“I’ve seen things, mortal. Unspeakable things,” Archibald squawked, his beady eyes fixed on the people of the office.

“You haven’t, Baldy,” Lila retorted, her patience waning faster than a melting snowflake in July.

“They were big, red, and had horns,” Archibald continued, as if auditioning for a dramatic monologue. Lila resisted the urge to throw a crumb at him. Maybe it would shut him up.

“Nice one. But shut up, Baldy,” she muttered, adjusting her spectacles. The office air smelled of ancient parchment and Enlai’s questionable cologne—a blend of mothballs and desperation.

Archibald flapped his wings, interrupting their banter. “Archibald knows everything!” he screeched.

“You know Lila, I feel he actually has,” Enlai interjected.

This time, Lila wanted to snap his neck in two—Enlai’s, not Archibald’s. The parrot had become their unofficial mascot, spouting cryptic nonsense like a caffeinated oracle. Enlai claimed Archibald was the reincarnation of an ancient scribe, but Lila suspected he was just a taxidermy project gone awry.

And this tattletale was thanks to her best friend’s commitment to the birds and family.

Lila wondered if Herman had been a monk or a medieval stand-up comedian.

She turned her head to find Enlai brushing dust off some old pages. She could very positively say those were devoid of any the dirt he was brushing off, but it didn’t matter.

Anyone from the outside would think things were just fine, but Lila knew better.

Their office—more cluttered than a dragon’s hoard—held relics from forgotten eras. Situated in the heart of Seogwipo, adjacent to the largest museum of South Korea, it held nothing of what it should. On their table, a chipped goblet sat next to a broken quill, both labelled “God’s Last Sip” and “God’s Final Scribble.” Random computers sat across the hall like room, with small cubicles attained to different works and projects.

Their latest project had everyone buzzing—the ruins of the long-lost monastery where Herman the Recluse had allegedly lived. Herman, the enigmatic monk who subsisted on acorns and cryptic crossword puzzles the medieval version, of course, had vanished without a trace.

“Look at this. Remarkable,” Lila murmured, her voice echoing through the silent room. “This was the scriptorium, where Herman transcribed sacred texts by candlelight.” She held her tab up for Enlai to see.

Enlai nodded, his weathered face etched with reverence. He dumped the big box of photographs on their shared table he had retrieved from the section of inscribes. “The inkwells, the quills—they hold the wisdom of ages. Each stroke of the pen was a prayer.”

She traced her fingers along the faded frescoes of the photographs. “And here, the cloister. The monks would walk in contemplation, seeking solace or something.”

Enlai’s gaze wandered to another photograph, the broken altar. “This was where he found enlightenment,” he said softly. “Amongst the dust and echoes.”

Lila raised an eyebrow. “Enlightenment, Enlai? Or just a really good cryptic clue for heresy?”

Enlai chuckled, a rare glimmer of mirth. “Perhaps both. The answers lie hidden, waiting to be deciphered.”

“Are you good?” All this while she had pushed back her overworking head but not anymore.

“Is it that obvious?” Enlai’s voice, usually buoyant, now carried the weight of unspoken fears. He had been a bit lost these past few days, especially after they had visited that penthouse.

But he thought he was covering it up pretty well. He would show up at the office, work monotonously, joke and leave.

Enlai settled into the chair, the wood creaking under the burden of their shared silence as he looked up at Lila.

Lila nodded, more like prodding him to go on and likewise he did.
“Yuhok has gone to Seoul to get the formalities done, about the money and all. I don’t know Lila,” he bit his lips, pondering if he was being right keeping Yuhok’s past from his best friend, but then it wasn’t his story to tell.

“He never had a good relationship with his father,” Lila finished the thought. She knew the weight of fractured bonds—the echoes of unspoken words. “And now he’s gone.”

“He hasn’t cried,” Enlai confessed. “Not once. As if grief is a locked chamber he refuses to enter.”

“And I thought you were scared of being rich suddenly!” Lila gawked, taken aback to find a stern looking him throwing daggers at her.
“Sorry,” she bit back her tongue. “Maybe he doesn’t feel that much,” she suggested softly. “Or maybe he feels too much.”

“I disagree. That man can cry seeing a cat give birth so you tell me.”

“You barely know him for a year, haven’t met anyone from his family apart from that estranged brother of his. I don’t doubt Yuhok specially after seeing him get a house in your name instead of his own. But,” Lila went silent, her mind didn’t.

