hinted at something more serious, something Jimin wasn’t quite prepared for.

Taehyung [12:17 PM]:

yea man. but uhh

Another message followed quickly after, the tone shifting again, more cautious now.

Taehyung [12:18 PM]:
i gotta warn u tho. pretty creepy stuff

my friend was pale asf after one shift lmao

didn't tell me why too

Jimin’s eyes lingered on the screen as his heart skipped a beat.  His breath caught for a moment as he processed the words. He wanted to laugh it off, to brush it aside as nothing more than Taehyung’s overactive imagination, but the truth was that a part of him couldn’t ignore it.

A dry laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it wasn’t one of amusement. It was a laugh of desperation, of uncertainty.

He didn’t believe in ghosts or whatever weirdness was haunting that gas station. No. That kind of thing was for people who let their minds wander too far. Still, the idea of such a high pay for something so simple, so easy, beckoned like a light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

Another honk outside the window caught his attention, and he glanced out. People bustled around, moving quickly through their daily routines. Life was happening, just like it always did. But to Jimin, it felt as though everyone was moving in fast-forward while he remained stuck, trapped in his own struggles.

Jimin stared at the phone again. He’d been silent for a long moment, the only sound the dull hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

Then, he took a deep breath.

Jimin [12:20 PM]:
Alr. Just send me the details

There was a momentary pause. It felt like the air had shifted, like something had changed. Jimin’s fingers hovered over the screen, the anticipation almost unbearable. Then Taehyung’s reply came through, the relief in his words almost palpable.

Taehyung [12:22 PM]:
call him. he's the one running the night shift right now.

just... be careful, ok?

Jimin stared at the message. A strange mix anxiety and dread swirled in his stomach. He took one more deep breath, then stood up from the chair. He needed this job. He needed to feel like he wasn’t drowning. Well, he's pretty sure could handle whatever is going on there. He had to handle it.

Jimin’s fingers hovered over the phone for a moment before he took a deep breath and dialed the number Taehyung had given him. His mind was a whirlwind of doubt, but there was no turning back now. The ringing on the other end felt like it stretched on for ages, each second gnawing at his nerves until finally, a voice answered.

"Hello?" the voice asked, low and slightly surprised. "You’re calling about the night shift position?"

Jimin swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah. I’m calling about the job. The night shift at the gas station?”

There was a brief pause, and then the voice let out a soft exhale. "Well, I’ll be honest with you, most people don’t last here longer than a day or two… but you sound like you need the work, huh?"

Jimin hesitated, gripping the phone tighter.

No turning back now.

"I do. I really need the job. Rent’s due soon, and... I really don’t have much left," he said, his voice coming out more desperate than he intended.

Another beat of silence passed before the man’s voice came back, a little softer now. "Alright, here’s the thing. The pay’s good, better than most places, but it’s not a walk in the park. You’ll be working from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. Not exactly a glamorous job, but it’ll put food in your stomach and a roof over your head. The only issue is…" He trailed off, as if weighing his words carefully.

Jimin’s heart pounded as the seconds ticked by. “What’s the catch?”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched long, before the owner’s voice finally returned, a little lighter but still laced with an undercurrent of caution. “Look, it’s better if we talk about it in person. There are things I can’t really explain over the phone. Just come by the gas station tonight, around 8 p.m. I’ll go over everything with you then. Sound good?”

Jimin hesitated for a moment, glancing at the time on his phone. It was already nearing 6 p.m. He didn’t have much time to think, and he certainly didn’t have the luxury to wait for a better offer.

“Alright, I’ll be there,” Jimin said, his voice steady, though his mind was already racing with questions.

“Good,” the owner responded, sounding a little relieved. “I’ll see you then. Don’t worry about the details for now. Just make sure to bring your ID and any documents you need to fill out. We’ll get it all sorted tonight.”

“Okay. See you soon,” Jimin replied, before the call ended with a click.

Jimin stared at his phone for a moment, his stomach twisting as the weight of what he was about to do settled over him. A part of him felt uneasy— What was going on at this gas station that no one would talk about? but the other part, the part that was desperate for work— for money, pushed those doubts aside.

He grabbed his jacket, shoved his wallet and phone in his pocket, and headed for the door. He needed this job. He had to keep reminding himself of that as he made his way out the door and to the bus stop.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

The sky had darkened considerably by the time Jimin reached the gas station. The neon lights from the sign above flickered weakly in the night, casting an eerie glow over the empty parking lot. He couldn’t help but feel a little unsettled as he stood before the station. The place looked so much more desolate in person than it did in the ad. The dull hum of the fluorescent lights from inside seemed to amplify the silence around him, and the scent of gasoline mingled with the slight chill in the air.

He had hoped this job would be simple enough— just a way to pay rent and buy a few decent meals— but now, standing in front of the station, doubts gnawed at him. Still, the paycheck would keep him afloat. That’s all that mattered for now.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The bell above it jingled softly, and the low hum of the air conditioner filled the room. The inside of the station looked worn down—nothing special. Old posters of fuel promotions, a few dusty shelves filled with snacks and bottled drinks, and a faint smell of stale air.

Behind the counter, a man stood, leaning slightly against it, his eyes tired but still sharp. He had messy hair, unshaven stubble, and a weary demeanor, as if he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks.

"Jimin, right?" the man called out, his voice raspy but friendly. "Come on in, don’t be shy."

Jimin nodded, walking up to the counter with a slight frown, offering a cautious smile. "Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Lee?"

"That’s right. Mr. Lee," he replied, holding out a hand for a handshake. "Nice to meet you in person."

The handshake felt firm, but the weariness in Mr. Lee’s grip told Jimin that this wasn’t a simple formality. There was something more, a sense of urgency in the man’s mannerisms. Jimin wondered about it but didn’t ask. Not yet.

"Come on, let’s head to the back and talk for a bit," Mr. Lee said, pushing away from the counter. "We can have a seat and discuss everything."

Jimin followed Mr. Lee down a narrow hallway behind the counter, and soon they entered a small break room at the back of the station. The space was cluttered with papers and old cleaning supplies, but there was a table in the center where they could sit. The smell of stale coffee and fast food lingered in the air.

Mr. Lee gestured for Jimin to sit down, then collapsed heavily into the chair across from him. His tired eyes looked as though they had seen a lot, and Jimin felt the weight of his exhaustion almost immediately.

"I’m gonna be straight with you, Jimin," Mr. Lee said, his voice low and gravelly. "I’ve been doing this job for months, doing both the day and night shifts. But I can’t keep up anymore. I’ve got a little girl at home, and the hours are just too much. You’re looking at a job here where people have quit within hours. None of them have lasted a day."

Jimin blinked, surprised by the sudden bluntness. "Wait, you mean... the other people who worked here just... left?"

Mr. Lee’s expression darkened, and he rubbed his tired eyes before leaning forward. "Yeah. You’d think it’s just the pay or the hours, but it’s not. It’s something else. People start the shift, and the next thing you know, they’re gone. No warning, no reason. They just leave and never come back. Some have even gone as far as leaving their stuff behind in the middle of the night."

Jimin swallowed, trying to process what Mr. Lee was saying. He had heard the rumors before—about strange things happening at the gas station. Late-night occurrences, whispers of things seen in the shadows. But it all seemed like gossip. Still, the unease in the pit of his stomach was growing. He didn’t want to back out, but it was hard to ignore the signs that something was off.

"You’re probably wondering what’s going on," Mr. Lee continued, as if reading his mind. "Look, I don’t know what’s really happening here, but I’ve been running this station by myself for too long. I can’t keep juggling both shifts. I’ve got a young daughter at home, and if I keep this up, I’m gonna burn out. I can’t afford to keep up with this by myself. I need someone reliable, someone who’ll stick around."

Jimin could see the desperation in Mr. Lee’s eyes. It was clear he wasn’t just asking for help, he was pleading for it.

"I mean, with all that’s been happening here, why would you want someone new to take on the night shift?" Jimin asked, his voice hesitant.

Mr. Lee paused, a sigh escaping his lips. "Because I’ve got no choice. I’ve tried everything. The other workers have come and gone, and I’m at my wits’ end. I know the conditions aren’t great, but... this is the only thing I can offer right now. If you’re willing to work here, I’ll make sure you get paid more than anywhere else. I’ll compensate you for it too. If you can stick it out, you’ll have enough to cover rent, food, everything."

Jimin felt a knot form in his stomach. "You’re offering me more pay?"

I’ll pay you double what a regular shift would offer, but...” He hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the hallway that led back to the main store floor. His voice dropped slightly, more cautious now. “Just… don’t go into the storage room after midnight.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

Mr. Lee didn’t meet his eyes. He seemed to weigh something in his head before shaking it slowly. “It’s just better that you don’t.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“I know,” he said, almost apologetically. “But trust me on this. Just lock it up once midnight hits and leave it alone until morning. Don’t try to clean it, don’t organize it, don’t even open the door. Whatever happens out there, just leave it be.”

There was a finality in his tone that made Jimin’s skin prickle. It wasn’t a threat, but it wasn’t casual advice either. It sounded like something hard-learned, like someone who had already seen too much.

Jimin, leaned forward slightly, his heart racing. "Is this place… haunted?"

Mr. Lee’s eyes hardened, and glanced around the room as if the walls might be listening. "I don’t know if it’s haunted. But it sure feels like it. I can’t tell you exactly what happens in that storage room, but you need to avoid it. Don’t go in there after 1 AM. And if anything weird happens, don’t try to fix it yourself. I’m not saying you’ll see things, but... just be careful."

Jimin felt a chill creep up his spine, but he tried to push the feeling down. "And if I take the job... you’ll really pay me that much more?"

Mr. Lee nodded without hesitation. "I’ll make sure you’re compensated for the hours and for dealing with whatever happens here. It’s not a typical job. But you’ll have enough to get by, no questions asked."

Jimin shifted in his seat, a mix of apprehension and relief settling in his chest.

He needed the job. Desperately.

"Alright," he said finally, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I’ll take it. I’m willing to work here."

Mr. Lee smiled, a genuine look of relief spreading across his face. "Good. Thank you, Jimin. I promise, you won’t regret it."

They stood up and shook hands once again, and Mr. Lee handed him a set of keys.

"Here, these are for the station. You’ll start tomorrow night. I’ll show you the ropes first, and then it’s all yours."

Jimin took the keys, feeling their weight in his hand. Despite the warnings, despite the uneasy feeling gnawing at him, he couldn’t back out now.

