Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#105Reader Mode

#105

The voice that cut through the dead silence of the courtroom was far from human, amplifying the eerie stillness that gripped the room. Seojun’s room had no windows, its heavy doors locked tight, trapping him in a suffocating, claustrophobic space. The air was thick and cold, buzzing with a sense of dread you could almost touch.

In that grim place, hearing another voice made Seojun’s skin crawl. He stood frozen, fear anchoring him in place, surrounded by splintered wood scattered all around him. The floor beneath his feet was so rotted in spots that he worried it might crumble beneath him at any second.

– Are you sleeping with your eyes open? Or can’t you hear me?

The voice crackled through a speaker again, jolting Seojun out of his daze. The amused tone made it clear that someone was watching him. He tried to look around, but the sack over his head made him exaggerate every movement, twisting his neck in awkward angles just to catch a glimpse. The restraints were simple but brutally effective.

– Not that way. Look up…

The voice chuckled—a low, soft sound that sent a shiver down Seojun’s spine. He tipped his head back, straining his neck. His gaze locked onto a blinking red light—a CCTV camera. His already tense body went rigid. The sight of that modern camera in this rotting, foul-smelling room was like a punch to the gut, a jarring clash that made his unease spiral into panic. His whole body began to shake, fear digging its icy claws deeper into his bones.

At that moment, it wouldn’t have shocked Seojun if the blackboard suddenly split open, revealing a screen with a creepy, menacing face. He gritted his teeth, silently promising that if he ever got out of this, he’d toss every game console he owned straight into the trash. But this wasn’t a game; this was the harsh, unforgiving reality where there were no heroes—only a thick, suffocating sense of hopelessness.

With his head and hands bound tight in a sack, Seojun felt like a fool—trapped, helpless, scrambling like a hamster on a wheel. Paralyzed by a mix of self-loathing and burning rage towards whoever was behind this, he stood as still as a frozen TV screen. Then, the voice cut in again, this time delivering a line that caught him completely off guard.

– Relax. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not your enemy.

The voice softened, taking on a calm, almost soothing tone, as if trying to put him at ease. But Seojun wasn’t buying it—not for a second. How could he? The voice seemed to sense his doubt, letting out a mechanical sigh—a sound so cold it sent another shiver racing down his spine.

“How do you expect me to believe that? Fine—let’s settle this face-to-face! Show yourself, damn it!”

Seojun had tried to keep his tone steady, controlled. But each word came out sharper, his frustration boiling over. The sack wrapped tightly around his head, like some crude attempt at gift-wrapping, left only small holes for his eyes, making it hard to speak clearly.

– Say something, will you?

But the voice, unfazed by his desperate demand, answered with a detached calmness, as if it couldn’t care less about his suffering. It seemed to be enjoying this, egging him on. Seojun’s frustration mounted, and he thought maybe the sack was muffling his voice. He raised his volume even more, his shouts bouncing off the cold, cracked walls. He began hopping in place, his long limbs flailing wildly like a grasshopper in a summer storm.

“Why the hell should I believe you?!”

– Are you mute? Can’t you speak?

Seojun’s frustration peaked, nearly causing him to lose his balance as he stumbled back. He stomped his foot, throwing his head back in a silent scream of pure exasperation, then jerked his hands up to his throat in an exaggerated choking motion aimed right at the CCTV camera. Maybe, just maybe, he could make whoever was watching understand how utterly trapped he felt. But the voice remained maddeningly calm, disinterested. It was clear now—the camera could see his frantic gestures, but it couldn’t hear him.

If this guy isn’t the one who locked me up, then I need to find a way to communicate with him…

The truth was, even if the voice did belong to his captor, Seojun had no choice but to cling to any lifeline, no matter how frayed or unreliable. His lips, raw and stinging from nervous biting, felt dry and cracked. He was stuck in this godforsaken room, and he needed help. Desperately.

“Ah.”

