FPIH Chapter 3 (Part 3)

Amon’s tail knocked the rug askew as he moved.
Ignoring it completely, he backed away from the spray, retreating to the far wall.

Jiho was thrown off for a moment. She’d thought Amon wouldn’t step off the rug—thought that was a rule.
But now he was beyond it. Still, it didn’t matter—the extinguisher was working.
She tracked Amon’s movements, keeping the nozzle locked on him.

Behind her, she could hear Pyeonghwa dashing for the lounge door.
It seemed he’d decided not to wait—he was going for the door now.

‘Four…! That’s it!’

They had held out for two seconds. Now, even if Amon tried to breathe fire, he’d need three full seconds to do it. That was all the time Jiho needed to reach the lounge.

And then—

“Disgusting…”

Jiho thought she was hearing things, but no—Amon had spoken. Clear as day.
He sneered, eyes narrowed in contempt as he glared at the extinguisher’s spray.
Covering his nose with one paw, Amon shifted his snake-like lower body to dodge the cloud of powder.

‘He can talk?’

Jiho had always thought of demons as monsters—beasts that couldn’t be reasoned with, wielding bizarre, inhuman powers.
Realizing Amon could speak in a human language didn’t just shock her—it betrayed her.

She had seen three demons so far, and not once had any of them tried to communicate with a human.
They simply attacked the screaming, helpless people—never once explaining why, never once stating what they wanted.

‘Five…’
Jiho kept spraying the extinguisher as she sidestepped along the wall, her eyes locked on Amon.

Beep! The card reader chimed.
Go Pyeonghwa had opened the lounge door.
Jiho didn’t let her guard down, kept her aim steady.
Amon wasn’t opening his mouth again, showing no signs of trying to breathe fire.

“Stop it already! It’s gross! Just go—I’ll let you go!”

Amon shouted in disgust, his voice full of irritation.
Jiho’s hand trembled, but she ignored his words. She couldn’t trust a demon. It had to be a lie—a ploy to buy time.

She just kept counting in her head, silent and focused.

‘Six…’

She was at the lounge door now. It was already open.
Pyeonghwa tugged at her from behind. Jiho backed into the room.

He shut the door quickly.
Jiho released the extinguisher’s handle, and the spray stopped with a hiss.

Click. The door locked. Amon vanished from view.

“Ha…”

Jiho exhaled a long breath of relief.
Once he confirmed the door was firmly shut, Pyeonghwa turned around.
Their eyes met.

The joy of survival—something Jiho couldn’t fully feel after escaping the 8th floor—rushed up inside her like a wave.
Amon’s whining about how “gross” the extinguisher was… it was ridiculous, almost funny.

It was only one step, but they’d made it.
Even if the answers seemed impossible, there was always a way out. Always.

Jiho couldn’t help it—a smile broke across her face.

“We lived… right?”

She shrugged, then burst into laughter—light, genuine.
Pyeonghwa looked at her, a small smile tugging at his lips too.

“First time I’ve seen you smile.”

Jiho grinned wider.

“Same. First time I’ve seen you smile too.”

“…I smiled?”

Go Pyeonghwa looked genuinely flustered by Jiho’s comment and wiped at his cheek, confused. It was the first time she’d seen him make such a dumb expression—Jiho laughed again.
And when she laughed, Pyeonghwa let out a small, awkward laugh of his own.

What a weird relationship.
They’d snapped at each other plenty, but smiling? That was a first.

“Ahem… So, shall we head to the boys’ dorm?”

Embarrassed, Jiho cleared her throat and changed the subject.

The lounge entrance was designed with strict double doors to control male and female dorm access.
Opening the door from the girls’ side with a key card didn’t lead straight into the lounge—it led to a small space with vending machines.
From there, you had to swipe your card again to open a second door and finally enter the lounge.

Jiho reached for her card to open the inner door.

Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Startled, she pulled it out and checked the screen.

