Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#196Reader Mode

#196

The light was so bright it took the room with it. The walls and ceiling vanished, replaced by an endless expanse of white. Seojun lay somewhere beneath it, panicking, convinced the searing brightness was burning his eyes right out of their sockets.

Then, something eclipsed the light.

At first, it was just a shape. The surgical lamps behind it transformed the figure into a silhouette, a person-shaped void punched out of the light. Its edges were crisp, its center as black as a shadow cast on scorching asphalt at high noon. It was strange, Seojun thought, how such sterile brightness could somehow create a darkness that felt utterly bottomless.

The void moved. It had been bent over him, so close he could feel its breath on his skin. Now it straightened up. Light seeped around its contours, gradually revealing more details, and finally allowing Seojun to make out what he was seeing.

It was a doctor. Or at least, it had the shape of one.

Where the eyes should have been, there were only opaque green goggles. A thick mask concealed everything else. The surgical cap was pulled down low, not permitting a single strand of hair to escape. Green scrubs stretched up to meet it, topped by a white coat. Both hands, clad in gloves, were raised and waiting. There was not a millimeter of exposed skin anywhere, no discernible body underneath the garments, no way to determine if it was man or woman, large or small. It was just a uniform with nobody inside it, looming over him.

The doctor’s squared shoulders lifted, then dropped in a slow, casual shrug. There was something almost apologetic about the gesture, the way a mechanic looks at you right before he tells you what the damage is going to cost.

That shrug was the final straw for Seojun. It shattered his feeble attempts at maintaining composure, sending a jolt of primal fear coursing through his veins. Panic overtook him, and he instinctively tried to bolt upright, desperate to fight or flee. But his body only managed a feeble jerk against something unyielding. That’s when the horrifying realization dawned on him. He wasn’t just lying on a cold operating table. He was strapped down, completely immobilized. Thick restraints encircled his wrists and ankles, while sturdy straps stretched across his waist and chest. Another band, even tighter than the rest, pressed against his throat, forcibly keeping his head pinned in place.

There was no slack, not even an inch to squirm. Seojun could barely breathe. Whoever had done this had been very, very thorough.

The doctor patted the pockets of its white coat. Left side. Empty. Right side. Also empty. It turned its hands over, palms facing up, presenting the lack of findings to him. Its shoulders rose and fell again in a cartoonishly exaggerated sigh, as if to say, “Nothing here. Oh dear. What ever shall we do?”

The doctor repeated the entire performance.

And then again.

Pockets. Palms. The melodramatic show of dismay. Over and over.

Seojun kept count. One. Two. Three. On the twelfth repetition, the routine finally changed. The doctor’s body language shifted, conveying a sudden jolt of surprise and delight. It made a show of rummaging in a pocket that had been conspicuously empty the previous eleven times, then slowly extended its hand toward Seojun.

There, resting innocently on the latex palm, was a fully loaded syringe.

Seojun didn’t need a medical degree to understand that the contents of the syringe spelled trouble. The poor victim strapped to the steel table surely knew it too. But that knowledge changed nothing. Knowing the truth couldn’t magically loosen the restraints. Still, they struggled against the straps anyway.

The needle plunged into Seojun’s skin, and his awareness fled from the body.

It didn’t leave the room. Rather, it simply retreated from the table, from the trembling, sweat-slicked body. His awareness recoiled from the sting of the needle, from the cold, clinical glint of the scalpels and forceps meticulously arranged on a nearby tray. It shrank back from the ominous, shadowy figure bent over him, from the icy bite of the metal table against his exposed skin. All those horrible details seemed to blur and recede, fading into insignificance.

Instead, Seojun’s mind sought refuge in an unremarkable corner of the room, just past the doctor’s shoulder. It latched onto that ordinary, unassuming spot with single-minded intensity, like a terrified child clinging to a favorite toy.

One. The first incision was made.
There, on a counter, lay a stack of carefully folded clothes, a wallet sitting open beside them.
Two. The second cut.
The wallet was made of brown leather, its once-crisp edges softened and discolored by years of handling.
Three. The third slice.
A driver’s license peeked out from its plastic sleeve, halfway exposed.
Four, five. Two cuts, in quick succession.
Despite being upside down and partially concealed, the photo on the license showed a wide, joyful, almost infectiously happy smile.
Six, seven, eight, nine. The cutting continued, precise and gruesome.
The smiling woman’s name was Samantha Palmer.
Ten. The tenth incision.
Then, the doctor returned to the first cut and began the process again.

“Hurk—hnngh, ugh, gack, khh… hff…”

“Jun!”

Seojun’s eye flew open. Pure terror hijacked his body, throwing him forward before his mind could process what was happening. He slammed into the floor face-first, gasping or trying to, his chest heaving desperately. Something hot was forcing its way up his throat, but he couldn’t breathe—couldn’t scream. His lungs felt crushed, unable to draw in air as his stomach violently rebelled.