He needed this job.

Mr. Lee glanced at the clock on the wall, his expression grim. "I know you’re probably thinking about what I said. But, Jimin, you’ve got to understand. If you stick with it, you’ll have everything you need."

Jimin nodded, trying to shake off the unease swirling in his chest. "I’ll keep that in mind."

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

Later that evening, Jimin lay flat on his back in the middle of his bed, the ceiling fan overhead groaning softly as it turned in uneven circles. The room was dim, save for the pale wash of amber light bleeding through the window blinds from the flickering streetlamp outside. The summer heat clung to his skin, and the sheets were twisted around his legs, but Jimin hardly noticed. His mind was too loud.

He’d said yes. The job was his.

He had accepted a night shift at a nearly empty gas station with a manager who looked one gust of wind away from falling over and who’d given him eerily specific instructions to not open a storage room after midnight.

Jimin groaned and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead.

What the hell did I just sign up for?

A creeping sense of regret curled somewhere in his stomach, like the slow seep of cold air under a closed door.

He needed money, badly—sure—but he hadn’t expected the job to feel like a setup to a low-budget horror movie.

He rolled to his side and reached for his phone, the blue light harsh against his tired eyes as he unlocked it and pulled up his chat with Taehyung.

Jimin [8:42 PM]:
so I got the job lol

Taehyung [8:43 PM]:
wait
THE gas station job?? the cursed one??

Taehyung [8:43 PM]:
tell me u didn’t actually take it

Jimin [8:43 PM]:
I did
Starting tomorrow night

Taehyung [8:44 PM]:
???????
WTF
why would u actually take it omg
do u not remember what I told u??

Jimin [8:44 PM]:
Ik
Your friend quit the next morning

Taehyung [8:44 PM]:
NOT EVEN A FULL SHIFT
he said he heard some freaky ass noises and dipped 😭
and now u wanna go back there like it’s normal???

Jimin [8:45 PM]:
I’m broke, tae
I can’t keep skipping meals. The owner offered double pay
I don’t really have a choice

There was a short pause before Taehyung replied.

Taehyung [8:46 PM]:
man…
i wish u didn’t have to take it
but i get it. i really do.

Taehyung [8:46 PM]:
just don’t do anything stupid
if something feels off, leave. i’m serious. no paycheck is worth dying over lol

Jimin [8:46 PM]:
Thanks for the confidence boost... 💀

Taehyung [8:47 PM]:
im just saying!!
ur braver than me
i wouldn’t last five minutes in that place after dark

Taehyung [8:47 PM]:
also if u see a ghost or smth
text me before u die so i can laugh at ur funeral

Jimin [8:48 PM]:
Noted.
Will haunt you first.

Their conversation drifted after that. Taehyung sent a meme of a ghost with sunglasses and a thumbs-up. Jimin replied with a photo of his sad, nearly empty fridge. A few more texts exchanged—banter, nonsense, comfort disguised as humor.

When the screen finally dimmed and Jimin set his phone down on the nightstand, the room felt heavier.

He stared at the ceiling again, listening to the distant whir of the city outside, headlights occasionally sweeping shadows across his walls. A feeling he couldn’t name settled at the base of his spine. Unease, maybe. Or dread.

Still, the offer was too good. He needed the money.

He’d make it work. Somehow.

“…It shouldn’t be that bad,” Jimin murmured to no one in particular, the words thin and unconvincing even to his own ears.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep, slow and uncertain, eventually came.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

Jimin arrived at the gas station around 7:45 PM, hoodie zipped to his chin, a thermos of instant coffee in his bag, and nerves crawling under his skin like ants.

The evening air was cool, tinged with the scent of petrol and faint exhaust from the occasional car passing by. Neon buzzed above his head, flickering half-heartedly like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to stay awake either.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, met with the familiar scent—old snacks, mop water, and overworked machinery. Mr. Lee was behind the counter again, this time seated on a stool with a steaming paper cup in hand.

He looked up immediately, a smile curling across his weathered face.

“You came,” he said, standing to greet him.

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” Jimin offered with a soft laugh, setting his bag behind the counter.

Mr. Lee chuckled too, but there was something more grateful in his voice this time. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this, really.” Mr. Lee’s eyes lingered on Jimin for a moment, like he was trying to judge how sturdy he might be. Then he sighed and clapped his hands together lightly.

“Come on, I’ll show you the ropes. I’ll be here until ten tonight. After that, the station’s yours.”

The two of them moved through the small building together—Jimin trailing just behind as Mr. Lee explained everything in detail. He showed Jimin how to operate the cash register, which buttons jammed, which needed extra pressure. He explained the receipt log, the coffee machine that needed coaxing every hour or so, and the aging CCTV monitor that only flickered to life when it felt like it.

They did a round through the aisles—some shelves missing stock, others overfilled with expired candy. In the back room, Mr. Lee showed him where the dry snacks, soda crates, and fuel maintenance gear were stored.

A heavy metal door, chipped at the hinges, marked the entrance to the actual storage room behind it.

Mr. Lee paused there, his fingers brushing against the key hanging from his belt.

“This,” he said slowly, “stays locked after midnight.”

There was a short silence between them.

“Stock early and stay out after one,” he added firmly. “If something’s missing, leave it be until morning.”

Jimin didn’t ask. He just nodded.

Mr. Lee gave him a small glance—part relief, part worried— then moved on without another word.

The rest passed in a blur— paperwork, signatures, emergency contacts, and an outdated punch card system that Mr. Lee half-joked had survived three managers and two attempted robberies.

At 9:58 PM, Mr. Lee zipped up his jacket and handed over the keys. “You’ll be fine, take care Jimin. and remember what I told you before.” he said, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

Then the bell above the door rang, and he was gone—taillights vanishing into the darkness beyond the lot.

And just like that, Jimin was alone.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights hummed above him, faint and buzzing like a swarm of tired bees. Jimin stood behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking from the clock to the dark window panes. The night outside was still, almost too still—no cars, no people, not even the wind dared to stir the trees lining the empty road.

10:07PM.

His first shift.

Jimin tapped his fingers anxiously against the counter. It had only been seven minutes, and he was already bored out of his mind. The station was small and painfully quiet, lit by buzzing ceiling lights and the faint glow of the soda machine. Despite the stillness, he couldn't relax. His knee bounced under the counter.

He wasn’t good at staying still. Never had been. His body was made for movement—nervous pacing, foot tapping, dramatic arm flails when ranting. Pair that with a brain that never shut up, and you had a cocktail of anxiety and sass bundled in an oversized hoodie.

Jimin had a tendency to overthink. Too many tabs open in his brain at once, constantly shifting between panic, sarcasm, and existential dread.

He tried to tell himself he was adaptable, but that was a generous lie. When it got quiet like this, the noise inside his head got louder.

What if he forgot to log something? What if the till was short at the end of his shift? What if he died here and they only found his body after it started to smell?

"Stop it," he mumbled to himself, smacking his cheeks lightly.

He glanced at the laminated checklist Mr. Lee had given him.

Restock the shelves.

Sweep the aisles.

Clean the coffee machine.

Lock the storage room.

And don’t go near it after 1AM.

That last line was underlined. Twice.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. What kind of normal gas station needed to avoid a room after a specific hour?

Mr. Lee hadn’t elaborated much. Just gave him the keys, a tired smile, and a pat on the back.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

Jimin hated vague warnings. He liked specifics. Schedules. Guidelines. Rules he could follow. Ghost stories weren’t something you could plan around.

If something weird was going to happen, he wanted a spreadsheet and a warning email at least 24 hours in advance.

He wandered the aisles, restocking bottled tea and snack cups. At least it gave him something to do.

The aisles were short, clean, and boring. Exactly what he hoped for. Every small noise made him jump— the hum of the fridge compressor, the automatic doors sliding slightly open with no one there, the dull clink of cans settling on a shelf.

By 11PM, he was perched behind the counter again, scrolling his phone and sipping a lukewarm canned coffee. He kept glancing at the camera monitor more than he needed to. Nothing but grainy static and empty halls.

He told himself he was just tired.

Until 12:01AM hit.

The lights above aisle two flickered once. He looked up. They steadied.

The air felt heavier now. The silence had weight. Even the AC stopped humming. He didn’t notice when it turned off, only that now his ears rang with the absence.

Then he heard it.

Scratching.

Faint. Barely there. But unmistakably real.

From the back. From the storage room.

He froze. Was it a raccoon? Please let it be a raccoon. Or rats. Something he could blame and forget about.

The scratching stopped.

He stood motionless for a full minute before slowly backing away from the counter, broom in hand like it could protect him from whatever was lurking behind the shelves.

As he passed the restroom, the light inside flicked on.

He hadn’t gone near enough for the motion sensor to trigger. He stopped. Stared.

A beat passed. Then the light flicked off again.

His skin crawled.

“Old wiring,” he whispered to himself. “It’s just old wiring.”

He swept the aisles again, even though they were spotless. Just to keep moving. Just to do something.

At exactly 12:30AM, he walked down the hallway and locked the storage room. The bolt clicked loudly. The hallway light above him buzzed. For a second, it dimmed, casting the door into near darkness. Jimin stepped back quickly.

He didn’t go near it again.

By 1AM, his nerves were fried. He huddled in his jacket, scrolling through memes to calm his racing thoughts. He even tried watching cat videos, but the sound of a distant thud sent him spiraling into worst-case scenarios.

He had texted Taehyung earlier, just for the sake of talking to someone, but got no response.

He was alone. And the store felt less like a workplace and more like a waiting room for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Time crawled by, slower than usual, the silence stretching thin around him.

Jimin had eventually relaxed enough to laugh quietly at a funny video compilation playing on his phone— until something flickered at the edge of his vision, pulling his attention away in an instant.

At 2:37AM, camera 3 glitched.

He blinked. Rewound. Nothing. Just fuzz.

He calmed his thoughts, continuing to scroll through his phone, watching funny videos to try an calm his racing heart.

He looked up the CCTV monitor again after a couple of minutes.

[2:47AM] CAM 3

Then the bang came.

Loud. Metal on metal.

From the back.

From the storage room.

Jimin shot to his feet, knocking over his drink. His heart rammed against his ribs. He grabbed the keys and stared down the hallway.

The door was locked. The bolt still firmly in place.

But something—someone— had hit it from the inside.