He looked away, wrestling with unspoken truths. He knew what Lila suggested, but he was sure there was no game. “He loves me,” Enlai said, his voice barely audible. “Look at him and look at me. What do I have to offer? And the things he’s shown me, Lila…”

“Fear,” she whispered. “We’re all afraid, Enlai. Of love, of loss.”

He met her gaze, vulnerability laid bare. “I understand,” he said. “But sometimes love defies reason. It’s not about what we have—it’s about what we share.”

Lila crept a hand around him, holding him close.
“If this helps, Enlai, I have a licensed gun on my name. So, you know whom you need to come to.”

Laughing at yet another antique by his best friend, Enlai got back to the box, digging for more stuff. They had moved deeper into the ruins, past fallen columns and moss-covered stones. Enlai’s notebook was filled with sketches—the curvature of an arch, the delicate tracery of a window. Lila, too, carried her own relics—a rosary worn smooth, a tattered psalter.

“When can we visit Podlazice?”

The question was thrown to the leader of the project, the senior historian, Mr. Kim. He sat at the end of the room—a relic himself, surrounded by piles of ancient sheets and relics. His pot belly strained against the buttons of his tweed jacket, and his thinning hair clung to his scalp like a stubborn memory. He was a man of few words and even fewer smiles.

“Never unless we get this project approved,” Mr. Kim declared, his voice as dry as the parchment scrolls they were studying. “Ten other countries are in a race with us for this one opportunity, so work on it!”

Enlai’s enthusiasm deflated faster than a punctured soufflé. “You could at least sugar coat it, seosang-nim?” he muttered. “Maybe add a sprinkle of hope or a dash of false promises?”

Mr. Kim raised an eyebrow. “Hope is for poets and politicians. We’re historians. Our job is to excavate truth, not sprinkle fairy dust. And with those three always running late, I don’t know if we can even complete this at all!”

Lila raised an eyebrow. “They will be here soon and we are working on a medieval scribe with a flair for drama and a strict competition seosang-nim. So, let’s try and be positive!”

Enlai leaned forward. “Positive, Lila? Where’s the fun in that? Imagine Lucifer hunched over parchment, muttering, ‘Across: Eternal Damnation. Down: Fiery Pit.’”

Lila sighed. “Enlai, the Devil’s Bible—Codex Gigas—is the largest medieval manuscript. It contains the entire Latin Vulgate Bible, medical texts, and—”

“—a full-page illustration of the devil,” Enlai interrupted. “Horns, pitchfork, the works. Probably his LinkedIn profile picture.”

Mr. Kim cleared his throat. “Enough jesting. Codex Gigas is a treasure. But let’s not forget Herman the Recluse.”

The sun burned low and they contemplated relics—the Devil’s Bible, Herman’s acorns, and Archibald, the parrot who’d seen those unspeakable things, mostly office politics.

…

“I swear I am like one more step away from Podlazice!”

Her key slid into the lock, and the door groaned open. The room was a mess—furniture draped in dust layers, photographs gathering mould, and the scent of decay clinging to the air. Three switches; the light, fan and the air conditioner turning on.

"And maa, I guess the next time I visit, I’ll bring Enlai and Yuhok with me. I am glad he found that tall giant," she said absentmindedly, placing a packet of mysterious ingredients on the dusty kitchen counter.

She was late and if that helped, they had done at least seventy percent of their research and embodied them too. So, it was win. And to celebrate it, she had planned to cook herself some dakgalbi and call her mother.

Getting inside her room, she sorted through the heap of clothes on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. Choosing that one old and soft set of cloth she went inside the bathroom putting her mother’s call on speaker.

"At least you should have told him. He should know you love him!" her mother's voice urged, breaking through Lila's thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, she interrupted her mother, the water from the faucet splashing against her tired face. "It doesn't help, ma. He doesn't like me. He doesn't like women," she confessed quietly, the weight of unrequited feelings settling in her chest like a stone. Her mother didn’t understand it, probably didn’t want to because she loved Lila more than understanding it.

"I'll talk to you later."

Lila groaned and hung up the phone with her mother. She couldn't help but feel guilty for disobeying her advise to tell Enlai the truth. She knew her feelings for him were strong, yet she also knew the harsh reality that he would never reciprocate those feelings. Enlai, her colleague and friend, had made it clear that his heart belonged to someone else, someone who wasn't her.

