The ceiling was white.
Too white.
Gin Chan stared up at it, unmoving, his arms tucked under a stiff hospital blanket. A name tag scratched against his wrist.
KIM SEOJIN
Not his name. But for now, it was.
There was a dull throbbing at the base of his skull — not pain exactly, but the pressure of something cracking beneath the surface. He blinked, slowly, and listened.
The ward was too quiet.
Not peaceful. Quiet in the way that made silence feel like a trick. Somewhere in the distance, a wheeled tray squeaked. A nurse murmured behind glass. Then nothing.
This wasn't a hospital. Not really.
It had the sterile smell of bleach and alcohol. The soft-soled steps. The fake smiles. But something underneath gnawed at the walls — like the place itself was rotting from the inside.
They called it The Sonder Institute, a private mental facility nestled in the hills, secluded, always foggy.
He had come here with a plan. Gin had begged Death to place him in a position of advantage — and in a moment of strange humor, it had honored the request.
But this time, Gin wasn't a fighter.
He was a patient.
A man diagnosed with a web of memory loss, dissociative identity disorder, trauma-induced hallucinations. And worst of all — some of it might be true.
---
Day 1.
He played along. Calm, quiet, responsive.
Routine was essential.
Group therapy at 9.
Meditation at 11.
Lunch at 12:30.
Evaluation at 4.
Lights out at 9.
The guards weren't called guards — they were "orderlies." But they carried shock batons, and they smiled too wide.
The other patients ranged from manic to muted. Some muttered to themselves in corners. Others stared, endlessly, at walls. Some, like Gin, were lucid.
He made a mental map. Two floors. One medical wing. One locked basement — off-limits. Every second night, someone "recovered" and was "discharged."
Too neat.
Too fast.
Gin decided he'd leave the same way. Quietly. Officially. On his terms.
---
Day 3.
The hallucinations began.
He saw a young girl in the reflection of a water glass. She mouthed the word "Thread."
He looked again. Just water.
His name — Kim Seojin — began to feel less like a mask and more like a memory. Was this body really Gin's? Or had something split?
By the time he was in bed that night, he wasn't sure if he was a spy, a ghost, or a sick man dreaming of past lives that never were.
---
Day 5.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
So he wandered.
The corridor lights dimmed after 10 p.m. A gentle chime played every hour.
He passed Room 27 — where they said Jeong Min, a paranoid delusional with a tendency to hum classical music, lived. It was empty.
Gin blinked.
He was "discharged" yesterday.
But then Gin heard it — a groan.
Distant.
Wet.
He turned the corner just in time to see two orderlies dragging a limp body — someone half-awake, limping, struggling weakly. The man's mouth moved but no words came.
It was Jeong Min.
Still here.
Still alive.
But not walking out the front door.
They turned a corner and vanished behind a grey security door that Gin had never seen open.
His skin crawled.
His plan changed.
---
Day 6.
Gin kept to himself. Ate. Smiled. Nodded.
But his mind spun.
If people weren't leaving… where were they going?
He needed help. But he didn't trust anyone — until she spoke to him.
Her name was Yuri Bae.
A quiet patient. Looked twenty, might've been older. Sharp eyes. Fidgety hands. Too coherent to belong here.
Gin still remember her mental condition by heart as he tried his best to remember their names and their diagnosis
Diagnosis: Schizoaffective Disorder (Depressive Type)
This means she experiences:Episodes of depression
Occasional delusions or hallucinations
But unlike full schizophrenia, she has long periods of clarity and logic
She struggles to distinguish dreams from reality under stress, especially at nights
At lunch, she sat across from him and whispered:
"You saw it too, didn't you?"
Gin's eyes narrowed.
She smiled faintly. "Room 27."
Even Gin himself is surprised on how she found out
It makes her a credible but unreliable ally — Gin sometimes questions if her suspicions are real or delusional.
It explains why staff overlooked her intelligence — they believe she's "lost in her own world."
They didn't speak again until later that evening — during free hour. In the courtyard, pretending to count pigeons, she told him everything.
