The Tear in the Alley

The bass rattled through the floor, lights strobing over a sea of sequins and sweat. Nathan let himself get pulled into the center of it, drink in hand, friends shouting half in Korean, half in English.

He looked every inch the L.A. pretty boy they expected: tailored shirt clinging to his frame, earrings catching flashes of light, hair smooth and styled to perfection. His skin glowed under the strobes, spotlighted as if he were on stage. Years of skincare, gym reps, and mostly-clean living paying off.

Sure, he looked the part. But the verdict never changed: top energy.

It had been nearly two years since he’d last set foot in Seoul, and already the city felt more foreign than home. Dinner earlier still clung to him. His grandparents cooing over his brother’s kids, his brother holding court with acquisitions and quarterly growth like he was giving a keynote speech.

At that table, Nathan had been Kim Min-jun. His birth name, his Korean name, spoken with the heavy weight of family tradition.

But here, in the dark heat of the club, he was Nathan again.

On the floor, people noticed him quickly. A man with shimmer pressed under his eyes leaned close, fingers grazing Nathan’s arm.

“Name?” he asked, sharp smile flashing.

Nathan laughed, shook his head. Polite. Easy. Not his type.

The next came taller. Broad grin, squared shoulders, his hand landing heavy on Nathan’s shoulder like the outcome was already decided.

Eyes swept him up and down. Hungry, expectant. The same look Nathan had seen a hundred times before.

The look that said: You’re tall. You’re muscular. You’re the top.

Nathan almost brushed him off but let himself get pulled into a dance.

The man spun, pressing his back to Nathan’s chest, grinding his hips and rubbing his ass against Nathan’s crotch. No subtlety, no guesswork.

Nathan knew exactly what the guy wanted.

Normally, he might’ve gone along. He’d done it before, slipped into whatever role people projected onto him.

But tonight… he just wasn’t feeling it.

Jet lag still dragged at him, the exhaustion of family dinners and travel weighing heavy in his bones.

So when the song shifted, Nathan gave the man a quick smile, a polite pat on the arm, and slipped away.

No hard feelings, no mess. Just not tonight.

It didn’t matter who it was. Men, women, taller, shorter.

Women weren’t even an option for him; he was gay, and he knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

But still, every man who looked his way seemed to see the same thing: the muscular frame, the height, the confidence.

They assumed he’d be the top. The strong one. The one in control.

No one ever saw what he really wanted. To be adored.

To be held. Cherished. Kissed like he was something precious.

He downed the rest of his drink, cursed in English when someone spilled beer on his shoes.

He laughed too loudly when his friends shouted over the music.

It was easy to perform. He’d always been good at wearing masks.

And then he saw it.

Across the dance floor, a petite man was pulled into another man’s arms.

Nathan expected the usual. A casual grab, a showy move.

But then the taller man bent down, gentle, slow. Kissed him tenderly, like he was something fragile. A fragile glass held in careful hands.

The smaller man laughed into it, arms winding around the taller man’s neck, bright lights splashing across their faces as they gazed into one another’s eyes.

Nathan froze, mid-step. The music pounded around him.

The smile stayed plastered on his face. Hollow now.

That. That’s what I want. No one ever looks at me like that.

An ache twisted sharp in his chest.

Nathan tipped the rest of his drink back in a single swallow, letting the burn erase it.

His friends were already pulling him toward another round, shouting for shots, for dancing, for more.

Nathan waved them off, shaking his head.

“I’m good,” he called out, voice casual, smile fixed with a quick wave of his hand. “I’m heading out. See you later.”

They let him go.

The street outside was cooler, quieter in its own way.

Seoul glittered like a jewel box tipped on its side, sign glow bouncing off wet pavement, laughter spilling from open doors.

Nathan tugged at his collar, sweat cooling against smooth skin, and muttered to himself in English.

“Convenience store. Energy drink. Hangover cure.”

His head buzzed pleasantly as he cut down a side street, the glow of vending machines washing pale blue across the bricks.

In L.A., nights like this always ended the same: a can of Monster or Gatorade, maybe a bag of honey-butter chips, then crashing face-first into bed until noon.

He wanted that same comfort now. Something routine to cut through the noise of Seoul, to trick his brain into thinking everything was fine.