Changing into the pair of loose pyjamas she led into her kitchen.

Lost in her thoughts, Lila mechanically began preparing the ingredients for the dakgalbi, a dish she had mastered over the years. Cooking had always been her escape, a way to distract herself from the complexities of life.

The stove stood still, its burners cold and indifferent. Lila’s fingers traced the familiar contours—the pot now sat on the flame, drops of grease awaiting the heat. She reached for the knife block, its blades eager for fresh blood.

The onion yielded to her blade, its layers parting like veils. The blade slipped, and she winced as it sliced through her finger. Blood welled up, crimson against the pale onion flesh. She clenched her teeth, determined not to let the pain distract her. The water from the tap washed away the blood, but the sting remained as she went back to her task.

“Everything is a mess.”

Tears blurred her vision, mingling with red droplets. The pot simmered—a cauldron of her hunger. Lila stirred, her breath hitching as she added the slab of raw meat.

Then she heard it. It was a faint rustle, barely audible. The air tightened, as if the very fabric of existence was being tugged against an invisible power. Lila’s pulse quickened, her senses sharpening. She had dismissed the sound at first as a mere whisper of leaves or the house settling, but now it clawed at her consciousness.

The once-familiar room had transformed into a terrifying chamber. The ragged drapes hung like shrouds, with frayed edges from time and neglect. Moonlight seeped through the moth-eaten fabric, casting extended shadows on the floor. Lila's breath caught as she turned to face the corner where the darkness gathered—an emptiness inside a void.

A grotesque apparition lurked in the shadows. The huge mantis, its spiky limbs outstretched, clung to the wall like a malevolent omen. Its multifaceted eyes glowed with hunger, mirroring the man’s pathetic red gaze. The mantis’s exoskeleton bore scars etched in blood and moonlight.

And before it stood a man, if one could call him that. His form defied coherence, wavering between substance and smoke. His limbs stretched too long, disjointed, as if stitched together from forgotten nightmares. His eyes—were they even eyes—glinted with a pathetic red, like embers dying in the cold.

“What are you?” Lila whispered, her voice swallowed by the void. But there was no answer, only a sensation of teeth sinking into her mind.

With a sudden, violent motion, the man snatched the mantis from its resting place. The creature obeyed, its spindly legs flailing in. The man’s grip tightened, and he tore one of its limbs free. Ignoring the creature, the man brought the severed limb to his mouth. His teeth sank into the exoskeleton, cracking it open.

Her throat constricted. She had no time to react, no chance to scream. The man moved, swift and silent, crossing the room in a single stride. His fingers, cold as death, closed around her wrist—a vice that crushed bone. Lila’s scream was swallowed by the room, absorbed by the memories that clung to the walls—the laughter of childhood, the whispered secrets, the love that had blossomed and withered.

His touch seared her skin, leaving invisible marks that would forever brand her. The scarlet runes etched themselves into her flesh—a language of suffering, a pact with death itself. Lila’s veins pulsed with dread, and she glimpsed the truth—the man was not here for her body, but for something deeper, more insidious.

He drew her toward the open window, and the glass pane cracked, pieces glinting like evil stars. Lila's thoughts raced, wanting to escape. She kicked and clawed, but the guy was merciless. His face remained concealed by shadows, yet his intention was clear.

Outside, the night was thick with foreboding. The moon, a pale crescent, watched dispassionately. Lila’s feet left the ground, and she dangled there, half in and half out of her own room.

“I’ve seen things, mortal. Tell me!” He whispered, his breath icy against her cheek. “Tell me your deepest fear.”

Her mind then caught the leer, the voice so known and she quickly turned to look at the man, the eyes. “You?”

The mantis hissed—a sound that echoed through the room, reverberating in Lila’s bones.

Her mind raced. Enlai’s face flickered as the love unrequited. Her mother’s voice echoed like a plea for truth. But it was all insignificant. Her deepest fear returned, the horror of being engulfed by forces she could not fathom.

With one last, bone-chilling laugh, the guy leaped along with her. Lila fell, her screams drowned out by the pitch-black night. She caught a glimpse of his twisted smirk as she fell, revealing his malice and greed.

And then darkness claimed her.

Was she falling toward oblivion or toward something far more sinister?
But that limbless mantis sat up her window, watching her with a still gaze.