[ Remaining Chances: 4 ]
[ Relationship with Go Pyeonghwa: University Classmate / Has known him since freshman year. ]

Jiho stared at the screen, reading it once—twice. Then a third time.
The entry for “Relationship with Go Pyeonghwa” had changed.
Before, it said: “Barely acquainted university classmate / Same year, Computer Engineering major, but practically strangers.”
Now it just said: “University classmate / Has known him since freshman year.”

Her earlier sense of accomplishment sank like a stone.
That fleeting joy of survival crumbled as a bigger, more confusing truth loomed over her.

‘I’ve known Go Pyeonghwa since freshman year? That’s impossible—I met him here, just now.’

And yet… a memory suddenly surfaced—one that should have been impossible.

A classroom.
Their first-year required course: “Mathematics for Engineers.”
Jiho walked in to see Pyeonghwa lying across his desk, using his backpack as a pillow, waving lazily at her.

In that memory, Pyeonghwa spoke:

“Ugh, I feel like my head’s about to explode. But I definitely saw you down three bottles yesterday, and you’re totally fine? How?!”

“Oh, look who it is—Go Pyeonghwa, who nearly died after three drinks. Hey, how’s it feel to be back from the dead? Reborn, huh?”

Jiho glanced around the classroom.
It was nearly time for class, but there were fewer students than usual.
Probably because of the massive drinking party after the sports festival yesterday—those who were there looked wrecked.

Jiho clicked her tongue. ‘Y’all drank like there was no tomorrow…’

“If life is Seoul and death is Busan… then I was somewhere around Daegu last night…”

Pyeonghwa muttered nonsense.

“You should just… not drink, seriously. Treat your life with a little more respect, oh resurrected one.”

Jiho half-joked, half-meant it.
Pyeonghwa groaned, then asked:

“Did you do Practice Problem 3-2?”

“Yeah.”

“How? That one’s hard. Show me how you solved it?”

“I copied it. From Hee-jung.”

Jiho fluttered her report paper in front of Pyeonghwa, who, still lying with his face buried in his backpack, flailed weakly to grab it.

“Hey, don’t wave it like that. I’m gonna throw up…”

Pyeonghwa groaned, his face pale. Jiho giggled.

The real Jiho—standing in the lounge, frozen with a deathly pale face—clenched her fist tight.
‘No way. What the hell is this?’

None of that had ever happened. She and Go Pyeonghwa had only just met.
Back in her first year, Jiho hadn’t even heard of someone named Go Pyeonghwa.

And yet, this memory—that shouldn’t exist—was vivid. Like it had really happened.
Logically, she knew it wasn’t real. But it felt more real than her own thoughts.

Her head spun. Like oxygen had been sucked from her brain.
She grabbed her head, staggering back to lean against the wall. Her eyes stung like they’d pop out of her skull, and she squeezed them shut.

‘What really happened…?’

Jiho tried to recall the day after the freshman sports festival—what she actually did.
It had been four years, so it was fuzzy, but…
She hadn’t done anything special. Probably just a normal day—attended class quietly, ate lunch watching game videos in the cafeteria, and either studied in the library or chilled in her dorm afterward.

No—she didn’t need to think that hard.
She met Go Pyeonghwa today, for the first time.
There was no way they had ever joked around or shared class notes.

“What’s wrong?”

Pyeonghwa’s concerned voice snapped her eyes open.
There he was, right in front of her, watching her cling to the wall in a daze.

Suddenly, Jiho wondered—since her relationship log had changed and planted fake memories in her,
did Pyeonghwa’s memories change too?

“Do you remember the day after the sports festival? Freshman year?”

“Why?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Why are you even asking me that right now?”

Pyeonghwa looked at her with baffled suspicion, refusing to give a straight answer.
Already overwhelmed, Jiho felt a surge of frustration.

“Just—answer me!”

She scowled, and Pyeonghwa crossed his arms, frowning back like what the hell is up with you? Then, finally, he answered.

“It was ages ago. I don’t remember it that well. I think I felt like crap from the afterparty hangover.”

“Hangover…”

“I do remember the day of the sports festival, though. We sat at the same table and drank, didn’t we?”

“…What?”

