More than once, he and Kisa have ventured into the Deep Stacks armed with a sword and a large baseball bat, respectively, only to find themselves sprinting back to the cottage. (It had been a gift from Samsin Halmoni, who apologized to Kisa with such emotion that one would think Kisa was the goddess. The closest thing to an apology that Seokga received from her was something that might have been a remorseful smile if he squinted.) Seokga doesn’t even want to know what resides in the shadows past the Deep Stacks—the Deepest Stacks. Kisa has hypothesized that there just might be a coven of witches, and is quite eager to meet them. Seokga, considerably less so. Whereas shamans draw their magic from the gods, witches draw their powers from demons like eoduksini.

The Dark Stacks are oddly silent, save for a faint chittering that sounds suspiciously like a minor plague demon. It’s a relief when Seokga finds the book he’s looking for and can turn back before the foul thing causes Hwanin to come down with a cold. The cottage’s small windows glow with candlelight, a welcome sight in comparison to the Dark Stacks.

When he slips through the door, Kisa jumps up from her desk in excitement, hurrying to grab the heavy tome from his hands.

“Oh, this is perfect!” she cries in excitement, and he watches like a man in love as she flips reverently through its pages. The red thread forms into little hearts as he gazes at her.

“Stop that,” he mutters to the scarlet string. Its fully revealed sentience has, quite a few times, made Seokga wish it was possible to strangle it. Yet Kisa has theorized it only becomes truly solid during times when its Threaded partners are in mortal danger. The most Seokga has been able to do to the again-insubstantial thread is swipe at it in annoyance.

HEHEHE, is the amused reply, written out in taunting loops. SHAN’T.

So dazed by Kisa and distracted by the bond, Seokga barely notices as Hwanin—with a mischievous, toothless smile—rises up into the air.

Kisa rushes back to her desk before one of the windows, where a laptop (stolen from a Samsung store in Seoul, courtesy of Seokga) sits open and blinking, a massive document filled with text awaiting her return. That beloved notebook from her time on the SRC Flatliner lies open, her messy hand detailing everything from the red thread’s first appearance to her discovery of its sentience. She sets the new tome on the one scarce inch of free space on her desk, eyeing it reverently. Seokga peers over her shoulder. The header on the left page of her ever-open Word document reads, Fate’s Thread.