He backed away slowly. His legs moved before his mind did, retreating toward the counter, toward the false safety of flickering fluorescents and the hum of old monitors.

As soon as he reached the counter, Jimin all but collapsed into the chair, fumbling for his phone with trembling fingers. He shoved in his earbuds and pulled up his music playlist—the one labeled “comfort noise”—and hit play. The familiar, mellow tune flooded his ears, but it didn’t drown out the chill crawling up his neck.

He kept his eyes low, pretending to scroll as he focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Ignore the shadows. Ignore the weight of that gaze pressing on the back of his neck.

He didn't know why he felt so certain something was watching him.

But he did.

Then came another sound.

This time, not from the back. It was closer— sharper. Something clattering near aisle three. Near the drink fridge. Near the milk.

Jimin froze.

He knew that sound. It wasn’t a door bang or a flicker of lights—it was something falling. A carton? A bottle? Something being knocked over.

His hands were clammy as he gripped the broom like a spear. He took one step. Then another. Slow. Careful. His heart beat hard in his chest, every thud echoing in his ears. The air was dense again, thick with silence and something else—like breath held in the dark.

He stepped into the aisle where the dairy section sat bathed in pale fridge light.

Then something moved.

A blur. Scattering. Fast.

Jimin let out a small yelp and nearly swung the broom like a bat before he saw it properly.

A rat. No, a huge rat— bigger than any he’d seen—scurried along the bottom of the shelves, knocking over a single fallen carton of milk as it darted out of sight into the shadows near the back corner.

His shoulders slumped, breath escaping in a ragged, relieved sigh. His knees felt weak.

“Just a rat,” he muttered to himself, breathless. “Holy hell, just a rat.”

He leaned the broom against the shelf and tried to laugh— shaky and quiet, almost embarrassed.

But the relief didn’t last.

Because even as his heart rate started to slow, something else didn’t.

That feeling.

That gaze.

It crawled back up his spine like fingers brushing against skin. Icy. Curious.

The far end of the aisle was still cloaked in shadow. The rat was long gone, but something lingered.

He stared into that darkness for a long moment. And though he saw nothing, he knew— he knew something was watching him from just beyond the light.

Not moving. Not blinking. Just there.

It wasn’t the rat.

Jimin backed away slowly. His legs moved before his mind did, retreating once again to the counter. This time, he shoved his earbuds in with purpose, cranked the volume, and played something loud enough to drown out even his own thoughts.

He curled into his chair, jacket pulled tight around him like armor, music flooding his ears while his eyes refused to look anywhere but the safe glow of his phone screen.

Still, the feeling lingered.

Jimin’s thoughts had begun to unravel.

The minutes didn’t tick by— they dragged, thick and syrupy, smearing across the clock face like spilled ink.

He found himself muttering under his breath, filling the space with anything he could: nonsense, half-jokes, fragments of lyrics, even apologies to no one in particular. It wasn’t about what he said. It was about saying something. Anything. A way to keep the silence from sinking its claws in too deep.

At 3:57 AM, he caught himself giggling at an old video on his phone—some dumb compilation of cats slipping on hardwood floors— but the sound was brittle, cracking at the edges. And the moment stopped when something shifted at the corner of his vision once again.

A shadow, low and hunched, just beyond the coffee machine.

Jimin froze.

It didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. It was just there. As if it had always been.

His breath caught as he stared, unblinking, waiting for it to shift again. It didn’t.

And yet, the longer he looked, the more certain he was that something was crouched there. Watching him.

Only when his fingers trembled toward the switch and he flicked on the nearby light did it vanish— instantly, as if it had never existed.

The cold had set in. Not the kind that crept into his skin, but the kind that burrowed into bone. He wrapped his hoodie tighter around himself, knees pulled to his chest as he sank behind the counter like a wounded thing trying to disappear. Earbuds in— no music. Just silence layered over silence. He told himself it was a comfort. It wasn’t.

The hum of the air conditioner had stopped sometime during the night. He hadn’t noticed when. But now the absence of that low, familiar drone left a vacuum in its wake, amplifying every creak of the walls, every distant clatter of wind against the glass.

And by 4:55 AM, he was shaking.

The lights, after hours of dim buzzing and occasional flickers, finally steadied. Fluorescence returned in full, cold and sterile— but real. The AC kicked back on with a soft rattle and a low whirr. Jimin hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until that moment.

It felt like surfacing from a deep, suffocating ocean.

He didn’t cry.

But when he stood, his body trembled like it did.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

As the sun began to rise, casting a faint orange bruise across the horizon, the front door jingled open.

Cold morning air slipped inside, curling around the shelves and swirling dust in the beams of light. Mr. Lee stepped in holding a thermos, his expression neutral— until his eyes found Jimin behind the counter. His pace slowed. The mild surprise on his face deepened into something like concern as he took in the sight: Jimin, slumped against the mini-fridge, hoodie still up, eyes dark and sunken like he hadn’t slept in days.

“…You’re still here?” Mr. Lee said, genuinely taken aback.

Jimin blinked at him, exhausted and pale. “Yeah.”

Mr. Lee stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring— not at Jimin, but toward the back of the store, where the hallway and the storage room sat cloaked in silence. He didn’t say anything, but Jimin noticed it: the faint furrow of his brows, the tension in his jaw. The way his gaze drifted briefly toward the security monitor like it was a reflex.

Then Mr. Lee muttered something under his breath— too low for Jimin to catch.

“…What?”

Mr. Lee didn’t repeat it. He just gave a small shake of his head, unzipping his coat. “You can go now. Get some sleep.”

Jimin pushed himself up, legs stiff and sore from hours of tension. “You said the night shift would be quiet,” he muttered, brushing past the broom he had forgotten to put away.

Mr. Lee didn’t answer.

Instead, he moved behind the counter and started fiddling with the cash register like nothing happened.

Jimin grabbed his bag and stepped out into the daylight, the sun just starting to stretch over the rooftops. The crisp morning wind hit his face like a slap, but he welcomed it.

He had survived the night.

Barely.

The moment Jimin got home, he dropped his bag onto the floor and peeled off his jacket like it weighed a hundred kilos. His apartment wasn’t much— bare walls, mismatched furniture, a flickering lamp that he still hadn’t replaced— but right now, it was his sanctuary.

The gas station felt like a fever dream he’d barely stumbled out of. Still buzzing with the tension from the shift, Jimin shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, then collapsed face- first onto his bed.

He passed out before he could even take off his shoes.

The sleep was thick and heavy, like falling into black tar. No dreams. No thoughts. Just darkness. When Jimin woke again, the sun was high, slanting through the blinds in harsh stripes that cut across the floor.

He squinted at his phone.

3:42PM.

His body ached, especially around his neck and shoulders where stress had settled and curled like a sleeping cat. Still groggy, Jimin lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, slowly piecing the night back together.

Grimacing, he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. Then, with a growing sense of unease crawling up his spine, he reached for his phone and opened the browser.

He typed in the name of the gas station.
Nothing came up except the official business listing, a few poor reviews about the limited snack choices, and one grumpy customer complaining about the flickering lights.

Jimin refined the search:

“Gas station DAEBO + haunted”
“Strange events at gas station DAEBO”
“Night shift horror stories DAEBO gas station, Busan”

Still, nothing.

Just a lot of creepypasta and ghost story subreddits, none of which matched the place he worked at.

He was about to give up when he scrolled past a link buried near the bottom of a forum thread— an obscure site that looked like a half-forgotten relic from the early 2000s. The title caught his eye:

“Weird Incident Near DAEBO Gas Station – Any Witnesses?”

Jimin clicked.

It was a single post. No replies. No updates. It had been made four years ago under a throwaway username.

“Not sure if this is the right place to post, but I saw something strange around the gas station at Haeundae intersection. Middle of the night, I was passing by on a late ride home, and I thought I saw someone standing in the middle of the road. When I blinked, they were gone. There were lights flickering from inside the store too, like a strobe effect. No cars. No employees in sight. I thought maybe someone got hurt, but the place was locked up. Looked into it the next day—no news articles, nothing. Anyone else ever seen something weird there?”

The post ended abruptly, as if the writer had lost interest or nerve. No replies. No likes. No traction.

Just… a digital ghost, buried and ignored.

Jimin frowned. There was no concrete detail—no names, no mention of deaths, nothing to follow up on. Just vague speculation.

Still, it was the first and only thing that aligned with his experience.

He sat there for a while, staring at the post. The more he read it, the more the memory of the figure standing in the aisle pressed into his thoughts. He remembered the way the lights had blinked above it, the sick feeling in his gut, the way it didn’t move or breathe.

With a sigh, he finally closed the browser. The post had been a dead end.

He tapped open his messages.

[Jimin]:

Yo, you free?

[Taehyung]:

yeah. u okay? where r u??

[Jimin]:

Meet me at the cafe near your place?

Fifteen minutes later, Jimin slid into a booth at their usual café— a warm, corner spot with soft lighting and too many fake plants. The smell of roasted coffee beans clung to the air, mixing with the faint hint of cinnamon and vanilla from the pastry counter nearby. It was cozy, familiar. Safe. The kind of place that didn’t feel like it belonged in the same world as that gas station.

Taehyung was already there, legs sprawled out lazily, a half-empty iced Americano sweating on the table in front of him. He spotted Jimin and gave him a once-over, brow furrowing as soon as their eyes met.

“You look like shit,” Taehyung said, not unkindly. It was more of a worried observation than an insult.

Jimin dropped into the seat across from him with a tired grunt. “Thanks. Great to see you too.”

“No, seriously. Your eyebags have eyebags. You look like you aged ten years overnight.”

“Felt like it,” Jimin muttered, rubbing at his temples. The ache in his head hadn’t gone away. Neither had the pressure that had settled in his chest after waking up. It was like his body hadn’t fully realized it was allowed to relax now. Like it was waiting for something to go wrong again.

Taehyung leaned forward, voice lower now. “What happened? I tried calling you this morning, and you didn’t pick up. I got that weird message, and then nothing. I thought something happened to you.”

Jimin winced. “Yeah, sorry about that. I passed out the moment I got home. Didn't even take off my shoes.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared the hell out of myself,” Jimin said quietly, his fingers curling around the edge of the table. He hesitated, his throat tightening. The tension from last night still lingered in his chest like a bruise.

“There was banging,” he said finally, his voice low and a little hoarse. “From the storage room. Constant. Like someone was locked in there and trying to get out.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows creased. “Banging?”

