Chapter Text
The first thing Baekhyun noticed when he opened his eyes was the quiet. Morning light poured gently through the curtains, painting soft gold across the sheets that still smelled faintly of Chanyeol’s cologne. The other side of the bed was empty, but the warmth lingering there told him he had not been gone long.
For a moment, Baekhyun let himself sink deeper into the silence, eyes half-closed as he replayed the night before. The laughter. The kisses. The way Chanyeol had looked at him like he was something worth believing in. It was strange how calm he felt now, when he knew today was supposed to terrify him.
His first day at Park Clothing.
The thought pulled him upright. He stretched, the sunlight hitting his bare shoulders. It felt so real he was almost afraid to move too fast and break the spell. From the kitchen, he heard the clink of mugs and a low, rhythmic hum.
He padded into the kitchen and stopped, leaning against the doorframe. The sight was dangerous: Chanyeol, barefoot with messy hair, holding a spatula like it was a tactical weapon. “So, you weren’t actually bluffing about the cooking thing.”
Chanyeol glanced over his shoulder. “You doubted me?”
“I mean, you don’t exactly scream ‘domestic god.’” Baekhyun slid closer to peek at the pan.
Chanyeol laughed. “I can be full of surprises.”
Baekhyun hummed, squinting at the eggs. “We’ll see. I’m a very harsh critic. My Yelp reviews are legendary.”
“Careful,” Chanyeol said, leaning in until his breath brushed Baekhyun’s ear. “You might fall in love all over again. It’ll be embarrassing.”
Baekhyun’s smile widened, his heart doing that annoying little flip it always did. “A bit too late for that, don’t you think?”
“I know,” Chanyeol murmured, stepping back to plate the food. “You’re obsessed with me. It’s fine.”
Baekhyun rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed on his lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“Insufferably charming,” Chanyeol corrected, plating the eggs. “Sit. Chef’s orders.”
Baekhyun sat, the smell of coffee and butter doing battle with the nerves in his stomach. He’d been awake for hours mentally rehearsing his first day at Park Clothing.
Chanyeol set a plate down. “Protein, carbs, and confidence. You’ll need all three.”
Baekhyun huffed a laugh, stirring his coffee. “It feels like a massive HR violation that my boss is making me breakfast before my shift.”
“I prefer to think of it as executive leadership,” Chanyeol smirked, leaning back in his chair.
“You’re lucky you’re hot, or I’d report you for favoritism so fast.”
“Please,” Chanyeol said, his voice dropping as he reached across the table to brush his thumb over Baekhyun’s knuckles. “You earned that spot. Your portfolio did the talking, not me. You know that, right?”
The teasing faded. Baekhyun looked down at their hands. “I know. I just don’t want people thinking I’m just… the CEO’s plus-one.”
“They won’t,” Chanyeol assured him, his gaze steady and grounding. “And if they do, let them. You’ll shut them up the second you open your sketchbook.”
Baekhyun smiled, the knot in his chest loosening. “You’re surprisingly good at the whole motivational speaker thing.”
“That’s because I’ve seen what you can do.” Chanyeol’s lips curved into a soft grin. “And maybe I just like bragging about my favorite designer.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably supportive,” Chanyeol teased, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Now eat, Mr. Junior Designer. You’ve got a world to conquer or whatever it is you do.”
Baekhyun took a sip of his coffee, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. The sunlight spilled across the table, catching Chanyeol’s hair, and for a brief moment Baekhyun forgot about the nerves, the expectations, the company politics.
By the time Baekhyun finished breakfast, the morning light had grown brighter, filling the apartment with a calm kind of energy that made it harder to leave. Chanyeol was still by the counter, rinsing the dishes, sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly put together in a way that shouldn’t be legal before eight in the morning.
“The driver’s waiting downstairs,” Chanyeol said, glancing over his shoulder. “First impressions are everything. Don’t be late.”
Baekhyun paused, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Wait, you’re not coming with me? I thought we were doing the whole power-couple entrance.”
Chanyeol dried his hands, a shadow of hesitation crossing his face. “I wish I could, but I have a situation I need to handle first. Irene got reports from the village nearby Seoul. Something worth checking. Might give us a lead on the curse.”
Baekhyun’s stomach twisted. He shifted his weight, trying to play it cool even as nerves spiked under his skin. “Shouldn’t I come too? If it’s about the curse, I need to know, right?”
Chanyeol shook his head once. “Could be nothing. Just rumors. Loose ends.” He met Baekhyun’s eyes. “I need you to trust me that I will tell you everything that you need to know. Can you do that for me?”
Baekhyun bit the inside of his lip, gaze dropping for a second before flicking back up. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders loosening just a fraction.
“…Yeah. Okay.”