Did his silent plea reach the heavens? At the very least, it made it to the ceiling. Through the small, suffocating eye holes of the sack over his head, Seojun’s eyes caught sight of a bookshelf, and a tiny spark of hope flickered to life. Without a second thought, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward it.

– What are you doing?

He ignored the question, the voice’s detached tone grating against his already frayed nerves. There was no time for pointless conversation. Dropping to his knees, he leaned in close to the bookshelf. The musty scent of old paper and dust filled his nostrils, and he fought back a sneeze. But this wasn’t the moment for browsing or reminiscing about forgotten stories. His bound hands fumbled, clumsy but urgent, pawing through the chaotic mess of items crammed onto the shelves.

The books were beaten up, their spines cracked and worn, but he wasn’t here for the classics. In the cluttered mess of old knick-knacks and forgotten things, his fingers finally brushed against what he’d been looking for: a large sketchbook, its cover warped and bent, and a dull colored pencil. The sketchbook was crammed haphazardly between two dusty tomes, and he’d spotted the pencil earlier, abandoned in a nearby pen holder. Nothing in there was sharp—no pens, no knives—just a few stubby colored pencils mixed with some regular ones.

Red would stand out more, wouldn’t it?

Seojun opened the sketchbook, moving slowly, like he was afraid it might fall apart in his hands. The pages, fragile from years of wear, seemed like they might crumble under the slightest touch, but he managed to keep them together. The real struggle, though, was with his own hands. His fingers fumbled awkwardly around the pencil, his writing looking more like a toddler’s messy scribbles than anything readable. His handwriting was never fancy, but you could at least make it out—this, though, was a different story. Frustration bubbled up, his eye burning with tears he refused to let fall.

After what felt like forever, Seojun finally managed to write out a barely readable sentence across the page. He held the sketchbook up high, his eyes narrowing, determined.

[I’ve said it over and over, but I guess you just can’t hear me.]

– Oh, that must be such a pain for you.

The voice chimed in, as if it had been waiting patiently all this time. Its tone was lined with a sympathy that felt as fake as plastic, every word dripping with a kind of mechanical monotony. The sigh that followed was empty, like it was scripted, devoid of any real feeling.

– So, what should I call you? Scarecrow?

The word hit Seojun like a slap. “Scarecrow.” It dragged up memories he’d rather forget, memories that twisted his insides into tight, painful knots. His eyes narrowed, anger flaring across his face. But even the clearest CCTV wouldn’t be able to see his expression through the sack over his head.

With a sharp breath, he flipped to the next page of the sketchbook. He gripped the colored pencil awkwardly, ready to scribble out the first letter of his name. But then he stopped, hesitating.

Should I really give my name to this… suspicious stranger?

The thought gnawed at him, burrowing deeper. It felt almost ridiculous to worry about a few letters, but experience had taught him otherwise. Caution had become second nature—more than that, his encounters had honed his wariness into something close to paranoia. The voice kept saying it wasn’t the one who’d captured him, wasn’t the one who had blindsided him and thrown him into this mess. But could he trust that?

The attack and subsequent abduction had hit like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, disorienting. What frustrated him most was that he hadn’t seen his attacker’s face, just a blur of motion before everything went black. And now, sitting in this strange room, desperation clung to him like a second skin. He needed help, but every instinct screamed at him to keep his guard up, to not give away anything that might make things worse.

Seojun’s gaze swept the room cautiously. His eye landed on the chair he’d been tied to, then drifted to the judge’s podium where a gavel sat, heavy with unspoken judgment. He paused for only a second before making up his mind. With a sigh of resignation, he scribbled the letters, leaving off the final period on purpose.

[Oz]

– Well, that’s… unique. Wouldn’t ‘Scarecrow’ suit you better?

He could hear the confusion in the voice, and it gave him a flicker of satisfaction. The voice, which had been so steady and controlled before, now had a hint of uncertainty. Seojun tapped the podium with his pencil.