His friends would still be inside that club until closing, the music swallowing them whole. Nathan didn’t feel like playing along anymore.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, already picturing the energy drinks and sugar waiting for him at the corner store. Something easy. Something safe.

Extra reps at the gym tomorrow, for sure. He smiled to himself.

A shimmer caught the corner of his eye.

He slowed. Backed up a few steps.

A narrow, damp alley lined with cardboard and trash bins. Ordinary, except for the air.

For one dizzy second, he blamed the soju, brain already halfway to a cold can of Monster.

But no. It was real.

At the far end of the alley, the air itself shimmered. As if it had been slashed open.

Nathan frowned, squinting, taking a half-step closer.

The tear in the air wavered like it wasn’t solid.

Light bled through its jagged seams, faint at first, then brighter. The edges writhed as though reality itself couldn’t hold together.

Then came the sound. Soft, unnatural, like air being sucked in and pushed out at once. Nathan’s skin prickled, the hair on his arms rising. His stomach dropped.

“What the fuck…” he muttered, voice rough.

The tear spread wider, edges fraying, until it hung in the air like a ragged wound. And inside. Something moved.

A face. Suspended in the opening.

Not a reflection. Not a trick of neon lights. A man’s face. Broad, scarred, eyes dark and burning with something feral. The sight froze Nathan’s breath in his chest.

The man looked straight through the shimmer. Straight at him.

“Seriously? What the actual fuck?”

Nathan blinked hard, stumbled back a step, then forward again like he couldn’t help himself. The pull of it was wrong. Magnetic.

His phone slipped from his hand, clattering to the pavement, screen cracking against the concrete.

The face in the tear pressed closer. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression twisted. A smirk, or maybe a snarl. Nathan couldn’t tell.

The shimmer convulsed. Light flared. The sound rose into a low, hungry roar.

Nathan’s chest tightened. The air itself dragged at him now, tugging him forward like invisible fingers curling into his shirt. He dug his heels against the pavement, but the ground tilted. The alley spun. The world itself yawned open.

“Fuck me—”

The words tore from his throat as the light swallowed him whole.

And then—nothing.

Nathan groaned awake, sprawled on the ground with no sense of how much time had passed. His head pounded like he’d been tossed around in a dryer. The bass was gone. No Seoul, no laughter spilling from doorways. Only damp air, heavy and cold in his lungs. He blinked hard.

Stone. Dark, wet stone stretched out around him, slick with moisture. His cheek stuck to the floor. When he pushed himself up, grit clung tacky beneath his palms. He squinted, dragging his hand closer.

Blood. Fresh, dark, sticky on his skin.

“Fuck.” His voice echoed off the walls. Deeper, rougher than he remembered. The sound made him flinch.

A few torches clung weakly to the chamber walls, flames low and flickering. The light should’ve revealed everything, but somehow it still felt dark. Shadows pooled heavy in the corners, black as pitch. Nathan’s stomach turned. This wasn’t Seoul city glow. This was cave-dark. Medieval-dark.

He staggered upright, dizzy, the room spinning. Still tipsy, still buzzing, though now it felt like the wrong kind of drunk. The kind that tilted the world dangerously. He shoved a hand toward his hip, patting for his phone—

And froze.

Not his jeans. Not his tailored shirt. Rough fabric. A thick belt cinched at his waist. His palm brushed leather, unfamiliar seams. His breath hitched.

“These… aren’t my clothes,” he whispered, the words cracking in his throat.

Heart racing, he shoved his hands down again. This time something heavier dragged at him. The weight at his hip shifted metallic and solid. Nathan’s fingers fumbled lower until they closed around a hilt.

A sword. Sheathed in rough leather, massive and utterly out of place. The kind of thing you’d see at a Renaissance Faire—except this wasn’t a prop. It was far too heavy. He jerked his hand back like it burned.

“You have got to be kidding me.” His laugh came out guttural and shaky. Unfamiliar again.

Heart pounding, he dug harder, fumbling across rough pouches and leather straps. No smooth denim. No familiar phone.

“Shit… where’s my phone?” Nathan dropped to his knees, scrambling across the slick floor, hands sliding over rock, dirt, worse. His mind flashed. He’d dropped it in the street, heard the crack of glass on pavement just before the light swallowed him.