“Yeah. Heavy, like fists on metal. I checked, but the door was locked. It just kept going for a while… and then stopped. But it didn’t feel right, Tae. The air got cold. The lights kept flickering. Like something was wrong.”

Taehyung didn’t interrupt this time. He just nodded for Jimin to continue.

Jimin let out a breath and rubbed his palms against his jeans. “Then something moved in the aisles. I thought— I don’t know, I thought it might be a person, but it ran across the floor. Fast. Low to the ground. Turned out it was a rat. A huge one.”

Taehyung blinked. “A rat?”

“Yeah. I know it doesn’t sound like much now, but in the moment? I swear to God, I thought it was going to be something else. Something worse. Every little sound felt like it was building up to something. Like something was watching.”

He paused, frowning into the grain of the wooden table.

Taehyung reached for his drink, then set it down again without sipping. “So… you didn’t actually see anything? Like a ghost or a person?”

Jimin shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing clear. Just sounds. Movement. The kind of stuff that messes with your head when you’re alone in a place like that.”

Taehyung’s shoulders dropped just a little, like he was torn between relief and residual concern. “Still creepy as hell, though.”

Jimin gave a humorless laugh. “Tell me about it. I didn’t even realize how bad it got until the sun came up.”

Taehyung leaned forward, elbows on the table, and studied him closely. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m… managing,” Jimin said with a small shrug. “Got a few hours of sleep. Woke up around three, still felt like garbage. But I’m not dead. So that’s a win.”

“You texted me that weird message in the middle of the night. And I called you like three times after that.”

Jimin winced. “I figured. I knocked out right after I got home. Didn’t even make it to the bed. I must’ve crashed with my phone on silent.”

“I thought you were murdered or something, dumbass.”

“Sorry,” Jimin murmured, genuinely contrite. “It wasn’t my plan.”

Taehyung sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You really wanna keep doing this? That place sounds like a breeding ground for nervous breakdowns.”

Jimin looked away, jaw tight. “The owner pays well.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

A pause settled over the table. Taehyung didn’t push again, though he clearly wanted to. Instead, he muttered under his breath, “You could’ve been stacking croissants at that bakery Seokjin-hyung worked at instead of dealing with haunted shelves.”

Jimin snorted. “And give up minimum-wage ghost hunting? Never.”

Taehyung shot him a look but couldn’t hold back a smile. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Jimin said, tugging at the hem of his sleeve. “But I’m an idiot with rent due.”

Taehyung’s expression softened. “I’ll keep my phone unmuted. If anything weird happens again, just call. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Jimin looked up, something in his chest easing a little. “Thanks, Tae.”

“Don’t thank me until I show up at that haunted gas station with a baseball bat and zero backup.”

Jimin chuckled. “You’d do it too.”

“I would,” Taehyung agreed, deadpan.

“Let’s just hope you never get haunted by a pissed-off ghost while working minimum wage.”

Taehyung snorted. “If a ghost tried to mess with me, I’d tell it to pay my damn rent.”

That made Jimin laugh, finally, and the sound felt strange in his chest— like air returning to lungs that hadn’t worked right all day.

With that, the tension finally began to fade. They spent the next half hour sipping their drinks and slipping back into familiar banter, Taehyung— who had just one semester left before graduating, complaining about a professor who assigned a group project with no instructions, while Jimin groaned about bills, and the two of them passionately arguing about which dessert was superior: brownies or macarons.

And for a while, it was enough. The café, the comfort, the normalcy— it was a world away from the cold fluorescent lights.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

The sun dipped below the skyline faster than it should’ve.

By the time Jimin pulled on his hoodie, the sky was a dull blue bleeding into black, and the world outside his window was fading— shadows stretching long over the concrete, swallowing the light inch by inch. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging limp between his fingers, eyes fixed on the reflection that didn’t quite feel like his.

He hadn’t slept well. Couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard that banging again. Or worse, the silence that followed it.

“It’s just a job,” he told himself quietly. “And a weird night. One weird night.”

Still, the thought of returning made something in his stomach churn. Like acid. Or dread.

He finished brushing his teeth and didn’t bother styling his hair. It would just get messy anyway. He threw on a jacket, grabbed his phone, and lingered by the door longer than he should’ve. His hand rested on the doorknob, unmoving.

Part of him hoped someone—anyone—would call and tell him he didn’t have to go. That the place burned down, or Mr. Lee had a sudden change of heart. But his phone stayed quiet. No messages. No miracles.

Just the cold, creeping reality that he had to do this again.

Because bills didn’t pay themselves.

Because no one else would do it for him.

He stepped out.

The evening air was cool, almost biting. The kind that made your bones feel hollow. Jimin zipped his jacket up to his chin and kept his head low as he walked to the station. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting halos of pale gold across the road. The world felt quieter tonight. Still. Like it was holding its breath.

He wished he could do the same.

As the familiar fluorescent sign of the gas station came into view, his pace slowed. From a distance, it looked harmless. Just another forgotten outpost on the edge of town. But up close, under that flickering signage and dim parking lot lamps, it looked… wrong. Like something out of place in its own skin.

He approached the front door and found it unlocked this time. Mr. Lee must’ve left it open for him.

The moment he stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind him.

The smell was the same— cheap floor cleaner and old coffee. But the air felt heavier tonight. Like the building itself remembered what happened the night before. And it didn’t want him here.

Jimin turned on the lights. They blinked to life reluctantly, humming overhead. The shadows retreated, but not all the way. Some corners stayed just a little too dark. Too quiet.

He swallowed thickly and made his way behind the counter. Everything was where he left it. Neat. Undisturbed. Still, he kept glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, like he was being watched.

You’re being paranoid.
You’re tired.
You made it through last night. You’ll make it through tonight too.

He set his bag down, pulled out his phone, and texted Taehyung.

Jimin [8:54 PM]:
I just got here.
Place is quiet
Will text if anything weird happens

Taehyung replied almost instantly.

Taehyung [8:55 PM]:
got it.
be safe
don’t go near the storage room!!

Jimin stared at that last message for a long moment.

He didn’t plan on it.

Not tonight.

Instead, he put in his earphones, choosing something soft— instrumental, calm, like the kind of music people listened to while studying or meditating. Anything to drown out the buzz of the lights and the quiet creak of the building’s bones.

But even with the music on low, he couldn’t shake the feeling.

That something else had woken up the moment he walked in.

And that the gas station was no longer asleep.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏─── 

Time passed, slow and sludgy, like wading through wet cement. Jimin kept checking the clock even though barely ten minutes had passed each time.

He swept the floor. Restocked a few shelves. Rearranged gum packets at the register that didn’t need rearranging.

By 10:30PM, a couple of regulars trickled in— an old man in a baseball cap who bought a lottery ticket, and a delivery driver who gave him a tight nod and grabbed an energy drink. Their presence grounded the place, however briefly. It was a momentary tether to reality. A reminder that the world still spun on its axis.

But the second the bell jingled and the last customer left, silence returned like a slow exhale. The kind that prickled your skin and left the back of your neck cold.

He sat behind the counter, eyes glued to the CCTV screen.

Four camera feeds glowed on the monitor: the parking lot, the aisles, the hallway near the bathrooms, and the stretch that led to the storage room.

That last one still looked off. The image felt slightly delayed. Like it was being filtered through something thick. Viscous. Like time lagged behind in that corridor.

Jimin rubbed his arms and sat up straighter. He reached into his bag and pulled out a protein bar, unwrapped it, and took two absent bites. He wasn’t hungry. His jaw moved just to stay busy.

His phone buzzed— just a notification from a game he hadn’t opened in weeks. He didn’t even bother checking it.

Instead, he leaned his head back, eyes flickering shut for a few minutes, which slowly turned into an hour.

12:57AM

When he opened them again, everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that didn't feel natural.

He tugged out one of his earbuds.

Nothing.

No hum from the lights. No low murmur of the fridges. Not even the buzz of the outside signage. It was as though someone had vacuumed the sound out of the world.

He slowly stood, each movement deliberate. Cautious. The air felt… thick.

Then— tap, tap, tap.

Jimin turned toward the sound. His eyes landed on the back hallway.

The tap came again. Deliberate. Not mechanical. Not random.

Like knuckles.

No. No, no. Not again.

He stepped back quickly, bumping into the display stand behind him. A bag of chips crinkled loudly and fell. The sound made him flinch, heart slamming against his ribs.

The lights flickered once.

Then twice.

Then held.

He didn’t breathe until the fridge kicked back on with a low, gurgling hum. The world rebooted around him in slow fragments. Lights. Sound. Airflow. Normalcy.

But Jimin no longer felt normal.

He dropped behind the counter, hand shaking as he reached for his phone.

He didn’t know if he was going to text Taehyung or call someone or just hold it like a talisman.

Instead, his eyes landed on the CCTV monitor.

The hallway camera was still on. Still showing the dark corridor. Still pointed toward the storage room door.

Only now…

The door was slightly open.

Just a sliver.

His breath hitched. “I locked that,” he muttered aloud, throat dry. “I locked that door.”

He remembered it clearly— turning the key, hearing the metal click. Mr. Lee had specifically told him to always keep it locked after hours. Jimin had. He was sure of it. He knew he did.

So why was it open now?

His knees went weak. He gripped the edge of the counter like a lifeline. The air felt… wrong. Thicker, heavier, like it pressed against his skin from every direction.

And then— everything stopped again.

The fridge’s hum. The light’s buzz. The clock. The second hand froze.

Jimin blinked.

The world held its breath.

It was like time folded in on itself and he was no longer here, but somewhere in between. The gas station looked the same, but felt off— like a photograph of itself. Flat. Hollow. Disconnected.

I’m dreaming. This isn’t real. Snap out of it.

He couldn't tell anymore.

The silence became oppressive. Loud, even. His thoughts were the only sound, and they looped endlessly.

You shouldn’t be here.

It doesn’t want you here.

You need to leave.

But his legs wouldn’t move. He stood rooted in place, staring at the open sliver of that hallway on the monitor. His hands trembled so violently that his protein bar slipped from his grip and landed on the floor with a soft thud— startling in the quiet.

He fumbled for his phone with shaking fingers. Maybe to text Taehyung. Maybe to call. But even the act of unlocking it felt too loud.

Then—

A breath.

Not his own.

Not from the hallway.

Behind him.

Cold.

Close.

He spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance. His back slammed against the counter, heart hammering in his chest.

No one.

Nothing.

But the space behind him felt different. Like something had just been there. Something not visible, but present.

The CCTV monitor flickered.

Then—

Static.

All four camera feeds blinked out. Gone. Black screen. No signal.

The hallway, the door, the safety of that distant lens— vanished.

Jimin’s knees buckled. He collapsed behind the counter, pulling his knees to his chest, hoodie yanked over his head. He shoved his earbuds in, music off— just something, anything, to block the silence.

His breathing was shallow, too quick. Chest tight like a vice. He squeezed his eyes shut.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.

You’re tired.

You’re tired.

You’re tired.

But then why did it feel like something was crouched in the same darkness he was hiding in, just inches away?

Waiting.

And watching.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there— knees pulled tightly to his chest behind the counter, heart thudding so loud it nearly drowned out the fluorescent hum above. The minutes bled together, sluggish and warped. Time felt… wrong. Like it had slipped sideways and forgotten how to move forward.

And then—
The storage room door creaked.

Just a little.

Barely an inch.

Jimin’s head snapped up, his breath catching mid-thought. He swore— he swore he had locked that door earlier. He remembered the solid clunk of the latch, the weight of the handle in his palm. He hadn’t imagined it.

But now, that same door hung slightly ajar.

The gap was thin, but dark. Too dark. Like the light inside had been swallowed whole.

Then came the banging.

Harder this time. Violent. Shaking the thin walls of the station.

Jimin scrambled to his feet, panic taking the wheel. His instincts screamed: Leave. Run. Now.

He bolted for the front entrance, every step loud against the tile. He grabbed the handle, twisted—
Nothing.

The door wouldn’t budge.

Locked. From the inside.
But it wasn’t supposed to lock like that. Not without the key. And he had the key.

He jiggled it, shoved, kicked—
Still nothing. Like the station itself had sealed shut.

Trapped.

He backed away, heart hammering against his ribs, eyes flicking toward the aisle mirrors and the shadowed corners. The banging from the storage room kept going— faster now, more desperate, like something was trying to break through.

And beneath it all, the same pressure returned. That sinking weight. A presence.

Watching him.

He hadn’t seen it yet. But he knew.
It had been there the whole time.

And it was getting closer.

His shaking hands fumbled in his pocket for his phone. By some miracle, it still had a bar of service. The screen glowed bright in the dark.

He dialed Taehyung. Held it to his ear.
Each ring dragged like a scream underwater.

Finally—

“Hyung?” Taehyung’s voice, bleary and concerned, broke through the speaker. “What’s wrong?”

Jimin’s voice came out thin and hoarse, barely above a whisper as he crouched behind the counter again. “I think there’s someone in the storage room,” he murmured. “The door’s locked, but I can hear banging. It won’t stop.”

Taehyung’s tone sharpened with alarm. “Hyung, calm down. Just get out of there. Leave that damned place right now.”

“I can’t,” Jimin hissed, voice rising with dread. “The front door’s locked and—”

The line went dead.

His phone screen dimmed, then blacked out entirely.

No power.
No signal.
No escape.

The silence after was thick. Suffocating.

Then—

Tap.

A flicker from the corner of his eye.

Jimin slowly, shakily lifted his head.

And there it was.

Standing just beneath the flickering fluorescent light near the third aisle. A figure— long-limbed, impossibly tall, head cocked too far to the side like it had snapped wrong.

Motionless. Silent.

Jimin didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

It had always been watching. From the second he’d walked in. From the second he closed his eyes.

It was never asleep.

And now— it was awake.

His body refused to move.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his limbs were frozen, locked in place as if the creature’s stare had nailed him to the floor.

The figure didn’t move.

Not an inch.

Not even to breathe.

It just stood there, half-swathed in flickering light, as if the world around it couldn’t fully decide whether it belonged. Its face—or what Jimin assumed was a face—was hidden in a tangle of long, black shadow. Unmoving. Its arms hung too low, fingers grazing the edge of a shelf like they were testing reality’s surface tension.

Jimin blinked.

Then it was gone.

A soft scrape echoed from the next aisle.

He gasped, panicking and ducked down again, crawling on elbows and knees beneath the counter, hands trembling as he reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his now-useless phone. He tapped the power button again. Nothing.

Please, he thought. Please just turn on. Please let this be a dream.

But he could feel it. In the marrow of his bones. This was real. Too real.

His breath came in short, quiet bursts. He pressed a hand over his mouth.

Above him, the ceiling lights buzzed and popped— one of them gave out with a soft crack.

The silence that followed felt thick enough to drown in.

You need to move. You need to hide. Anywhere.

He peeked through the bottom of the shelving unit beside the counter. Nothing there.

But the air shifted.

Suddenly, it was cold. Icy. Like the heat had been sucked out of the room.

Then a new sound— wet. Dripping.
Something was leaking.

Jimin’s gaze darted toward the back. The coffee machine light was on, but the steady drip-drip-drip wasn’t coming from there. It was coming from the ceiling.

He looked up and froze.

A dark, inky smear had begun to spread across one of the ceiling tiles. Thick, black liquid seeped through the cracks, falling in slow drops onto the tile floor below. It didn’t look like water. It looked like something else. Like the shadow of something that didn’t belong in this world.

He backed up, breath catching in his throat—

Crunch.

A footstep.

Not his.

He turned his head—slowly, carefully— toward the aisle entrance.

The figure was standing there now.

Closer.

Head still tilted. No sound. No breathing.

But it was looking at him. He knew it was.

The flickering light above them buzzed like a dying insect.

Jimin stood frozen, breath caught in his throat as he stared at the figure in the middle of the aisle. It didn’t move.

Just stood there, tall, still, and draped in shadow, obscuring its face. It looked like something dredged from the deepest corners of a nightmare.

But it wasn’t moving.

It wasn’t even trying to.

Jimin’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. His fingers tightened around his phone, though it was still dead— screen black, no signal. No help.

He stepped back slowly, but the figure didn’t follow.

Didn’t vanish either.

“W-What do you want?” Jimin’s voice cracked.

The figure tilted its head slightly.

No sound. No breath. Just… stillness.

Jimin’s knees trembled. But somewhere deep inside the terror, a strange thought occurred to him: it didn’t feel malicious. No heat of rage, no sudden drop in temperature, no oppressive force like the stories said ghosts carried.

If anything… it felt like it had been standing there the whole time.

Waiting.

Like it always had.

And now that Jimin was looking— really looking— he noticed the edges of the figure were soft. Not sharp or monstrous. Its form flickered, like static in a dream. And those weren’t claws, just long fingers that twitched now and then, like it didn’t know what to do with its hands.

“I… I saw you before,” Jimin whispered, lowering the phone. “Didn’t I?”

The figure gave no answer. But something in the air shifted. Lighter. Curious.

Jimin blinked, heart still racing—but slower now. “You were watching me… since that first night.”

A low sound—barely audible—echoed from the ghost.

It wasn’t a growl. More like… a hum? A purr? No, it was breathy, like the sound someone makes when they’re trying to speak but can’t form words.

It stepped forward— slowly, carefully— and Jimin flinched, but didn’t move away.

The light above them flared once more before going completely dark, plunging the store into soft, bluish emergency lighting. Shadows stretched across the aisles, long and distorted.

And under those shadows, the figure looked monstrous.

Too tall. Limbs a little too long. The curtain of black veiling its face made it look like something out of a nightmare— something pulled from the deepest corner of the dark. Jimin’s breath hitched, every instinct screaming to run.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because as his eyes adjusted— slowly, hesitantly— then the shape grew clearer. And what he saw wasn’t a monster at all.

The hair, which Jimin had initially thought was long and wild, started to settle into something different as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. It wasn’t long at all— shorter, more neatly cut, the strands actually appearing smoother than he had first imagined. His mind had tricked him in the shadows, playing with his perception of what he’d seen.

Not decayed. Not deformed.

Young.

Human.

Almost painfully beautiful, in a quiet, tragic kind of way. Pale skin that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. Sharp cheekbones.

A mouth slightly parted, like it wanted to say something. There was still an eerie stillness to him.

Jimin’s heartbeat slowed, ever so slightly.

The creature— or perhaps the man's expression, held an odd softness to it. He looked a bit disoriented.

But the more Jimin stared, the more something felt off. His frame was too tall, almost unnaturally so. His skin too pale. His eyes, while expressive— doe-eyed, held an unsettling stillness, as if he wasn’t quite part of this world.

He exhaled shakily, lowering himself slightly as he studied the ghost with a mix of wariness and fascination.

His voice was soft, tremulous, barely above a whisper. “Who- no... what are you?”

The man tilted his head slightly at the question, as if considering it, but there was no answer. No movement except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, which only deepened Jimin’s confusion.

He didn’t seem to have any way of communicating, at least not in the usual sense. He just stared at Jimin with those unblinking eyes.

Jimin shifted, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles going white. The weight of the silence was almost too much, the tension unbearable. He took a step forward, as though testing the limits of his courage.

The man didn’t move, didn't flinch— just kept watching him.

But then—

BANG.

The sudden knock echoed from the front entrance, sharp and jarring against the stillness. The sound was enough to make Jimin jump back, heart racing. He glanced toward the door, panic sweeping over him. When he turned back, the creature— no, the man was gone.

The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. The stillness, the oppressive silence that had clouded the space, vanished in a heartbeat.

The strange presence that had hovered over him receded, leaving only the low hum of the lights and the quiet buzz of the heater.

The entire place felt… normal again.

Jimin blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened. The air was thick with confusion, like a fog lifting and revealing everything in its path.

The gas station, the very space he had just been in, felt entirely ordinary now.

The shelves were stocked, the counter was undisturbed.

Nothing was out of place.

The ceiling lights above, which had once flickered in a surreal dance, were now steady. The oppressive heaviness had lifted.

The walls, the floor— everything seemed to return to its proper place in time.

It was like the entire reality had shifted, and what he had just experienced was nothing but a dream.

Just then, another knock echoed from the entrance.

Jimin turned, still catching his breath.

A customer stood outside, staring through the glass door at him. A man, in his late thirties, with a grimace on his face. He knocked again, impatiently.

Jimin hurriedly unlocked the door, his fingers stiff from the lingering adrenaline. As it swung open, the man stepped in, still frowning.

"You alright, kid?" the customer asked, glancing around the gas station as he walked up to the counter. "Was wondering if I could get some snacks."