“Good.” Chanyeol stepped into his space, reaching out to straighten Baekhyun’s collar. His touch was grounding, lingering for a second too long. “You’re going to kill it,” he said softly. “Just remember to breathe. Don’t let them get in your head.”
Baekhyun smiled, leaning briefly into his touch. “You always say that.”
“Because it always works,” Chanyeol replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Minutes later, Baekhyun was in the back of the black sedan, the city blurring past tinted windows. The limo slowed to a stop in front of a building that looked nothing like what Baekhyun had imagined.
Park Clothing rose above the street in clean glass and steel, its façade sharp and minimal yet undeniably bold. The company logo stretched across the entrance in matte black letters, understated but impossible to ignore. It was smaller than the Park Winery headquarters, less grand in scale but far more striking. Where the winery spoke of tradition and refinement, this one felt alive, modern, and fearless. The contrast between them reflected Chanyeol perfectly, a man rooted in legacy but unafraid to build something entirely his own.
Baekhyun sat back for a moment, staring out the window as the city light glinted across the glass façade. Even from here, the building had a presence. It did not need size to command attention; it had style, and it knew it.
“Good morning. What can I help you with?” the receptionist asked as soon as he arrived inside the lobby.
“Good morning. I’m Baekhyun, the new junior designer,” he said, approaching the lobby desk with a nervous smile.
“Of course.” She tapped a few keys, her eyes scanning a monitor.“Third floor. See Mr. Huang Zitao; he handles the new hires.” She slid a temporary ID across the counter. “Trade this back once your official one is ready.”
Baekhyun clipped the lanyard on and headed up. When the elevator doors opened to the third floor, he was met with a vibrant blur of activity. Designers leaned over screens or pinned fabric to mannequins in a space filled with color and quiet conversation. After a moment of searching, he found the door he needed: Mr. Huang Zitao – Senior Designer.
He took a steadying breath and knocked.
“Come in,” a sharp voice called.
“Third floor. See Mr. Huang Zitao; he handles the new hires.” She slid a temporary ID across the counter. “Trade this back once your official one is ready.”
Baekhyun clipped the lanyard on and headed up. When the elevator doors opened to the third floor, he was met with a vibrant blur of activity. Designers leaned over screens or pinned fabric to mannequins in a space filled with color and quiet conversation. After a moment of searching, he found the door he needed: Mr. Huang Zitao – Senior Designer.
He took a steadying breath and knocked.
“Come in,” a sharp voice called.
Zitao led the way through the floor, his stride calm and assured. Baekhyun followed closely behind, trying to keep his eyes from darting around too much. The space was bigger than it looked from the elevator, bright and full of movement. Sunlight poured in from the tall windows, washing over bolts of fabric, open sketchbooks, and racks of half-finished garments.
“This is the heart of the operation,” Zitao said, waving a hand at the rows of worktables. “Prototypes, mood boards, and a lot of caffeine. We keep it open-plan. Better for the vibes, apparently.”
Baekhyun scanned the room, seeing designers pinned to their screens or aggressively draping fabric over mannequins. It was the high-energy chaos he’d always dreamed of.
They stopped at a sleek workstation by a floor-to-ceiling window. “This is you. The natural light is elite for sketching, so don’t waste it.”
“It’s perfect, sir,” Baekhyun said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Zitao crossed his arms, his look turning clinical. “I need to see if you’ve actually got the vision or if you’re just good at interviews. We’re closing out the ‘Urban Rebellion’ line. Think daring, think ‘I might start a riot but make it fashion.’ You get it?”
Baekhyun’s pulse spiked. “Urban rebellion. Got it.”
“Two designs. You have until lunch. Just show me how you translate a concept, and don’t overthink it.” Zitao’s expression softened just a fraction. “Relax. You’re here for a reason.”
As Zitao walked away, Baekhyun stared at the blank white page. He took a shaky breath, whispering to himself, “Okay, Baek. Riot but make it fashion. Let’s go.”
He bent over the page, the world fading into the soft scratch of graphite as the first line took shape.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
“There have been several reports that Jinwoo’s last descendant once lived here.”
Chanyeol’s brows furrowed as he listened, his eyes fixed on the weathered facade of the small house before them. The wood had lost its color to years of rain and sun, and the paint peeled like brittle parchment. Still, there was something about it that drew him in, something quiet and heavy, as if the place itself remembered too much.
“And there are rumors,” Irene continued, checking her tablet, “that the family who lived here had deep beliefs in reincarnation.”
Chanyeol’s interest piqued. “Reincarnation?”
“The house was full of signs,” Irene said, lowering her voice. “When the city tried to catalog the place years ago, they found symbols burned into the floorboards, jars sealed with hair and teeth, and portraits where the eyes were painted over with gold. The locals said the family believed the soul could be reborn only if it remembered its death.”