As soon as he said it, another memory surfaced.
Pyeonghwa sitting across from her, clinking glasses at the afterparty…

That memory, too, was fake.
Jiho hadn’t even gone to the damn party.

She didn’t have close friends, didn’t see the point, and had zero interest.

She showed up to the festival because she had to, barely participated, and ditched the afterparty with the excuse that she felt sick.

‘What the hell is all this…?’

Jiho’s entire body broke out in goosebumps.
A cold, creeping disgust twisted through her—accompanied by a fear so vast it felt like she might fall off the edge of reality.
If a snake crawling up your pant leg sent shivers down your spine, this was worse—like something slithering into your brain.
Her whole body went cold. Sweat beaded down her back.

“Why are you asking about that anyway?”

Jiho looked up to find Go Pyeonghwa watching her warily, suspicion in his eyes.

“……”

She clamped her mouth shut, unable to answer.
Her thoughts were a tangled mess—she didn’t even know what to say, let alone how.

Forcing herself to stay calm, Jiho worked to steady her mind.
Fear, disgust, despair—they’d do nothing to help her.
Useless emotions, all of them. They needed to be cut off, clean and fast.
She tried to shear them away—but it wasn’t easy. Her body trembled in tiny shivers.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Jiho curled inward.

‘I gained false memories, but Go Pyeonghwa’s actual memories… changed. Because of that “Relationship” entry…’

She had believed the “Relationship with Go Pyeonghwa” line reflected their real, current connection.
Back when she didn’t even know he existed, it read “Strangers.”
After they introduced themselves, it changed to “Barely acquainted university classmates.”
Naturally, she assumed the phone updated in response to their actual relationship.

But now, Jiho understood—it wasn’t the relationship changing the entry.
The entry had changed reality.

When that line updated, so did their past.
Jiho still had her real memories, so she knew what was true.
But Pyeonghwa… he didn’t. His real memories had been replaced. He now believed the fake past was genuine.

“What’s going on with you?”

Pyeonghwa grabbed her arm. Only then did Jiho look at him properly.
His face was tense, serious.
His gaze moved over her—her curled posture, trembling body, clenched lips, pale face—and finally, he met her eyes.
In the soft light, Jiho saw herself reflected in Pyeonghwa’s hazel irises.

“Why’re you suddenly scared? What’s got you this shaken?”

He gently patted her shoulder, like trying to soothe a frightened animal.

It was strange—despite the two layers of clothing between them, she could feel Pyeonghwa’s warmth.
Just like with Siwoon back on the 7th floor, having someone familiar close by made her feel like she could breathe again.
Pyeonghwa felt… like an ordinary “college friend,” casually chatting with her after class.

That wrongness hit Jiho hard.
Startled, she pulled away, shaking his hand off and stepping back.
Pyeonghwa froze, face stiffening.

‘No, this is just… yeah, he is a classmate. We’ve been through a lot in a short time. That’s why it feels like this…’

Jiho clung to the thought, not knowing if it was a reason or an excuse.
She wrapped her right hand over her left, breathing slowly.
Bit by bit, she felt the chaos in her chest begin to settle.

Go Pyeonghwa stared at Jiho with a strained expression, like he was holding back the urge to press her for answers. It was written all over his face—‘What do I even do with this?’—but he stayed quiet, seemingly afraid of scaring her more.

Jiho took a breath, debating where to begin untangling the mess in her head. Finally, she asked:

“When do you remember us meeting for the first time?”

“First time we talked? Just before midterms, freshman year?”

He answered easily, but as he repeated her words, something clicked.
A moment later, Pyeonghwa’s face went pale.

“When do you think it was?”

“Today.”

Jiho didn’t hesitate.
Pyeonghwa’s expression drained of color.

Jiho held up her phone for him to see.

[ Remaining Chances: 4 ]
[ Relationship with Go Pyeonghwa: University Classmate / Has known him since freshman year. ]

“This is…”

“The ‘Relationship with Go Pyeonghwa’ line changed. From ‘barely acquainted classmate’ to just ‘classmate.’”