Jimin nodded quickly, his mouth dry, and his heart still pounding in his chest. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The customer set down a small bag of chips and a drink on the counter, eyes darting to Jimin before giving him a half-smile.

“Long night?” the man asked, his tone light, oblivious to the turmoil still swirling in Jimin's mind.

Jimin gave a shaky nod as he rang up the items, the motion mechanical. His mind was still far away, replaying the strange encounter.

What had he just seen? Had the ghost really disappeared, or had it been some trick of his tired eyes?

The customer took his items, still chatting about nothing in particular, and left without a second thought.

The door jangled as it closed behind him, and once again, Jimin was alone.

The gas station was quiet. Normal.

He glanced back at the empty space where the creature had once stood. The faintest trace of warmth lingered in the air, like something had been left behind— something unspoken. Something that wasn’t quite gone.

He exhaled slowly, still unsure if any of it had truly happened.

The rest of Jimin’s shift passed in a haze of uneasy quiet.

After the customer left— blissfully unaware of the cracked reality Jimin had just crawled out of—the gas station returned to a kind of normal. Or at least, something close to it.

The lights stayed on. The air didn’t hum like it had a pulse anymore. Even the corners of the room, once too dark to be natural, now looked dull and harmless in comparison.

The storage room stayed shut. And silent. As if it had never been opened to begin with.

A few rats skittered along the edges of the floor— Jimin heard them rustling near the chip aisle once or twice—but they didn’t bother him. In fact, the tiny, mundane sound almost grounded him.

He kept checking the mirrors, glancing over his shoulder more than once, expecting the man to show up again. But there was nothing. Just Jimin and the buzzing of the overhead lights and the low hum of the cooler.

It was almost worse, the way everything fell so utterly still.

His brain ran wild, spiraling through what-ifs. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated? But no, his phone still showed the previous call he had with Taehyung at 1:27AM.

The flicker of light had been real. The knock had been real. The thing—person he saw had been real.

Jimin sat behind the counter, curled into the same corner as the night before, trying to make sense of it all.

His body ached with fatigue, but his mind wouldn’t rest.

He could still see that face— serene, quiet, almost curious.

"What are you?" he whispered to the empty room.

Of course, no answer came.

But the silence wasn’t as sharp now. It didn’t feel like it would devour him whole.

It just sat there— quiet and heavy and waiting.

When morning finally came and the first light bled through the windows, Jimin didn’t even notice. He was too busy staring at the reflection in the mini fridge glass, half-expecting a pair of eyes to be staring back.

But there was only him. Pale. Tired. A little changed.

The sun finally breached the skyline, casting a thin gold veil across the cracked floor tiles and faded countertop.

Jimin exhaled, slow and shaky, as if the breath had been trapped in his chest all night.

The gas station felt ordinary again.

But Jimin had the sense— uneasy and lingering—that this wasn’t the end of it.

Something had seen him.

And strangely, the thought unsettled him… but didn’t send him running.

Chapter Text

The sun creeps over the edge of the horizon, chasing away the lingering chill that had curled into Jimin’s bones. Faint streaks of gold pierce the dense shadows stretching across the station lot, dusting the cracked pavement with warmth that feels alien after the night's oppressive stillness. The neon lights sputter once, then die with a soft buzz, as if even the building itself is exhaling relief.

Jimin doesn’t wait for Mr. Lee to arrive.

He clocks out immediately with a trembling hand, fingers fumbling over the touchscreen like they don’t quite belong to him. His uniform jacket is slung over one shoulder, shoes scuffing the concrete as he bolts into the waking world, hood pulled tight against the morning light. The adrenaline has long since burned off, but his heart still thuds like it's trying to climb out of his throat.

The bus ride blurs past in fragmented images— dirty windows, vacant sidewalks, a kid holding a balloon on the corner like a glitch in the matrix. Everything feels slightly off, like the world hasn’t quite resumed its regular rhythm.

By the time he’s home and curled up in bed, sunlight is bleeding through the curtains in lazy beams, smearing across the floor like honey. He doesn’t remember changing clothes, only that his limbs moved on autopilot, every motion sluggish and delayed. His bones ache with exhaustion. Sleep should come easily.

It doesn’t.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand after being charged and turned on.

Once. Twice. Then again.

He blinks at the screen. Taehyung.

The call connects before he can even clear his throat.

“Dude, I tried calling you like five times. What the hell?” Taehyung’s voice crackles softly through the speaker, half irritated, half worried.

“I’m fine,” Jimin mutters, voice hoarse and uneven. “Just... tired.”

There’s a pause. Then, carefully, Taehyung asks, “Did something happen?”

Jimin stares at the ceiling. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. He’s not sure how to explain it, but the words come anyway. Like floodgates cracking open.

He fills Taehyung in on everything that happened.

Taehyung doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, barely audible: “That sounds messed up.”

Jimin lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

He rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow. His voice muffles as he adds, “I tried Googling the place. Nothing. Just one vague-ass rumor from 2015 on a broken forum link. No news reports, no posts, no Reddit threads. Like the place doesn’t exist.”

“I’ll check into it,” Taehyung says immediately. There’s a shift in his tone, focused, determined. “You know I’m good at this stuff. Give me a day or two. I’ll find something.”

Jimin exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of his chest. “Thanks.”

There’s a long pause, and when Taehyung speaks again, his voice is more serious.

“Jimin… I don’t like this. You shouldn’t be working there. Whatever the hell’s going on, it’s not right. And I don’t care how much they’re paying you.”

Jimin’s chest tightens. He hadn’t really considered quitting— not seriously.

The pay is good. It’s more than he’s made in months. And there’s something else too, something more than just the money.

Mr. Lee had promised him he wouldn’t be harmed. He said that place was dangerous, yes, but the spirits wouldn’t hurt him. He had to believe that.

“It’s just... it’s fine,” Jimin says, the words coming out slower than he intends. “Mr. Lee... he said I’d be safe.”

Taehyung doesn’t seem convinced. “Jimin,” he presses, his voice rising with concern, “no job is worth putting yourself in that kind of danger. There are other ways to make money. You don’t have to stay there.”

Jimin shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. He feels a pang of guilt, hearing the worry in Taehyung’s voice, but the thought of walking away now feels too...

What if it’s not as bad as it seems? What if he just needs to stick it out?

“I know, Tae. I get it,” Jimin says, his voice low. “But the pay's good. And Mr. Lee... he promised. He said I wouldn’t get hurt. Besides, I’m already two shifts in. I can handle one more, right?”

Taehyung is quiet for a moment, the weight of his concern palpable. Then, in a soft voice, he says, “Promise me you’ll be careful. If anything gets worse, you leave. No questions.”

Jimin hesitates. He feels the warmth of the sun against his cheek, but the cold still lingers in his bones. “I promise,” he says, even though he’s not sure he believes the words.

A beat of silence.

“Don’t go getting haunted without me,” Taehyung tries to joke, but it lands a little too quietly, too strained.

Jimin closes his eyes. The sun is warm, but the chill hasn’t fully left him.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs, not entirely sure what he's committing to.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏───

Jimin returns to the gas station with his hood up and his thoughts loud.
The key turns easily in the door.
Inside, the air feels untouched, sealed like something meant to stay shut.

Mr. Lee gives him a brief nod, sipping from his thermos like it’s any other night. “Clock in, will you?” he mutters, brushing past without waiting for a reply.

No mention of what happened.
No sideways glances.
Just routine.

The fluorescent lights hum above Jimin’s head, steady and cold. The freezer section buzzes faintly in the background.

On the security monitor, the grainy view of the aisles glitches—just once— then stabilizes.

The register beeps as he signs in.

The first hour passes in silence.

He wipes down the coffee machine twice. Refills a single bag of chips. Rearranges the candy rack.

At one point, he wanders into the back room— the door now firmly sealed with a new padlock.
Jimin doesn’t touch it.
He doesn’t need to.

There’s a heaviness behind it that feels like a held breath.

Around 1:17 a.m., the temperature drops. Not by much, but enough that Jimin pulls on his jacket. The sleeves feel scratchy against his skin, suddenly foreign.

Then—

A bang.

Soft.
Distant.

He freezes behind the counter, fingers still curled around the barcode scanner.

Another bang. Louder. Closer.

Thud.
Thud.
Thud.

Jimin gradually raises his eyes to the windows outside the gas station. For a brief moment, everything remains still, empty.

Then a shape moves.

A slick shadow dragging across the glass— long-limbed, head too low, fingers splayed. Another follows. Then another.

Their outlines ripple like oil slicks in water, featureless but heavy. They move like they’ve forgotten how joints are supposed to bend.

Jimin’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t blink.

But they never enter.

They drift by, slow and deliberate, heads turning as if sniffing something through the cracks. They leave no marks. No fog on the glass. Just silence.

And through it all, something else lingers.

Something in here.

He doesn’t see it, but he knows. The air feels charged, like static before a storm. Like breath on the nape of his neck. A presence that doesn’t touch, but watches. Heavy and deliberate. Familiar.

Jimin turns around once. Nothing’s there.

Still, he murmurs, almost on instinct,

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

The silence answers him.

He doesn’t expect a reply.

Instead, he shuffles to the back and makes instant ramen. The kettle clicks and hisses. He sits at the employee table, lit by a single flickering bulb, and eats quietly while the banging continues in distant bursts.

At some point, the shadows vanish again. Just gone. Like they were never there.

Around 3:00 a.m., Jimin dozes off for a few minutes behind the counter, chin tucked into his arms.

When he wakes, there’s a cup of hot coffee next to him. Not steaming. But warm.

He doesn’t remember making it.

He drinks it anyway.

Eventually, Jimin slips in his earbuds, letting the familiar hum of old songs wash over him. The music takes him back to high school, to summer days that seemed to last forever, to mornings that didn’t end with him checking behind his shoulder.

The songs remind him of simpler times— before life got complicated, before things between him and his mom became… strained.

The night doesn’t end cleanly. It just fades.

At 5:58 a.m., Mr. Lee returns, whistling softly like he always does.

Jimin clocks out. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wait.

As he walks out into the soft blue of dawn, something flickers in the corner of his eye. Just past the window.

A figure, tall and still, half-silhouetted behind the glass.

Watching him.

He doesn’t turn around.

But his steps slowed, just for a second.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏───

Many nights passed by and surprisingly, no similar incident happened again, it’s almost a week since Jimin started working there, and when Jimin encountered that being.

However, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Not just the kind that comes with a slow night shift, but the unnerving, deliberate silence that wraps around the place like thick fog.

The hum of the coolers feels farther away than usual. The ticking of the wall clock is oddly loud, each second dragging with it a strange weight.

Even the weird creature behind the storage room door— the same one that clawed at his senses during that first night—is silent now. Dormant.
As if something’s holding it back.
Suppressing it.

Jimin pauses by the mop closet, glancing down the narrow hallway toward that door.

The air used to press in there, tight and oppressive like someone breathing against his skin.

Now? It feels… contained.

What changed?

That’s when it hits him— the image resurfacing like a photo developing in the dark. That single moment. The only time he saw him.
Not the monstrous silhouette from the window.
But the tall figure at the edge of the shelves, half-shrouded in moonlight, gaze steady and oddly soft.
How his hand had twitched, unsure. Human.
And how he’d vanished without a sound.

The ghost hadn’t hurt him. Not once.

Had even stopped the thing in the storage room, hadn’t he?

Jimin finds himself standing at the center of the store, surrounded by stillness, and murmurs— barely louder than breath, “Are you still here?”

No answer.

But something stirs in the atmosphere. Not movement. Just a thrum.
A low, invisible hum that skims just beneath the surface of his skin.
Like a presence brushing fingers against the world and choosing not to touch.

He swallows and returns to the counter.

Halfway through his shift, he takes his break and pulls a snack from his bag: Sweet Corn Puffs—the kind with a dumb cartoon chicken on the wrapper. The ones he used to eat after school, lounging in front of the TV, sticky fingers and all.

He hasn’t seen them sold here before. Bought them from a convenience store near his bus stop just because he felt like it.
Just because it reminded him of home.

He props a magazine open on the counter, a battered tabloid with blurry celebrity photos and a crossword half-filled in and munches distractedly, tapping his pen against the puzzle boxes.

Three puffs in, something shifts.

Not loudly. Not suddenly.

Just— subtly.

The air pressure in the room dips like it’s inhaling.
The lights overhead flicker, just once, like a slow blink.
And beneath the sterile scents of the station, bleach, old coffee, motor oil— there’s something new.
Cold earth.

Jimin straightens.

The magazine slips closed.

He follows the pull, cautiously, towards the fridges. Each step is deliberate. Measured.
And when he rounds the aisle—

There.

A shape between the shelves.
Tall.
Still.
Wrong and right all at once.
The same silhouette from before— broad shoulders, long limbs— but this time it doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

It simply exists, just long enough for Jimin to register the curve of a jaw, the vague glint where eyes should be—

And then it’s gone.
Not like it vanished.
Like it had never been.

The lights buzz. A soda can rattles slightly in the vending fridge. Somewhere outside, a truck passes in the distance.

Jimin’s heart kicks hard against his ribs as he stumbles backward, returning to the counter on autopilot.

His snack?

Gone.

Only the crinkled wrapper remains, half-deflated and rustling gently on the surface like it had just been disturbed.

Jimin stares. Then blinks.
His mouth twitches.

“You little shit,” he says under his breath.
His voice is steady now, the fear tempered by something stranger.
Something close to amusement.

“You took that?”

He picks up the wrapper like it might offer a clue. A crumb. Anything. But it’s empty.

A quiet chuckle escapes him, surprised and honest.

“Atleast you’ve got taste.”

He doesn’t know if he’s talking to the air or something standing just out of view.

But for the first time in nights, the silence around him feels less like a trap, and more like company.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏───

Jimin meets Taehyung at their usual café, the bell above the door chimes as Jimin enters, bleary-eyed and hoodie-clad, skin pale from lack of sleep but buzzing with a kind of wild, frayed adrenaline that makes him look lit from within.

Taehyung’s already there, curled into the window seat like a cat with his iced Americano sweating on the table, long fingers drumming a slow beat against the plastic cup. His eyes flick up as Jimin approaches, studying his friend with quiet concern before breaking into a lopsided grin.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, gesturing to the empty seat with his chin.

Jimin snorts as he sinks into the chair, slouching low with a groan. “Very funny.”

“Dead serious.”

Jimin exhales and leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “Something happened last night. Again. But different this time.”

Taehyung stills. “Different how?”

Jimin recounts everything— the unnatural quiet, the ghostly figure between the shelves, the strange sensation that prickled just under his skin. Then, the moment his voice softens— the part about the snack, the childhood memory, the rustling wrapper left behind like a signature.

Taehyung listens in silence, stirring his drink with deliberate slowness, his eyes unfocused like he’s watching Jimin’s words take shape in the air.

When Jimin finishes, Taehyung leans back with a long breath. “That’s definitely a response.”

“Response?” Jimin echoes.

“You gave him something,” Taehyung says, his voice thoughtful.

“An offering. Spirits like that. Especially when it’s something charged with emotion— memory, comfort, familiarity.”

Jimin frowns. “Like… a corn puff from my childhood?”

“Exactly,” Taehyung nods, suddenly animated. “You didn’t just give him food. You gave him something personal. Something warm. That matters.”

Jimin stares at the table. “I didn’t even mean to.”

“Doesn’t matter. Intent helps, but meaning hits harder. These things—entities, spirits, whatever—they live off emotion. Memory. Residue. You gave him something he could hold onto. That’s why he came back.”

Taehyung leans forward now, voice dropping as he glances around the café.

“Okay, so here’s the weird part. I did some digging. And it's not the usual surface-level stuff, you know what I mean.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You went full conspiracy theorist for me?”

“Obviously,” Taehyung says, unbothered. “You looked like you were gonna pass out last time. I had to make sure you weren’t getting possessed or something.”

Jimin gives a weak laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay so? What did you find?”

Taehyung lowers his voice. “That gas station? Might be sitting on a liminal space.”

Jimin blinks. “A what?”

“Liminal space,” Taehyung repeats. “Places that aren’t one thing or the other. Transition zones. Not here, not there. Like empty schools at night. Abandoned malls. Train platforms at 2 a.m. They exist on the edge of reality. Most people pass through without noticing. But some… get caught.”

A strange chill creeps up Jimin’s spine. “Caught how?”

“There’s this idea that during the dead hours—usually between 1 and 4 a.m.—these spaces open up more. Time goes weird. Boundaries thin. If you’re sensitive, or unlucky, you start to see things that bleed through.”

Jimin’s mouth is dry. “Bleed through from where?”

Taehyung just shrugs, but the look in his eyes is serious. “Other places. Other states of being. And not everything that slips through is harmless.”

Jimin thinks of the first night. The thing in the storage room. The oppressive air. The suffocating silence. He swallows thickly.

“So… that means spirits gather there?”

“Yeah. Think of it like a crack in the wall. Things that shouldn’t touch the living world sometimes do. And if that gas station sits on that kind of fracture, you’re basically clocking in at a haunted nexus every night.”

Jimin leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Great. That’s great.”

Taehyung watches him quietly. “But,” he says slowly, “if something else is keeping those spirits in check— like your tall, silent snack-thief—you might actually be safer than you think.”

Jimin’s hand drops. His voice is quieter now. “Well, he didn’t hurt me. Not once. And he stopped… whatever that thing was in the back room.”

Taehyung nods. “Then he’s watching over you.”

“…He doesn’t talk,” Jimin murmurs, gaze distant. “But he’s there.”

“Most spirits can’t,” Taehyung replies, fingers drumming again. “Especially ones with trauma. Unfinished business. Their energy gets tangled up. Speech requires focus. Consciousness. A clear sense of self. And most of them don’t have that anymore.”

Jimin turns to look out the window, city lights blurring past glass streaked with rain. He thinks of the figure in the aisle. The flicker of moonlight against shadow. The ghost’s hand, twitching. Hesitant.

Jimin’s thumb circles the rim of his cup, eyes distant. “He doesn’t feel... threatening. Not like the thing in the back room. It’s different with him.”

Taehyung nods slowly, watching him. “Yeah?”

Jimin hesitates, voice dropping a notch. “I don’t know. There’s just this feeling. Like he’s... stuck. Like he’s been there a long time. And he’s just—”

He breaks off, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Taehyung leans in slightly. “Just what?”

Jimin exhales through his nose. “I don't know, but it kinda feels like he's... lonely?”

There’s a small beat of silence. No music, no clinking of cups. Just that quiet.

Taehyung doesn't respond right away. He looks out the window, then back at Jimin with something unreadable in his eyes.

“…Makes sense,” he says at last. “You’d have to be, to linger that long.”

Jimin swallows, still staring down into his drink.

Taehyung lifts his cup, resting it against his lower lip.

“Maybe that’s why he noticed you.”

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏───

Each night, Jimin brings a snack—different kinds, some sweet, some savory—and places them quietly on the counter or near the back aisle. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t wait. Just sets it down like an unspoken pact.

Some nights, it’s a triangle kimbap or a mini bottle of banana milk. Other nights, dried seaweed, a half-melted choco pie, or cheap strawberry gummies that stick to the wrapper.

One night, on a whim, he brings a pack of Twinkies— the kind he hasn’t eaten since he was a kid. He hesitates before setting them down, suddenly self-conscious.

He walks away.

That night, something changes.

The drink fridge door hisses open on its own. Just a little. Just enough to creak.
Another night, as he passes aisle three, the music in his earbuds cuts out mid-chorus, replaced by an icy hush— and something cold, like a fingertip, grazes the back of his neck.
He spins around. Nothing.

But the snack is always gone by morning.
No crinkling plastic. No crumbs. Just absence, neat and intentional.

And then, finally, he sees him.

It happens during the lull. That strange pocket of time when everything drops silent and the store feels hollow, like a stage after the curtain’s dropped.

Jimin doesn’t even hear the lights flicker this time.
He only notices because the cooler’s hum cuts out, replaced by a too-deep stillness. Not peaceful. Just empty.

He lifts his head.

There’s a figure standing by the fridge.
Not looming. Not grotesque like before.

This version is quieter. Defined. More human-shaped.

Tall. Black hair pushed back, slightly tousled. His clothes hang loosely on a long, lean frame— casual, but decades out of fashion.

He’s beautiful in that quietly tragic way, like someone suspended between timelines. His face is pale, all sharp edges softened by shadows.

And, annoyingly, he’s exactly Jimin’s type— handsome in a way that made him feel ridiculous for noticing, especially when it came to a ghost.