Chanyeol’s gaze drifted to the front door, where a faded talisman still clung to the wood. The paper was nearly colorless, but the dark script written on it had not faded at all.
“People heard chanting here long after the family was gone,” Irene added. “The same words, over and over.”
The wind picked up, brushing dead leaves across the steps. Chanyeol’s expression hardened. “Do we know what happened to them?”
Irene hesitated. “The reports say they all died. Cause of death undetermined.”
“Undetermined?” Chanyeol raised a brow.
“We have every reason to believe something supernatural is responsible for it.” Irene exhaled slowly. “Autopsy came back clean—no trauma, no poison, no organ failure they could pin down. Toxicology negative. Bodies just… stopped. Like someone flipped a switch.”
“Werewolves?”
Irene shook her head. “No claw marks or scent residue, but they’re the only ones with a motive right now.”
The air seemed to thicken between them. Chanyeol’s gaze returned to the house, its door slightly ajar as if it had been waiting for them. Without another word, he stepped forward, pushing it open. The hinges groaned, and the stale scent of rot and metal drifted out.
They entered carefully. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the faint smell of dried blood clung to the walls. Old furniture lay overturned, and broken glass glittered faintly in the dull light that filtered through the curtains. The air was heavy, unmoving, filled with the weight of something that once happened here and never truly left.
Strange symbols were smeared across the floor in dark red stains, their edges faded but still sharp enough to make Irene stop in her tracks. Some were drawn on the walls too, forming circles around what used to be a shrine in the corner of the room.
“And the point of this is?” Chanyeol asked, his voice low.
“We searched the entire house,” Irene replied, her voice unsteady. “There were ancestor portraits everywhere, but one was left specifically on the altar before they died.”
Chanyeol’s footsteps slowed as he moved toward the old shrine. The wooden table was still there, half-buried under dust, the frame of a single painting leaning against the wall.
Irene swallowed, her eyes fixed on it.
“It was Wang Eun’s portrait.”
Chanyeol stared at the painting, his breath stalling in his throat. It was Wang Eun—his face, his eyes, the exact softness he remembered from centuries ago. The likeness was so precise it felt impossible. Every brushstroke captured life where there should have been none, and those painted eyes seemed to look straight through him. For a moment, it felt like the world tilted, time folding in on itself. The air pressed heavy against his chest, and something deep inside him twisted with a forgotten ache. He hadn’t seen that face in lifetimes, yet here it was, alive on canvas, dragging him back to the wound he thought had long healed.
That face.
The reason behind everything.
“Why would they have this?” Chanyeol’s voice was a jagged whisper. For the first time, he looked fragile, the ancient weight of his grief pressing the air from his lungs. “Why was his face on their altar?”
“Chanyeol.” Irene hesitated, her throat tightening around the truth she wished she didn’t have to say. He had finally begun to live again, to find some trace of peace, and she knew this would break it. Still, she forced herself to continue. “Whatever they were doing at the altar before they died… it was completed. Someone came after, probably to stop it. But they were too late. The family was killed, but before that happened, they finished it.”
Irene tried to catch Chanyeol’s eyes, but he wasn’t really there. His gaze was fixed on the portrait, empty and distant, as if the rest of the world had fallen away. She knew, at that moment, that Chanyeol wasn’t with them anymore.
“Finished what?” he finally asked, his voice quiet as he tore his eyes away to meet hers.
“The ritual to bring Wang Eun back,” Irene said quietly. “There is a strong chance he is alive right now.”
“N-no way…”
The words tore through him like a blade twisting inside his chest. The room fell silent, swallowed by a sharp ringing in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs, useless for centuries, now fought for air that refused to come.
Then it struck. A sudden, violent pulse deep inside his chest so sharp it stole every ounce of breath he had left.
His heart.
A beat.
He gasped, staggering back as white-hot pain flooded through him. His knees hit the floor, hands gripping at his shirt as if he could tear the agony out.
It wasn’t just one beat this time.
It kept going.
A wild, furious rhythm pounding against his ribs, shaking him from the inside. It hurt—god, it hurt so much he thought his body would split apart from it.
How is this happening?
The pressure built, like fire spreading through his veins. Every pulse felt like a scream, a punishment, a reminder of everything he had buried. The walls blurred, the light dimmed, and all he could hear was the erratic, living drum inside him.
No way.
There’s no way.
The pain was unbearable. His vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges as his body gave in. He fell forward, the cold floor pressing against his cheek. And before the darkness took him completely, one thought clawed its way through the haze.
Baekhyun.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Chanyeol’s eyes fluttered open. Frost patterned the edges of the car windows, and pale winter light spilled across the leather seats. The driver’s hands were steady on the wheel, silent and careful, while snow pressed softly against the glass outside.