[It also means oath or pledge.]

He could feel his wrist starting to ache from gripping the pencil too hard, the letters turning jagged and uneven. The voice didn’t seem to notice or care; it laughed, low and crackling like static on an old radio. The laughter hung in the air, then shifted into a mocking chuckle.

– Got it. I’ll try to say it without making it sound like an insult. O-zzz. ¹T/N: The shortened form of “맹세” (maengse) in Korean is “맹” (maeng). “맹세” means “oath” or “pledge,” often used in contexts where someone makes a solemn promise. “맹세” (maengse), can sound like an insult in Korean. When pronounced slowly or drawn out, “맹세” might resemble “멍청이” (meongcheongi), which means “fool” or “idiot.”

The voice stretched out the name, slurring it in a way that felt almost taunting. Seojun’s grip on the colored pencil tightened with irritation.

[What should I call you?]

There was a brief pause, a delay that stretched a little too long. The voice seemed to be mulling it over.

– Right… Ah, you can call me ‘Wizard’. I like that.

Wizard?

Seojun’s brow furrowed. The whole exchange felt like some twisted game—the nicknames, the banter. Irritation sparked inside him, a flicker of frustration at the voice’s playful tone. But he knew better than to let it show. The Wizard held all the power here, and provoking it would do him no favors. With a wary hunch, he leaned over the sketchbook, his body tense, like a spring ready to snap. His writing came out crooked and off-center, mirroring the unease knotting inside him.

[I think it’s a very witty and funny nickname.]

– Really? I think it’s kind of silly. And childish.

He caught that mocking edge in the Wizard’s tone again. This stranger was proving to be unexpectedly difficult to please. Seojun’s frown deepened, unsure how to navigate this strange conversation. But before he could figure out his next move, the Wizard seemed to lose interest in the teasing and shifted gears, ready to move on to something more serious.

– Oz, I want to have a good relationship with you.

The words hung in the air, oddly intimate, like something out of a dating proposal. But what the Wizard said next grabbed Seojun’s full attention.

– I was suddenly attacked, too. When I woke up, I was here, trapped just like you. It looks like I’m in some sort of CCTV control room. It’s cramped and dark—I can’t tell if the lights are out or if there’s some trick to turning them on. Honestly, the blue glow from the monitors is killing my eyes.

Seojun couldn’t care less about the Wizard’s discomfort. What mattered wasn’t his eyes, but what they could see. His mind raced as he scribbled furiously in his sketchbook, each stroke of the pencil precise, almost like he was trying to sketch out a map of their situation.

[Can you see other locations as well?]

– Yes. There are six screens in front of me… I’m not exactly sure how to work them. But since we’re both stuck here, why don’t we help each other out? I could guide you using the CCTV footage, Oz.

Seojun’s hand, still holding the pencil, froze in mid-air. He glanced up at the CCTV camera, suspicion tightening his gut. He didn’t know this so-called Wizard, but he’d already figured out one thing: this wasn’t the kind of person who offered help out of the goodness of his heart.

The offer was tempting, but what was in it for the Wizard? As if reading his mind, the voice crackled through the speaker, a laugh laced with static.

– Aha, I know what you’re thinking.

The Wizard paused, taking a shallow breath before continuing.

-Now, listen carefully… This control room has a peculiar security setup. It needs a password—not just to get in, but also to get out.

A password?

Was the Wizard really stuck in the same way he was? His demeanor was too casual, too indifferent to the restraints that held Seojun captive. If the Wizard wasn’t trapped in some weird room with devices clamped around his neck and wrists, his laid-back attitude would make a lot more sense.

The Wizard’s voice broke through Seojun’s thoughts, smooth and composed.

– But it’s just a numerical keypad. All I need is the right code to unlock the door.

Seojun felt a pang of realization. His earlier assumptions suddenly seemed naïve. Compared to his own situation, the Wizard’s circumstances seemed infinitely better.