“……”

“Right after it changed, I got… memories I never had before. It’s like—like the past got rewritten to match what’s on the screen.”

Her voice trembled mid-sentence, but she managed to hold it together.

Pyeonghwa frowned as he read the phone, rubbing his forehead. He shook his head.

“No. It’s always been like this.”

“Always? What are you talking about?”

“You showed me this back in Room 704. Same wording. It’s always said just ‘classmate.’”

Jiho’s head throbbed. She gripped her skull, her thoughts in chaos.
‘What the hell is he saying…?’

With a grimace, she told him the truth.

“I met you here. Today. You saved me from Amon. That’s when we first met—then we exchanged names in Room 701. You didn’t even know who I was.”

“Names? That didn’t happen. Why wouldn’t I know you?”

Pyeonghwa looked just as thrown off as Jiho did. She was speechless. Completely at a loss.

Then Pyeonghwa grabbed her shoulders.

“You recognized me, too! No—‘recognized’ isn’t even the right word. We’ve known each other for four years. We started uni together. Forgetting me would be weirder!”

“That’s why you doubted me! You said it yourself—‘how could I not know a classmate’? You even said I was suspicious. We fought about it! Don’t you remember?”

“…Fought? About what? We didn’t fight.”

“In Room 704, after Siwoon died—we argued!”

Pyeonghwa’s eyes widened slightly, confusion flooding his features.
Jiho’s breath caught.
His reality was different. He didn’t remember any of it.

“You thought that was a fight? I just said something because you looked like you were giving up. What, I’m supposed to just let you spiral like that?”

“No, not that!”
“Then what?”

Go Pyeonghwa looked frustrated, confused—maybe even concerned.
Jiho, on the other hand, felt like she was seconds from losing her mind.
Pyeonghwa’s certainty, his absolute conviction, was so strong that she started doubting herself.

“…Maybe you’re just in shock or something…”

He muttered it, low and quiet—but to Jiho, it rang like a slap.
Her mind snapped into focus.

‘No. In this situation, I have to trust myself. My memory, my judgment—that’s my anchor. If I start questioning myself and let someone else’s version of reality take over, I’m done for.’

Once she doubted her own mind, there’d be no end.
Then she wouldn’t be able to make any decision ever again.

Jiho stood firm, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“No. We just met today. Yeah, we’re classmates, but we’ve never spent time together. Any memories of that—they’re fake.”

“You…”

“My memories—real and fake—they’re both in my head. But you? Your real memories got overwritten. That’s what happened. I’m sure of it.”

“Stop talking nonsense!”

Pyeonghwa snapped, exasperated, rubbing his temples like he was fighting off a headache.

“We started uni together, took the same classes, went to the same events… and now you’re saying we were strangers? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“There’s over 200 students in our year—how is that impossible?”

Pyeonghwa let out a heavy sigh.

“No, it is impossible. Even with that many people, we’d have run into each other at least once. And you’re telling me I wouldn’t have talked to you?”

“You might not have.”

“There’s no way I wouldn’t.”

Their bickering went in circles, each clinging to their own version of the truth.
Pyeonghwa refused to back down. Jiho wouldn’t either.

From her side, it was obvious—implanted memories couldn’t be accepted as reality.
Pyeonghwa’s argument—that the fake was real and the real was fake—was absurd.

“So what, you’re saying you forgot me?”
“I didn’t forget anything—the problem is, there are memories that shouldn’t exist.”
“You did forget! You’ve forgotten everything about us…”
“We’ve never met before today!”

Jiho pounded her chest in frustration. The argument was a loop, a maze with no exit.

Then, with a dark expression, Pyeonghwa murmured:

“…Are you a demon?”

Jiho’s ears perked up at Pyeonghwa’s murmur.

“…You know what, maybe you’re right.”

In a world with demons that breathed fire and turned people into animals, why wouldn’t there be one that could mess with your memories? Or… something equivalent to that.
‘It all started when the message on my phone changed. Whoever tampered with my phone must also be able to manipulate memories…’

A chill swept down Jiho’s spine.
You could dodge Marbas’s claws. You could dodge Amon’s fire—if you were lucky.
But how do you dodge memory manipulation?
How do you know what to trust?
How do you make decisions when reality itself might be false?