"I've been here two months," she said. "And they've discharged seventeen patients. None of them made it past the gate."
"How do you know?"
"I watch the garbage trucks."
"…Garbage trucks?"
"They go to the back door. Always full when they leave. Always midnight."
---
Day 7.
Yuri stole a lanyard. A real ID — clipped from an unsuspecting warden during lights-out.
Gin memorized the layout of the outer hallway. They agreed to check the grey door the next night. No backup. No time.
He felt his thoughts getting noisier. Every time he passed a mirror, he expected to see a different face. Sometimes, he did.
But he kept moving. One foot. Then the other.
---
Day 8.
2:23 a.m.
They slipped out through the medication wing.
The ID beeped green. The grey door hissed open.
Behind it — stairs.
Cold, concrete, unlit.
They descended in silence.
Below was not a lab. Not at first.
Just a wide corridor filled with metal lockers, oxygen tanks, gurneys.
Then — rooms.
Rooms with reinforced glass.
And people.
People hooked up to machines. IVs. Sedated. Labeled not by names, but numbers.
One room held a small girl. Maybe 12. Breathing faintly. Unmoving.
Another room — body parts preserved in tanks. Eyes. Lungs. Spines.
Organ trafficking.
Great question — let's solidify Yuri Bae's mental condition so it integrates perfectly with the narrative and adds emotional complexity.
"Hurry—" he whispered.
But Yuri stopped. Her eyes wide, frozen
"He's here," she said, trembling. "My brother. They took him too."
"Yuri, we don't have time—"
She suddenly screamed.
A bone-deep, guttural cry that echoed through the corridor.
"HE'S HERE! I KNOW HE'S HERE!"
Gin tried to pull her back, but it was too late. Boots pounded. Alarms shrieked.
This lets her disorder humanize the moment but also sabotage them realistically.
By the time he could have closed her mouth.....
It was too late.
---
Day 9.
Gin couldn't remember how long they were out. Maybe hours. Maybe days.
He awoke strapped to a metal chair. A light above. A figure in a mask.
"You weren't scheduled," the voice said calmly. "But you're early. That's fine. We'll make do."
Yuri was beside him — unconscious. They had injected her with something. Her skin pale. Mouth open.
Gin screamed.
They ignored him.
---
What they did next, Gin wouldn't remember clearly. Only flashes.
A needle in his spine.
Voices calling out vitals.
Laughter.
Heat.
Cold.
A man saying, "This one has neural decay. Look at that scar tissue."
Another: "Can't sell him? Let's feed him to the dogs that are hungry
Pain.
White.
Then…
---
Darkness.
---
The Realm of Stillness.
He stumbled into the void, blood dripping from his temple.
Death sat cross-legged, flipping through a book.
It looked up.
"You again?" it said, dryly. "Didn't I warn you this place eats the curious?"
Gin didn't speak.
His jaw trembled.
Death leaned in, mock-serious.
"So… how did you die this time? Let me guess — decapitation? Drowning in acid?"
"…kidney failure," Gin muttered.
Death blinked. "Oh."
He sank to his knees.
Yuri. Her face. Her scream. His failure.
"I didn't… get to save her…"
Death raised a brow. "You never do."
Gin lifted his head. "I saw what they were doing. I know now."
He opened his palm.
No drive. No object.
But he remembered.
The name on one of the documents — NEXCORE.
Beneath it:
"Sonder Institute - Property Division D3"
He met Death's gaze. "They're in the hospital. The Syndicate owns the building."
Death smiled, slow and terrible.
"Well. Took you long enough."
Gin's breath shuddered. "I'm… tired."
"I know."
"…Am I going mad?"
Death chuckled. "You were never sane to begin with, darling. You keep living lives you can't remember — how do you expect your mind to keep up?"
Gin wiped blood from his lip.
Then stood.
"Send me back
."
Death shrugged.
"No requests this time?"
Gin stared into the void.
"Just send me somewhere I still have a chance."
Death grinned.
"Oh, Gin Chan… every life is a chance. Some just end faster than others."
The world tilted.
And began again.
---
To be continued…