Ding!
The elevator chime echoed through the hospital corridor.
As the doors slid open, Haim stepped out with a tense expression and made her way straight toward the ER.
Just moments ago, the ward had been relatively calm—but now, it was filled with eerie smiles and whispers of “The 901st Night.”
Doctors and nurses rushed to her side, their eyes a mix of relief and dread.
“Dr. Haim, we’ve been waiting for you.”
Dr. Yoon Jung-min hurried over and gave a quick report.
“According to police and social media, a mysterious substance called ‘Toxid’ is spreading. We screened for GHB, ketamine, fentanyl, cocaine—all major narcotics—but nothing came up.”
Dr. Yoon shook his head in dismay.
“Still, the patients keep murmuring about the ‘901st Night’ and wear those unnatural smiles. Even sedatives aren’t working… We have no idea what’s going on.”
Haim responded calmly.
“Toxid has long been rumored to have an undefined chemical structure. It’s possible it’s not detectable with standard screening.”
Dr. Yoon sighed.
“I can’t tell if this is a drug, some kind of mental contagion, or something else entirely. But they’re all repeating the exact same phrase—it’s disturbing.”
Haim closed her eyes briefly, recalling an old case file.
“Please, take me to them.”
Resident Park Do-yoon led her to a makeshift quarantine area.
There, a row of young patients lay in beds, each with the same strange smile.
- Eyes wide open, faces blank, only the lips curled in a grin.
- Murmuring “The 901st Night… Scheherazade…” in a trance.
- Twitching occasionally, whispering, “The smile… it keeps coming…”
One of the charts read: Kang Do-hyun, 28.
“He was found collapsed on the street, clutching a small glass vial labeled ‘Toxid.’ No chemicals were detected, but he’s been in a near-catatonic state, whispering the same words.”
Haim paused at the name.
“Oxygen saturation 96, pulse 82, temperature normal. But the smile won’t go away. It’s as if his muscles remember it.”
Just then, Kang Do-hyun slowly opened his eyes.
With a faint, distant gaze, he locked eyes with Haim and trembled.
“The 901st Night… she stopped speaking… Then why… why am I still smiling…?”
The nurses held their breath. Haim calmly checked his pulse and spoke.
“This isn’t a typical drug-induced state.”
Nurse Kim Sena whispered:
“Then what is it…? It’s not a drug, not an infection…”
Dr. Yoon muttered:
“Some kind of mental contagion? Mass psychosis? None of this makes sense.”
Haim exhaled deeply.
“It’s likely a case of narrative addiction.”
Park Do-yoon furrowed his brows.
“Narrative addiction? What exactly does that mean?”
Haim scanned the observation room, then explained:
“In short, it’s when a specific story structure triggers an addictive response in the psyche. In this case, it seems that the missing tale—the ‘901st Night’ of One Thousand and One Nights—has merged with Toxid to form a contagious narrative.”
Dr. Yoon still looked puzzled, but with no better explanation, he nodded slowly.
Just then, Kang Do-hyun’s eyes shot open again.
This time, he stared directly at Haim and whispered:
“You’re… the last storyteller, aren’t you…?”
The nurses were frozen. Haim felt a chill run down her spine.
The last storyteller.
That term had appeared frequently in old warning documents.
She never imagined it would surface again—let alone in real life.
Haim whispered to herself:
“So… the night has begun.”
At that moment, a hospital intercom alert blared.
Another patient was on the way.
“This time it’s a female patient, 19 years old. ETA: 2 minutes.”
Haim lifted her head.
The name “Scheherazade,” echoed in previous murmurs, resurfaced in her mind.
‘Could she be…?’
A creeping thought struck her.
This wasn’t random—it might be following a predetermined sequence of events.
And thus, the real story was about to begin.