He vomited hard, his back arching with each painful heave. All he could do was hang his mouth open while his shaking fingers scraped uselessly against the floor. His body seemed determined to turn itself inside out. Wave after wave of hot, acidic bile surged upward.

Seojun’s face felt like it was on fire. The pressure in his swollen sinuses was excruciating, and tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with mucus and saliva that dripped steadily from his chin. His body shook violently, as if determined to purge everything except bone and blood. The agony seemed to stretch on forever. His thin arms gave out first, buckling beneath him. His legs had already gone limp. He collapsed into a pathetic heap, too weak to lift himself, too overwhelmed by the burning sensation to even attempt it.

Then came a different kind of pain. Fire raced through his veins like liquid lightning. His mouth stretched wide in a silent scream that came out as nothing but a wet, strangled noise, thick with bile. It splattered against the floor in front of him. After that, only whimpers. Only groans.

“Jun. Seojun. Come on. Come back to me. Please, Jun.”

The voice was closer than he’d thought. Then strong arms encircled him, holding his trembling body so tightly it felt like they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Seojun couldn’t move, couldn’t even raise a hand to hold on. All he could do was sob. Through the blur of tears, the corridor around him was nothing but dark smudges pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. The pressure building behind his eye became unbearable. He had to squeeze it shut before it split his skull open.

Everything hurt with a deep, grinding ache, as if he’d been beaten for hours. The terror still flooding his system felt wrong, too fresh, too personal. Like what just happened wasn’t something he had watched from a distance, but something that had happened to him, something his body remembered. Grief crushed his chest, making it hard to breathe. Worse, his nerves wouldn’t stop shrieking, sending signals from his fingers and toes, insisting he’d been the one strapped down, that’d it had been his body peeled back layer by agonizing layer.

“Hng…”

Seojun whimpered as he forced one bloodshot eye open, the effort making him shake even harder. But the world that came into focus wasn’t the nightmare he expected. The sterile, biting cold of the operating-storage room had vanished. Instead, he breathed in stale basement air thick with dust and neglect. Warmth seeped through his shoulders where someone held him. Real hands, warm and solid and shaking almost as badly as he was.

Not real, he told himself desperately. A vision. Nothing more. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t on that table. He shoved the fear down and forced words through a throat that felt like it had been scoured raw.

“Johan… Samantha? What happened to Samantha?”

Despite the vision still rattling around in his head, he hadn’t forgotten what was important. Too exhausted to hold himself up, Seojun let his head drop back against Johan’s solid chest. His shaking fingers fumbled until they found Johan’s collar, gripping the fabric tightly. He couldn’t get his eye to focus—between the tears and the shock, everything was a blur—but it didn’t matter. Johan was holding him close enough that he could feel the heat coming from his face, could hear every breath. He knew exactly where he was.

Seojun’s hands clutched desperately at him, but Johan didn’t push them away. Instead, he gently covered them with his own.

“Don’t worry, Jun.” His voice came out low and rough, like he was fighting to keep something back. “I’ve got her. She’s contained. Couldn’t be more secure if I’d welded the door shut myself. So just… don’t worry, okay?”

Johan’s hand left his shoulder to stroke along his cheek. A touch meant to be comforting, probably. But when Johan’s thumb touched the edge of his mouth, Seojun’s eye snapped wide open.

Oh God. The vomit. He’d puked everywhere and it was still all over his face! Panic shot through Seojun. His arm, which had been dead weight moments before, suddenly found the strength to move. He smacked Johan’s hand away harder than he meant to.

“Ah!”

Johan jerked his hand back with a startled yelp. The hurt confusion in his voice cut straight through Seojun’s embarrassment. And because the universe had perfect timing, his vision chose that exact second to clear up, giving him a crystal-clear view of Johan looking absolutely devastated.

“N-no. Johan. I’m… it’s gross.”

The words were true enough, but somehow they came out sounding like the lamest excuse he’d ever attempted.

“I-I’m… gross? Is that what you’re saying, Jun?”

Naturally, his attempt at sincerity had crashed and burned. Johan’s eyes shimmered with hurt, looking way more crushed by the imagined rejection than by getting his hand smacked. Johan pulled his hand back, curling the offending fingers into a loose fist in his lap. His whole body had settled into the posture of a hunched dog expecting another kick.

Seojun felt a familiar twinge of exasperation. He sniffled wetly and let out a long sigh, looking past Johan’s shoulder. “That’s not what I said. Just—hang on. Brown, could you grab that thing on the floor for me?”

“On it!”

Brown, who’d been hovering anxiously nearby, jumped at the chance to help. His enthusiasm outpaced his actual speed, but he grabbed the item quickly enough.