There’s something haunting about him, not just in the obvious sense, but in the way he lingers—like an image you can’t quite shake from memory.

He doesn’t approach.
But he watches.

Jimin’s throat tightens.
“I know you’re real,” he says, voice hushed, meant only for the dark.

No reaction. Just those dark, unreadable eyes.

Jimin steps forward, cautiously.
“Earlier… the snack. You took it.”

It isn’t an accusation. More like an olive branch.

Still nothing. But the air thickens. Like the space between them has teeth.

“I brought more,” Jimin adds, gesturing behind him. “There’s a pack of Twinkies at the register. You ever had those? They’re kind of terrible. But good.”

Silence.

Jimin tries again. “You can’t talk, can you?”

The figure tilts his head slightly, a jerky, almost animal-like motion. Not threatening. Not comforting either.

Jimin lets out a shaky breath.
“You’re always here,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re not.”

Still nothing.

He shifts, biting the inside of his cheek. “You could at least blink or something. Give me a sign you’re not gonna eat me.”

It’s a joke— half.

It stays still. Dense. Listening.

Jimin sighs and turns, muttering under his breath, “God, I’m talking to a ghost like he’s a moody cat.”

And when he glances back—
Gone.

No sound. No blur of movement. Just absence.
As if he was never there.

The cooler kicks back on with a mechanical whirr. The lights buzz faintly overhead. Normal returns like a snapped rubber band.

Jimin walks—slightly too fast—back to the counter.
He collapses into the chair and rubs both hands over his face.

Then he sees it.

The pack of Twinkies is gone.
Clean. Not a crumb. Just the empty space where it used to be.

He stares. And for a moment, there’s no fear. Just a strange hum in his chest.

A flicker of satisfaction.

“…You have good taste,” he mutters. Then, with a small, disbelieving laugh, “Picky little shit.”

.

.

.

Jimin doesn’t go straight home after his shift.
He walks. Just keeps walking.

The world outside the gas station feels too loud and too empty all at once. Neon signs buzz like insects. The pavement sweats from earlier rain. His sneakers splash through shallow puddles, but he doesn’t change course.

The streets are still humming—electricity straining through overhead wires, flickering streetlamps casting crooked shadows that follow him at odd angles. A few cars drift by, most shops have their shutters halfway down, windows glowing dimly from forgotten displays.

The city feels paused. Not asleep, just stalled.

The air is thick with that post-midnight haze, where things feel slower and thinner.

His hoodie sleeves are damp at the cuffs. His breath is visible, just barely, when he exhales.

He ends up at a 24-hour diner—one of those aging relics sandwiched between a laundry place and a vape shop. The windows are fogged from the inside. A flickering “OPEN” sign buzzes like it’s on its last leg.

The bell above the door gives a tired jingle when he steps in.
A waitress glances up, gives a nod, and goes back to refilling the salt shakers. 

Jimin slides into a corner booth. The leather seat sticks to the backs of his thighs. The overhead light is yellow and cruel, but the booth is private enough to hide in.

He orders nothing but a coffee. Black. No sugar.

The mug is chipped. He doesn’t mind.

He wraps his hands around it like it’s the only real thing anchoring him, and watches as the waitress pours in a splash of cream. The swirl that follows is slow and mesmerizing—soft white blooming into dark, curling in on itself like a bruise under glass.

He stares at it too long.

His phone sits facedown on the table. When he finally flips it over, the screen lights up with a flood of notifications.

Taehyung’s name appears near the top—a string of texts, some from earlier in the evening, some from hours ago.

[yo did u survive??]
[jimin. answer. it’s been 30 minutes]
[if u died in there im gonna be so pissed]
[seriously. im getting freaked out. call me when ur out]

But Jimin doesn’t open them.
Not yet.

Instead, he scrolls past. Pauses.
Finds another contact. A name he hasn’t tapped in a while.

His thumb hesitates over the call button.

He doesn't know exactly what he wants to say.
Maybe he just wants to hear a voice that exists outside the gas station. Outside the haunting. Outside the diner filled with ghosts of its own regulars who never sleep, employees with eyes like worn coin edges.

Or maybe he wants to test something.
To say it out loud.
To ask: “What does it mean when a ghost eats your Twinkies?”

Instead, he dials someone else.

The phone rings once. Then again.

Outside, the streetlights flicker. A passing bus exhales steam into the air like a sigh.

Inside the diner, Jimin waits— coffee cooling between his palms, shadows curling at the edge of the linoleum floor, the question heavy on his tongue.

─── 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏───

Mr. Lee shows up an hour before Jimin’s next shift starts.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just pulls into the lot in that same dented grey pickup, kills the engine, and sits there a moment like he’s letting the silence settle around him before stepping back into something heavy.

When he finally gets out, his movements are slow — stiff, like someone whose body’s too used to long hours.

Jimin leans against the side of the building, arms crossed, pretending he’s not been waiting. He watches Mr. Lee approach with a faint tightness in his jaw.

There’s no urgency in the older man’s pace, no surprise in his eyes when they meet Jimin’s. Just the same weariness he always wears like an old coat — familiar and fraying at the edges.

They don’t go inside. Instead, they circle around to the back of the gas station, where the narrow bench waits beneath a crooked gutter and a flickering porch light that hums like it’s dying.

The area back here smells like rust and rain-soaked concrete. Weeds stretch high from the gravel edges, curling toward the wall as if trying to claw their way back inside. Someone once dumped an old vending machine by the fence — its side panel’s missing, and a family of cats has claimed it now, yellow eyes blinking from the shadows.

Jimin pulls out a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. Offers one without speaking.

Mr. Lee takes it with a grunt, no thanks, just muscle memory. They sit side by side, a careful foot of space between them, and light up.

Smoke coils into the air like fog refusing to rise.

“So,” Jimin says after a while, eyes fixed on the gravel. “How long were you gonna let me walk in blind?”

His voice is calm, but there's an edge beneath it — not quite anger, but something sharper than discomfort. Curiosity laced with a quiet accusation.

Mr. Lee exhales slowly. “Didn’t think you’d last a week.”

Jimin snorts. “Great vote of confidence.”

“You’d be surprised how many don’t make it past one shift.”

That gets Jimin’s attention. He turns to look at him, cigarette burning low between two fingers.

“Because of him?”

Mr. Lee inhales again, eyes narrowed toward nothing in particular. "Who?"

"You know who."

Mr. Lee paused, “Partly.”

“…Is he dangerous?”

The question hangs.

Mr. Lee doesn’t answer immediately. Just flicks the ash off his cigarette, watching it scatter onto the dirt.

“Depends on what you mean by that,” he says eventually.

Jimin’s brow furrows. “I mean, is he going to kill me?”

“No,” Mr. Lee replies, not even blinking.

“But something’s… off. He watches me. And.. he took my snack.”

That earns the smallest hint of amusement. A low, mirthless chuckle.

“He likes sweets.”

Jimin narrows his eyes. “You’re being cryptic on purpose.”

“Would you believe the truth?”

“I’ve seen worse things in two nights than I ever wanted to,” Jimin mutters. “Try me.”

Mr. Lee hums, like he's weighing something. The porch light above them flickers again — a brief burst of brightness, then back to that sickly hum.

“…Fair enough,” he says finally.

Silence stretches. Crickets chirp like static on a dying radio.

Then Mr. Lee speaks again, quieter this time. Like a confession, or maybe a warning wrapped in a bedtime story.

“Some say this place is a seam — a stitched-together edge between here and... something else. The kind of place where things slip through the cracks. Not all at once. Not always loud. But just enough.”

Jimin tilts his head, listening. Carefully. Like the air itself might eavesdrop.

“Time doesn’t behave the same after 1 a.m.,” Mr. Lee continues. “Not here.”

Jimin swallows, the taste of ash bitter on his tongue. “You mean like… the dead hours? A liminal space?” he asks, the words tumbling out as he recalls what Taehyung had mentioned not long ago.

“That’s what some call it,” Mr. Lee nods. “But not all who wander through it are dead.”

That chills Jimin more than he expects. There’s something about the way he says it — soft, unblinking — that feels too honest to dismiss.

“And him?”

Another drag. Mr. Lee’s eyes stay forward, unreadable.

“He’s part of it. Or maybe he’s something the place made to keep things from getting worse.”

Jimin’s voice lowers. “Is he even a ghost?”

A pause. Then a slow shake of the head.

“I'm not sure either.”

Silence again. Not the kind that’s empty, but the kind that leans in and waits.

Jimin thinks of the snack vanishing from the counter. Of the aisle lights flickering in rhythm with something unseen. Of eyes in the dark that didn’t blink, even when he ran.

He flicks the cigarette aside, letting it die in the dirt.

Then he asks, “What’s his name?”

Mr. Lee finally looks at him — really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes now.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I can’t keep calling him ‘him.’”

“You want to humanize it?”

Jimin doesn’t flinch. “I want to talk to him.”

Mr. Lee doesn’t say anything at first.

He just takes a slow drag, eyes fixed on the gravel like he’s trying to read something there. When he finally speaks, it’s casual — too casual, like he’s avoiding the weight of the question.

“I don’t know his name.”

Jimin watches him, skeptical. “Really?”

Mr. Lee shrugs. “Maybe I did at some point. I dunno. Memory’s weird. You see something enough times, it stops needing a name.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “That’s not creepy at all.”

“Didn’t mean it to be,” Mr. Lee mutters, then leans forward to flick ash off his cigarette.

“Well, there was something, though. Back before the remodel. When the stockroom was a mess — cracked walls, old shelves, weird smell that never went away.”

Jimin waits.

“One night, I found some writing on the wall,” Mr. Lee says. “Behind a rack of expired energy drinks. Looked like it’d been scratched in with… I don’t know, something sharp. Knife, maybe. Or a key.”

Jimin frowns. “What did it say?”

“Letter, jagged as hell. Took me a second to even realize it was a name. Let me see if I still have the photo.”

He pulls out his phone and scrolls, thumb slow against the cracked screen. After a while, he finds the photo and passes it over.

It’s blurry, washed out by the flash, but clear enough to see the wall.

Down near the bottom, scratched deep into old concrete, the name: 정국.

“…Jungkook,” Jimin murmurs, mouth dry.

He stares at the screen like it might blink back at him.

Behind them, the wind picks up just slightly. The kind of breeze that smells like rain that never comes. Jimin glances over his shoulder.

Nothing there.

Still, the lights inside the station flicker once.