2:11 a.m.

  That’s how I remember it—

  so I won’t forget.

  My phone buzzed once.

  It wasn’t an unfamiliar number.

  And at that hour, I already knew who it was.

  My fingers trembled as I answered.

  “…Professor?”

  Silence.

  Then rough breathing,

  as if rising from the bottom of a deep hole.

  “Minha.”

  He always got my name wrong.

  “It’s… Min-ah, Professor.”

  Another pause.

  Then a sound I couldn’t place—

  half laughter, half sobbing.

  “Yeah… Minha, Min-ah.

  Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one.”

  His voice wasn’t normal anymore.

  I sat up at my dorm desk.

  By now, I had experienced this before—

  calls where emotions and work orders tangled together.

  “Professor, where are you?”

  “…I’m ending things tonight.”

  He inhaled.

  “Min-ah… I’m really ending it today.

  Cleaning everything up.”

  My breath caught.

  “What do you mean?”

  “People get lonely.

  They get betrayed.

  They get… twisted.

  You know that, right?

  You do. You’re the only one who does.”

  I didn’t.

  But this wasn’t a moment where I could say so.

  “Professor, tell me where you are. I’ll come.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  A low laugh.

  “No need.

  Just hearing your voice is enough.”

  Between his words, I heard other voices—

  laughter, noise, clinking glasses.

  A bar. Or some gathering.

  “They call this place a suicide pact bar.

  Or a death club. Something like that.

  I came out of curiosity.”

  I swallowed.

  “You know what’s funny?

  Everyone says they came here to die,

  but no one wants to go first.

  No one actually wants to die.

  It’s all lies.

  This world is nothing but lies.”

  It sounded like drunken rambling.

  And it was terrifying.

  His voice suddenly dropped.

  “Min-ah.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “You won’t betray me, right?”

  The tone was light.

  The threat was not.

  “Of course not. I’ve never thought of that.”

  “Good. You’re smart.”

  Then—

  something unbelievable.

  “So…”

  Breathing.

  “Fix the wording in the conclusion.”

  I froze.

  “…Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  A laugh.

  “Don’t use words like suggested. Too weak.”

  I tightened my grip on the phone.

  “Change it to proven.

  That’s how logic survives.”

  I stopped breathing.

  Suicide threats.

  And thesis edits.

  In the same breath.

  It was terror.

  It was absurd.

  And it was leverage.

  “Professor, maybe rest for now. We can—”

  “Min-ah.”

  For the first time, his voice was clear.

  “If I disappear,

  your graduation disappears too.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “So… take care of it.”

  The call ended.

  Call log: 02:11 – 03:58.

  For nearly two hours,

  he cried, laughed, talked about dying,

  and ordered revisions.

  Before sunrise, I opened my laptop.

  My eyes barely focused,

  but my hands moved automatically.

  I changed suggested to proven,

  branding the danger of each word into my mind.

  After saving the file, I opened my notebook.

  June 2003 — 02:11 call

  Content: suicide implication + work orders mixed

  Statement: “If I’m gone, your graduation is gone.”

  File saved at 03:58.

  My handwriting shook.

  I didn’t stop.

  Records must move faster than fear.

  The next morning,

  the professor walked into class like nothing had happened.

  “Good results yesterday.

  Prepare your presentations. We don’t have time.”

  Was this really the man who spoke of dying hours ago?

  He smiled at me.

  “Min-ah, the conclusion was excellent.

  You really are the best writer here.”

  I said nothing.

  And I understood then—

  last night wasn’t an accident.

  It was the beginning of a pattern.

  In the hallway, Bohyun approached quietly.

  “Did… he call you last night?”

  I didn’t lift my head.

  I nodded, slowly.

  She exhaled.

  “He did it to me too.

  Min-ah… be careful.”

  “Min-ah, come in for a moment,”

  the professor said, smiling.

  “I need to talk to you. Just you.”

  Bohyun grabbed my wrist.

  “Don’t go in alone.”

  That’s when I understood:

  In this lab,

  there is something more frightening than dawn.

  It’s daytime.

  The ordinary face.

  The moment he says,

  “Come in for a moment,”

  as if nothing ever happened.

  the threat of disappearance,

  and the academic demand—

  all delivered in the same breath.

  not through constant violence, but through instability, leverage, and silence.

  There were others before her—and there will be others after.

  Early support helps this series reach more readers who may recognize these patterns.

  after the calls—

  when everything returns to daylight, and nothing is acknowledged.