Seojun accepted the ratty bedsheet that Samantha had torn up earlier and scrubbed roughly at the mess around his mouth. His nose and eyes still burned, but there was only so much he was willing to wipe across his face, and that grimy rag was past it.

Satisfied that he was at least somewhat presentable, he tossed the ratty cloth aside. “There. Now you can touch me.”

“Jun! What kind of person do you think I am? Some pervert who can’t keep his hands to himself?”

Johan’s face transformed into a picture of wounded dignity. It was a great performance that might have worked, if his hands weren’t making a complete liar out of him. Seojun didn’t bother responding. He just looked down, pointedly, at the callused thumb currently stroking his bottom lip.

Johan glanced down too. His mouth quirked into a guilty little smile.

Seojun stared at Johan’s silly, shameless grin for a moment before digging through his fanny pack for spare gloves. As his fingers found the latex, a vision flashed through his mind, but thankfully, it was nothing special. A huge relief after the horror show Samantha had put him through. He let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Johan’s hand flinched at the sound, but he still held back despite having permission. Rather than going for Seojun’s face again, he settled for wrapping an arm around his thin shoulders. Seojun was too wiped out to pretend he didn’t need the support. He just sank into it, letting his head drop against Johan’s chest. His nerves were fried. His brain felt loose in his skull, and his heart was still hammering away like it wanted to escape.

Dead tired, Seojun rubbed his swollen eye with the back of his hand and finally looked toward the door.

“Whoa.”

Being American, in every sense of the word, he let out an exclamation that only an American would make. Johan really hadn’t been messing around when he’d said he’d secured the place. Every desk, shelf, and remotely heavy object had been hauled over and piled into a massive barricade against what used to be the operating room door. Apparently, while Seojun had been unconscious, Johan and Brown had been busy.

The door shuddered every few seconds. Samantha working on her escape plan from the inside, no doubt. But getting through that mountain of furniture was going to take some serious effort.

As soon as Seojun’s brain processed that they were safe for now, the adrenaline crashed out of him, taking every bit of strength with it. His body went from rigid to ragdoll in an instant, leaving him as limp as overcooked pasta. He was left gasping, sucking in shallow breaths of musty air that didn’t seem to help at all.

The vision of Samantha’s past had hit him like a sledgehammer, too brutal to process in the moment. But now that the adrenaline was fading and his body wasn’t screaming at him to run, his brain decided it was the perfect time to replay every horrific detail.

What the hell was that?

Seojun groaned, burying his hands in his hair. Truth be told, he’d seen worse gore in his favorite horror movies, but that was fake blood and special effects. This had been real—sickeningly, horribly real. The doctor’s rough hands, the casual blood splattering cuts, just… taking her apart like she was nothing. No wonder she was trying to tear through that door. Even a saint would come back as a vengeful spirit after that kind of torture. Hell, with feng shui this terrible, the building had practically been begging for a ghost.

He needed to focus. Seojun clicked his tongue and examined the stinging cut on his ungloved hand where Samantha’s blade had caught him. He dug his thumb into the cut repeatedly, using the fresh spike of pain to burn through the mental fog. It worked, mostly. Also confirmed what he’d suspected: that vision was from when the doctor had grafted those blades onto Samantha’s hands and feet.

But his mind, being the traitor it was, kept circling back to the doctor. To the bastard who’d dissected her leisurely, handling her like a plaything he was dismantling for fun.

The image rose again—those opaque green goggles, the surgical mask, the complete absence of anything human behind them. Nothing you could reason with, nothing you could plead to. A violent shudder ran through Seojun, starting in his arms before crawling up his spine. Goosebumps prickled across his neck, and suddenly his teeth were chattering with a cold, creeping terror he couldn’t shake.

Sick bastard. Body-modding psycho.

And it had been rotten luck that he’d glimpsed the man at all. Not that he’d seen a man. There had been no face, no identifying features, not even a hair color to work with. Nothing you could sketch or describe to anyone. Just the abstract idea of a “Doctor”, stripped of everything human.

Knowing that kind of monster had actually walked around in the real world made his stomach turn. Or it would have, if Seojun hadn’t already emptied it on the floor. Maybe that’s why his thoughts felt so sharp and painfully clear now. There was nothing left inside to cloud his head. But all that clarity did was drive home how completely fucked their situation still was. His overworked brain thanked him for this brilliant observation by cranking up a vicious migraine.

Seojun let out a miserable groan. Why is today so damn exhausting?

The question barely formed before he had to stop and actually consider it. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d had a normal day? Looking back at his recent track record, a day that didn’t involve some horrific, near-death experience was quickly becoming the exception, not the rule.

“……”

The depressing realization that this was just his life now settled over him heavily, bringing a whole different kind of headache with it.