The Middle Eastern folktale known as the “Arabian Nights (One Thousand and One Nights)” —that name was both a legend and a curse.
Scheherazade’s thousand nights of survival. Every night, she told a new story to the king—to delay death, to stay alive. But—
There was one part never recorded. From the 901st to the 1001st night—a span of 100 days.
In an ancient manuscript, rarely discovered, those nights were described like this:
“On the 901st night, Scheherazade stopped telling her stories,
and from that day on, the entire kingdom was seized by a strange laughter.”
When her tales ran dry, death returned to knock. But then, from the shadows, a voice whispered:
“I can give you what you want. The power to drive the king mad forever.
But in return—you must accept me.”
Scheherazade surrendered, not to fear, but to a deeper feeling—hatred. That moment, the king became addicted to a laughter unknown to man, and the kingdom was erased from history.
Since then, those nights became taboo—unspoken, forgotten.
Seoul, Winter 2024.
Kang Dohyun, 28.
He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. Or rather, he chose to forget. Smiling was a luxury, and even his tears had dried.
Every month, he told himself: “Just get through this month. It’ll get better.” And every month, that hope became poison.
Five microloan apps. Three months of overdue rent. He clung to whatever work he could find—temp jobs, day labor, even late-night driving gigs—but nothing lasted.
His friends gradually faded away:
“Sorry, I’m tight this month too…”
“You seem really down lately…”
“You’ve always been diligent. I’m sure you’ll bounce back.”
Words spoken by people who didn’t understand. Empty comfort that only deepened the void.
The guilt of having to accept help from the few who still cared—it silenced even his gratitude. Now, there was no one left to call. Nowhere left to return to.
He stepped into the bathroom and stood before the mirror. A pale face, swollen eyes, cracked lips.
The reflection no longer looked human.
He unwrapped a razor blade from a towel. His fingers trembled.
“Maybe… if just one person called my name right now—”
He opened his notepad app and typed:
“I held on too long. There’s no meaning left.”
Then, a strange noise—the old heater fan started spinning. And from within his ears, a voice:
“You said that… three years ago too.”
Suddenly, his phone screen went black. And in the mirror, a line of text appeared:
“Do you want to smile? Or—do you just want to disappear?”
Dohyun froze, eyes locked onto the mirror. A vague silhouette stared back at him.
A flood of fear rose within him. His breath caught. A chill raced down his spine.
He instinctively turned away from the mirror and flung open the bathroom door.
The sensation was relentless—like something was following, pressing down on him. He passed through the living room, halted briefly at the front door.
Then, with a final breath, he opened it—
And stepped into the frozen winter night.
He wandered through damp, shadowy alleys. Flyers clung to the wet pavement. Scribbled messages lined the walls.
“The 901st night will return.”
Then—the smell of smoke.
A man in a black hoodie stood beneath a flickering streetlight.
“That face… looks like you don’t want to live anymore.”
Dohyun froze.
“…Who are you?”
The man approached, silent, and handed him a small glass vial. A red smile etched into its surface. Below it, the word—
Toxid
“This isn’t medicine. It’s a choice.”
“One sip, and you go back to the moment you were still human.”
He whispered:
“Remember when your little sister hugged you, crying? You said, ‘I’ll protect you.’”
The memory stabbed into his heart.
“You haven’t laughed or cried since. This isn’t escape—it’s restoration.”
“One sip, and all the pain disappears. All that’s left is the smile.”
Dohyun uncorked the bottle. A crimson mist drifted upward. Memories unfurled like smoke.
And he drank.
A golden hallway stretched endlessly. Murals and stone pillars lined its walls.
At its end stood a stone mask, smiling. But its eyes—were shattered into red Xs.
He fell to his knees.
“The 901st night…”
His expression froze. His lips curled into an eerie, immovable smile.
Seoul, Sinchon.
Dohyun lay collapsed in an alley. His vitals were normal, but he was unconscious.
And on his lips—a smile that refused to fade.
“The 901st night…”
An ambulance siren wailed.
“This… isn’t just a drug reaction.”
The vehicle raced toward Samhwa Medical Center.
Meanwhile, in the shadows of the city, something was spreading—silently, undeniably.
“One Thousand and One Nights.”
She told a new story every night. To delay death. To gain another tomorrow.
But for one span—a hundred nights—there were no tales.
From the 901st to the 1001st night.
“That night, Scheherazade stopped telling stories,
and the kingdom was consumed by eerie laughter.”
The official records vanished.
And now—
The tale awakens once more.
Its name is—
Toxid.
“…The story has only just begun.”