Wait—didn’t I drop it? Or… did I?

His fingers kept searching anyway, desperate. Until they brushed something soft.

He recoiled. Not his phone.

Bodies.

Dozens, scattered across the floor. Some small, some twisted. Monsters, shapes wrong and unfamiliar. Others unmistakably human. Armor split, leather torn, eyes glassy. Nathan’s stomach lurched. The smell hit late. Copper blood over the sour undertone of rot.

“No… no, no.” His breaths came fast, ragged. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away.

Seoul. Please, let me open them and hear Seoul again. Laughter spilling from bars. Music. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

But when he opened them, there was nothing. Just flickering torches, blood-slick stone, and silence pressing in like a weight.

Nathan stared down at his hands. Broader. Heavier. Scar crisscrossing the knuckles. He flexed them. Joints stiff, muscles tight and unfamiliar. His voice rasped out, deeper than it should be:

“Wh-what the fuck happened to me?”

The sound made him jolt. Too low. Too rough. Not his voice at all.

He staggered upright, grabbing the wall for balance. That’s when he saw it. The chamber wasn’t just stone and blood. At the center, half-hidden in shadow, loomed a massive stone tablet, its surface etched with strange carvings. Runes, maybe. Or just scratches. Either way, bad news.

The bodies littered around it had all fallen outward, away from the tablet.

“Nope,” Nathan muttered, shaking his head. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He lunged for a torch, ripped it from its sconce, and clutched it like a lifeline. Firelight wavered weakly, shadows jerking across streaks of dried blood and claw marks gouged deep into stone. His knuckles whitened around the handle.

Panic clawed at his throat, but he forced himself toward the only visible exit. A narrow archway gaped at the far side of the chamber. Nathan leaned just enough to peer through, torchlight trembling in his grip.

The air was cooler here, space stretching wide, shadows pooling in either direction. Left or right. Two choices. Both swallowed in blackness.

He froze, closing his eyes, trying to breathe through the stench. The chamber air had been stagnant, suffocating, like breathing through wet cloth. This was different. A thin, living draft brushed his cheek, carrying the faintest hint of outside.

“Okay… okay, Nathan, think,” he muttered. “Airflow means outside. Outside means Seoul. Or—fucking something.” His voice cracked.

He edged that way, slow steps, one hand never leaving stone. Torchlight shook with him, jagged shadows stretching ahead. That’s when he heard it.

A low sound. Animal, guttural, drifting up the passage. Not human. A wet rumble, like a growl choked halfway in a throat. His blood ran cold.

He stopped dead, breath trapped in his chest. The sound faded, then came again.

Echoing, distant but closer than he wanted.

Nathan swallowed hard, torch trembling in his grip.

He pressed himself tighter to the wall and kept moving, each step dragging, heart hammering. The draft grew stronger, pulling him onward. But so did the noises. Heavy, beastly sounds scraping against stone, somewhere ahead.

And then. Light. Not the weak flicker of torches, but a steady, white glow. It cast long shadows across the walls, unshaken by draft. Voices followed, low and rough. Not English. Not exactly Korean either. Something else.

But Nathan understood every word.

He stumbled toward the glow, relief flooding him. People. Actual people.

The corridor opened into a wider hall. Four men stood there, talking and laughing, voices bouncing off the stone. One carried a lantern. Instead of flame, a pale crystal glowed inside, steady and cold. A fantasy flashlight.

“Who’s there?” a voice barked, sharp, suspicious.

Nathan stepped closer, firelight spilling over him.

The men froze. Their laughter cut off sharp. The crystal light shifted, angling higher, illuminating his face. One man’s hand crept toward his weapon. Another sucked in a quick breath.

Then, almost in unison:

“Boss…”

Nathan froze, torch shaking.

“…Boss?” he echoed, bewildered.

The crystal light shifted, angling higher, and Nathan caught the look on their faces. Not suspicion. Not just fear. Revulsion.

He followed their eyes down.

Blood. Thick, drying in dark streaks across his shirt, smeared over his hands. Splattered up his neck like a butcher’s apron.

Nathan’s stomach turned. He staggered back, instinct to scrub himself raw, but one of the men was already stepping forward.