“Our whole relationship reset? No way. That’s not okay.”

Go Pyeonghwa grimaced, like the idea physically repulsed him. Jiho gawked at him in disbelief.

“…Is that really your concern right now?”
“Of course other stuff matters, too. But this isn’t nothing.”

Pyeonghwa gave her a look, something between frustration and… disappointment.
Jiho was so stunned, she actually relaxed. Her tension melted into absurdity.

Maybe it was the altered memories, but Pyeonghwa’s whole vibe felt more casual now—easier around her, more open.
He talked more, his expressions had softened.
Of course they would—being “friends for four years” versus “meeting today” was night and day.

From Jiho’s perspective, it felt like he had broken into her personal space.
But… it wasn’t unpleasant.
She didn’t agree with him—but she could understand him.

Massaging her cold left hand with her warm right, Jiho gathered her thoughts.

“…Anyway, we still have to go to Room 721, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”

Memories had changed—but their situation hadn’t.
Their goal hadn’t.
They still had to go to the boys’ dorm, Room 721.

Jiho briefly doubted it. Was the broadcast real? Was her memory of dying… real?
But she shook her head.

Even if it wasn’t—what choice did she have?
Terrified, confused—didn’t matter. All she could do was keep moving forward.

‘Memory manipulation… this is…’
It was humiliating—like being a fool, dancing in someone else’s circus.
No, worse—like dancing on the edge of a knife.

Jiho clenched her jaw.

‘Whoever’s behind this… I don’t care. I’m protecting myself.’

She wouldn’t be a puppet.
She would find the answers.

But first—deal with now. Debate later.

“Let’s go. Room 721. Talking about it now won’t get us anywhere, and we might be on a timer.”

Pyeonghwa nodded, but his face was unreadable. It was clear he agreed reluctantly.
Jiho could guess exactly what he was thinking.

‘Sure, I’m right—but you’re losing it, and that worries me.’

Jiho debated saying nothing—but then she spoke.

“I’m not a ticking time bomb or anything.”

“…What?”

“I’m not gonna blow up, okay? I’m fine.”

“I know you won’t blow up. I’m worried your memory won’t come back.”

“It’s not about my memory coming back, it’s—ugh, whatever. Forget it.”

As another argument threatened to spark, Jiho just shut her mouth.

“Yeah, it’s fine. As long as I remember, we’re good. Just… stay by my side.”

Go Pyeonghwa’s eyes met hers as he spoke.

“……”

Jiho didn’t know what to say to that. She averted her gaze.
His words were loaded—too loaded. The meaning behind them wasn’t clear, and neither was the intention.
She couldn’t tell if it was serious, a joke, or something else entirely.

Strangely enough, Jiho felt the real weight of those “four years” more now than when they were fighting earlier.

“…Right. Let’s just… work together. Get through this.”

Still avoiding eye contact, she mumbled the words.
Pyeonghwa looked at her with that told-you-so smirk but didn’t reply.

“I’m opening the door.”

They stood in the space between the women’s dorm elevator lobby and the lounge.
Jiho tapped her card key against the reader.

Beep. The lock clicked.

She slowly pushed the door open, peeking inside—only a blank white wall greeted her.
She eased it open further—rows of desktop computers came into view.

‘Too quiet…’

No sign of anyone. No sound.
Pyeonghwa was pressed close behind, peering over her shoulder.

Jiho edged inside, keeping low, and peeked toward the center of the lounge.
A faded purple sofa was bent at odd angles, and the usual tables—where students once shared late-night delivery—were flipped and broken.
A potted snake plant lay shattered, soil spilled across the floor. The wall-mounted TV had fallen, its screen cracked in a spiderweb of glass.

“……!”

Scattered across the floor—crowbars, hammers, steel pipes, a baseball bat, knives.
And in the center of it all—people standing stiff like statues, frozen mid-movement.

And a demon.

Eyes burning like fire. Watching.