Chapter 2: The Ferryman

Rain lashed the docks, the storm’s fury undiminished from the night before. Jin-soo stood at the edge of Pier 13, the serpent-sealed letter clutched in his hand. The ferry loomed ahead, its hull rotted and streaked with bioluminescent algae that glowed faintly in the gloom. Sixty-five others huddled behind him, their faces pale and drawn. No one spoke. The only sound was the creak of the dock and the hungry slap of waves against wood.

A figure materialized from the fog. The ferryman’s oilskin coat dripped with seawater, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat crusted with barnacles. “Tickets,” he rasped, his voice like a coffin lid grinding shut.

Jin-soo handed over the letter. The ferryman pressed a blackened thumbnail into the wax seal. It sizzled, releasing a curl of smoke that reeked of burnt hair and decay. “Welcome to the Veil,” he croaked, stepping aside.

The passengers boarded. The deck groaned under their weight, planks slick with a viscous, tar-like substance. Jin-soo gripped the railing, his knuckles whitening as the ferry lurched forward. Below, the black water churned—until a shadow darted beneath the surface, too large and too wrong to be natural.

“You’re not here for redemption either, are you?”

He turned. A woman stood beside him, her face gaunt, eyes hollow. She clutched a tarnished locket. “Lila,” she said, flicking it open. Inside was a photo of a gap-toothed girl. “My daughter loved the sea. She’d have laughed at this… this floating coffin.”

Jin-soo’s breath hitched. Min-ji.

He’d signed her discharge papers two years ago. “Funding cuts,” the hospital director had said, avoiding his gaze. “Prioritize patients who can pay.” She’d died weeks later, her mother’s screams haunting the ER for months.

“Leukemia,” Lila said, snapping the locket shut. “They called her a fighter. But fighters need weapons, don’t they?”

Before he could reply, the engine sputtered to life.

The ferry carved through the fog. Jin-soo scanned the crowd:

Viktor Volkov, a silver-haired politician, leaned against the mast, flicking a gold lighter. The flame cast leaping shadows that clung to his tailored suit like parasites.

Sasha, a young woman with a shaved head, carved symbols into her forearm with a rusted nail. Blood dripped onto the deck, hissing like acid.

Tomas, a hulking man with a scarred face, stared into the mist as if it might spit out enemies. A military tattoo coiled around his neck like a serpent.

Amara Cruz, a journalist, scribbled in a notebook, her camera swinging from her neck. “Sixty-six passengers,” she muttered. “Same as the Asphodel’s manifest when it sank in 1923. You believe in ghosts, Doctor?”

“There are worse things than ghosts,” Sasha hissed, clutching her bleeding arm. “They’re watching. The Hollow’s children.”

“Save the cult crap,” Tomas growled, but the ferry shuddered violently. A scream tore through the air.

“Something’s in the water!”

A man at the stern pointed. Jin-soo followed his gaze. Pale shapes writhed beneath the surface—skeletal, elongated, their jaws unhinging to reveal rows of needle-teeth. One pressed a hand to the hull. The wood splintered with a sound like snapping bones.

“Lifeboats!” someone shouted.

There were none.

The ferry listed sideways. Passengers slid across the deck, clawing at the air. Jin-soo grabbed Lila’s wrist as she slammed into him, her pulse rabbiting against his fingers.

“Hold on!”

Water surged over the railing. The creatures breached the surface—translucent skin stretched over jagged bones, their hollow eyes fixed on the living. They dragged a woman under, her scream ending in a wet crunch.

“Move!” Tomas barked, herding survivors toward the bow.

Viktor elbowed past, shoving a teenager into the path of a creature. “Out of my way!”

“You bastard!” Amara lunged, but the ferry split with a thunderous crack. Cold water swallowed Jin-soo, filling his lungs with salt and rot.

Jin-soo washed ashore on his back, gasping. The sky churned with bruised clouds, the moon bloated and red. Twenty-three survivors coughed on the black sand.

Lila lay nearby, her locket missing. “Min-ji,” she rasped. “I’m sorry.”

Min-ji.

Jin-soo crawled to her. “You’re her mother.”

She recoiled. “You.” Her nails raked his cheek. “You sent her home to die!”

Tomas hauled her back. “Save your rage for the thing that brought us here.”

Torchlight flared.

A woman stood atop the cliffs, her face hidden behind a silver mask etched with weeping faces. “Welcome to Asphodel,” she said, her voice honey and poison. “I am Anya, priestess of the Veil.

Six trials. Six days. Sixty-six souls.”

“There’s only twenty-three of us,” Amara said, raising her camera.

Anya’s mask glinted. “The Veil provides.”

A gong echoed. The survivors turned.

Sixty-six figures now stood on the beach—dripping wet, their faces identical to the drowned.

“What the hell?” Tomas snarled.

“The first rule,” Anya said. “The game requires sixty-six players. Always.” She snapped her fingers.

The doppelgängers dissolved into smoke. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you dance.”

As she vanished, Jin-soo pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat stuttered—two pulses, out of sync.

The survivors were herded into the mansion’s decaying foyer. Jin-soo slumped against a mildewed wall, his clothes still damp. A cracked mirror hung nearby.

His reflection stared back—pale, unshaven, eyes sunken. But as he watched, its mouth twitched.

Then curled.

The reflection grinned, sharp and predatory.

Jin-soo recoiled. The mirror’s surface rippled like water. Words formed in the condensation:

YOU’RE ALREADY ONE OF US.

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