“Boss, allow me—” He dropped to one knee, pulling a rag from his belt, and began wiping at Nathan’s arm with a reverence that made Nathan’s skin crawl. Another moved in on the other side, dabbing carefully at his jaw like he was being prepared for some grim coronation.

Nathan stood stiff as a statue, heart ricocheting inside his chest. Covered in someone else’s blood. Letting strangers clean him off like attendants at a throne.

He wanted to scream. Instead, he forced his face blank, tried not to look at the crimson soaking the cloth in their hands.

Up close, Nathan finally took them in. Not uniforms. Nothing polished or official. Rough leathers, bits of mismatched armor strapped over stained tunics. Boots scuffed from long travel. Weapons dangling at their belts, nicked and poorly kept. More brawler’s gear than soldier’s kit.

And yet every one of them stood rigid now, like recruits in front of a general.

The men stiffened further, like kids caught misbehaving in front of a teacher. Nathan blinked at them, heart hammering, throat dry. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Uh… do you know me?”

Silence.

The men exchanged nervous glances. One cleared his throat, voice cracking:

“Y-you feeling alright, Boss?”

Nathan’s brain stuttered. Boss? What kind of cosplay fever dream was this? He wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. His first instinct was to tell the truth. That he was lost, that he had no idea who the hell they thought he was. But some gut instinct held him back.

They were afraid of him. Terrified.

One of them glanced past Nathan, toward the dark corridor, then back. His voice was low, reluctant.

“Boss… where are the others? Weren’t they with you in the chamber?”

Nathan’s stomach iced. His grip on the torch tightened. Images flashed: broken bodies, human and monster alike, sprawled around the stone tablet. Blood sticky on his palms. The reek of rot.

He forced his face blank, hoping they couldn’t see his throat bob when he swallowed.

“…The others?” Nathan managed, buying time.

The men stiffened at his tone, misreading it instantly. They flinched like kids who’d asked the wrong question. Not one dared press further.

Inside, Nathan’s thoughts spiraled. Christ. They don’t know. They weren’t in there. And if I tell them what I saw—if I tell them their buddies are smeared across the floor like horror set dressing—they’ll know I’m not their Boss.

His chest tightened. If they were scared, that meant whoever they thought he was… wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with. If he told them he wasn’t that guy? Who knew how fast fear might twist into something worse.

Nathan swallowed hard, forcing his expression flat. Acting. He could do this. Pretend. Slip into a role. He’d done it on stage a hundred times. In clubs. In front of family. Smile when you’re dying inside. Project confidence when you have none.

“Of course I’m fine,” he heard himself say, voice deeper, rougher—and holy shit, even scarier—than he intended. His heart flipped. That hadn’t sounded like him at all.

The men all flinched, straightening again, nodding quick like the words themselves were proof.

Nathan was screaming inside, but on the outside he kept his posture steady, watching them line up like nervous soldiers. Any straighter and they’d snap in half.

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice casual. “Right. Uh… anybody got a mirror?”

The men froze, blinking like he’d just asked for a tiara.

“A… mirror, Boss?” one echoed, uncertain.

Nathan’s stomach knotted. Bad cover. He scrambled. “No? Fine. Then water. Do you at least have water?”

That landed better. A couple of them hurried to dig through their packs, producing worn leather flasks. One stepped forward nervously, both hands out like an offering to a king.

Nathan snatched it too fast, nearly fumbling, then unscrewed the cap. His heart hammered. Water. Reflection. Finally, maybe, he could see what the hell they were seeing.

He raised the flask to his lips first, taking a long swig because holy hell his throat was dry. Then, with the men still staring like their lives depended on it, he crouched and dumped the rest onto the floor. Water spread across the stone, pooling into a shaky little mirror.

He leaned over it.

For a moment, torchlight rippled, distorting the surface. Then the face looked back. Broad jaw, scar cutting through one brow, eyes too dark, too intense. Not his face.

Recognition hit like a kick to the chest.

“Aha,” Nathan breathed, pointing at his own reflection like an idiot. “That guy. That guy in the floating hole.”

The men glanced at each other, uneasy, but stayed perfectly still.

Nathan sat back on his heels, throat tight.

“Oh, fuuuuuck me.”