He was still trembling slightly. A phantom thrum lingered deep inside his chest, a reminder of the impossible rhythm that had just occurred.
Irene sat beside him, her coat wrapped tight. She looked alert but kept her voice level. “Don’t move too much. Are you back with us? What exactly happened back there?”
The memory hit him. That sudden, violent pain. His heart had thrashed like a living thing, pumping with a force he hadn’t felt in centuries. Now, there was only the hollow silence.
“It beat, Irene,” he said, his voice low and jagged. “A full rhythm. It was agonizing.”
“But it’s gone now.” Chanyeol shifted, his eyes darting to the front. Sehun was looking back from the shotgun seat, answering Chanyeol’s questioning look before he could ask. “I came as soon as I felt it.”
Irene’s brows knitted, looking between them. “I thought the pulse was tied strictly to Baekhyun.”
Irene’s brows knitted. “I thought the pulse was tied strictly to Baekhyun.”
“I thought so too,” Chanyeol muttered, slamming his hand against the car door. The window controls clicked and rattled under his fingers, a sharp, mechanical punctuation to his anger.
He couldn’t help the frustration boiling over. After centuries of chasing ghosts, he thought he was finally piecing the truth together. He had just found his key. Now, suddenly, the magic was no longer bound to his heartbeat—and his old lover might still be alive just as he was starting to let his heart bloom for someone new.
This had to be a fucking joke.
“Something is tied between them,” he said, turning to Irene with a look of sudden, piercing clarity. “Baekhyun and Wang Eun. There’s a knot in the timeline. We missed something in his records—something hidden in the gaps of his past.”
Sehun nodded. “Look, we have all his files and data, but we’re clearly missing the bigger picture. Like what if the fact that he’s Jinwoo’s direct descendant isn’t the answer? What if it’s just a clue?”
“If the records are clean, we look at the blood,” Irene suggested. “Maybe his grandmother is the link.”
“But how did Jinwoo’s line acquire a clairvoyant lineage? Someone married into that family, and that’s the connection we’re missing. Can you find that out?”
Irene nodded. “I can pull some strings, but it’s going to take time. And I don’t know if we have enough of it.”
“And it still doesn't explain the why,” Sehun added. “Why the hell would Jinwoo’s descendants go through all this trouble to reincarnate Wang Eun anyway? He’s ancient history to them. They have absolutely zero connection to the guy, so why drag him back to life? What’s his actual stake in this curse? Hyung, you said yourself he died way before you did.”
Chanyeol frowned as the layers of the curse seemed to multiply. Every answer just birthed a new question. “Whatever it is, we need to find him. If he’s really out there, he’s in danger.”
“If he actually reincarnated, he won’t be Wang Eun anymore,” Irene countered. “The soul might be the same, but he’ll be a completely different person. Finding him will be next to impossible.”
“We’re immortal. Time isn’t our problem,” Chanyeol replied. “The werewolves are. If they find him before we do, with all the resources we have, then we deserve whatever comes next.”
In reality, he did not care about the wolves, or the resources, or the danger.
Chanyeol clutched his chest, his fingers digging into his shirt as a fierce, hollow ache ripped through his entire being. It felt like his soul was physically stretching, trying to reach out across the world to find a ghost. He needed to know where Wang Eun was. He needed it with a desperation that threatened to break him. After centuries of absolute numbness, every atom in his body was suddenly screaming for that specific presence, demanding to know if he was safe, if he was whole, if he was truly back.
“So, what’s the plan?” Sehun asked, purposely ignoring the raw, agonizing conflict written all over his hyung’s face. “We have to search for Wang Eun, figure out how the clairvoyant bloodline fits into Jinwoo’s family tree, and oh, find out why your heart violently thrashed at the news of your ex, when Baekhyun is the one who’s supposed to be waking it up. Fuck, there’s too much to do and no timeline to do it in.”
The car fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. They were all waiting for a command, but Chanyeol’s mind was a storm of static and ghosts.
Sehun had laid out the facts—the logic, the mission, the cold reality of what needed to be done. But Chanyeol’s heart, the very thing that was supposed to be dead, was now a leaden weight dragging every thought back to Wang Eun. The physical ache in his chest was so consuming it felt like it might actually pull him through the floorboards.
“Check the grandmother’s line,” Chanyeol finally said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel. He didn’t look at them; he couldn’t. He just stared out the window at the passing blur of the city. “And Sehun, start the search. Use every contact, every shadow, every favor we’ve banked since the last century. If he exists in any form, I want to know exactly where he is before the sun goes down.”
“And Baekhyun?” Irene asked softly. “Are we going to tell him?”
Chanyeol’s hand tightened into a fist against his ribs. The name felt like a bruise he wasn’t ready to touch. “I’ll handle Baekhyun. Just find me my Wang Eun.”