“Doctor! This patient is showing abnormal reactions!”
The quiet of the ER was shattered in an instant. One patient on the bed began convulsing violently.
The EKG monitor spiked erratically, and the medical team rushed over at once.
“Pulse dropping! Blood pressure below 60!” “Respiratory failure! Cardiac arrest imminent!”
Haim hurried to the scene. The patient’s eyes had rolled back, frozen in place, and the eerie smile on his face—had not disappeared.
“Prepare epinephrine!” “Initiating CPR!” “Defibrillator online—charging!”
The urgency in the staff’s voices grew sharper. The patient on the bed no longer moved.
“First defibrillation—clear.”
Click.
The body jerked.
But—the line remained flat.
“Second attempt!”
Another electric shock.
Still, no change. The heart refused to resume its beat.
“No response. Resuscitation failed.”
The monitor displayed absolute silence. The patient’s face was pale as death—yet his smile, etched deep on his lips, remained as if mocking them.
It was no ordinary facial expression. The muscles had stiffened beyond rigor mortis, as if imprinted by some unseen force.
Haim muttered, trembling faintly.
“The smiling mask…”
“Another patient! Abnormal reaction again!” “Over there too! Seizures beginning simultaneously!”
One shout after another. Similar reactions emerged across other beds, almost in sync.
Trembling bodies. Eyes closed, faces smiling blankly.
These reactions spread every three minutes, as though an infection sequence was being activated—a narrative contagion, now in motion.
Nurse Yoonji spoke in a shaky voice.
“This is… narrative activation. It’s no coincidence.”
Haim stared down at the patient who had just died.
“This is not an ordinary death. —A life was taken by the story itself.”
At that moment, the ER’s surveillance recording systems booted up automatically.
“Recording activated. Emergency protocol Level 4 recommended.”
Even the mechanical voice felt ominous. The lights throughout the ER dimmed slightly.
Then, the overhead lights flickered at once. On the display that had been tracking time of death, an unfamiliar message appeared:
"His death marked the beginning of the 902nd Night."“902nd…?”
Director Yoon’s eyes widened.
“Not the 901st night—the next chapter has begun?”
Haim, staring at the message, murmured:
“The narrative has shifted forward. Someone—or something—is now directing its own flow.”
Just then, one patient abruptly sat up. Before the staff could reach him— his eyes remained shut, yet he stared into space and spoke.
“The narrator has collapsed. Await the next storyteller.”
His voice was mechanical, cold, as if pre-recorded.
“All preparations are complete. The story continues.”
Haim, regaining composure, scribbled in his notes:
"Narrative leap confirmed — transition to 902nd Night"
"Death = Possible boundary function between narrative chapters"He immediately turned to Director Yoon.
“We need to reanalyze the infection patterns. If the 901st Night was the prologue, this is now the core— the story has entered its main phase.”
Yoon nodded gravely.
“We’ll review all cross-disciplinary data—psychiatry, addiction, linguistics.”
Just then, an alarm rang from Serin’s room. Both Haim and Director Yoon rose from their seats at once.
At the center of the commotion— Serin lay unconscious, unchanged on the bed, but her right hand was again moving through the air.
This time, her movement formed visible letters. In utter silence, Haim transcribed the motion aloud.
"Transferring authority to the next narrator"
"Act II overture—You are the narrator."Haim repeated the phrase, reflecting on its meaning. Then he whispered:
“So… it’s time to choose.”
The waiting room screen flickered, displaying a new question:
"Who is the narrator?"Haim raised his eyes. No longer just a researcher.
“The inside and outside of the story… are starting to connect.”
