The Dark Abyss: Forever Lies Resurgence of the Phantom

The world had learned to live without him. Seven months had passed, long enough for whispers of his death to settle into certainty. His name became a shadow, a forgotten fear buried beneath time’s cruel indifference. His mother had stopped waiting, surrendering her sorrow to the graveyard’s silence. His enemies, once cautious, now moved freely, believing the storm had passed. And then—he returned. Dragged through the gates of his own domain, he was barely recognizable. Blood soaked his tattered cloak, deep wounds carved into his flesh like remnants of war. His hair, once untamed, was matted with dirt and dried crimson. He should have been writhing in agony, gasping for life. But he wasn’t. He was sleeping. Not unconscious, not fading in and out of delirium—just sleeping. His breath was steady, his face disturbingly calm, as if the ruin of his body meant nothing. As if pain itself had lost its meaning. The sight of him sent a ripple of unease through those who saw. Warriors had returned from battle before, broken but alive. But this? This was something else. A man who had torn through hell and returned not in suffering, but in eerie, unshaken rest. And that’s when they realized—he had never been defeated. Whatever had happened out there, however long it had taken, he had won. And now, the real nightmare was about to begin.

The news reached the base like a silent storm, slipping through ranks until it landed where it mattered most. His parents were the last to hear—perhaps because no one dared to be the bearer of such an unsettling revelation. Their son had returned. Not victorious in the way they had once imagined, not broken in the way they had feared. He was back, but in a state no one could comprehend. Wounded beyond measure, yet untouched by pain. Barely breathing, yet disturbingly alive. His mother felt the weight of it before she could even process the words. Seven months of mourning, of convincing herself that the child she had found was lost once again, shattered in an instant. His father, ever the unreadable force, remained still—yet even he could not ignore the gravity of what had been said. Their son was alive. But something about him had changed. Something irreversible.

When they arrived, they found him exactly as described—sleeping. Not restless, not delirious, just unnervingly still. Tubes ran from his arm, the steady drip of IV sedation keeping him in a controlled slumber. It wasn’t medical necessity; it was routine. A habit. His mother’s breath caught at the sight—her son, battered and scarred, yet sleeping as if none of it mattered. Seven months of brutal survival, yet here he lay, undisturbed, as if the wounds across his body were nothing more than fading memories. His father stood motionless, eyes locked onto the son they had lost and found again. Not in suffering, not in struggle—just resting, the same way he always had. And that, more than anything, was unsettling.

The news spread fast—too fast. The Jeons were informed, their reactions mirroring the disbelief that had gripped everyone who heard it. A man lost to war had returned, not in victory nor in ruin, but in an eerie, detached slumber. It was something beyond understanding. When they arrived, the scene was already tense. Military officers, comrades who had fought beside him, stood in rigid silence. Some were relieved, others unnerved. None could ignore the weight of what they were witnessing. A warrior who had endured hell, now lying there as if none of it had touched him. The Jeons stepped in cautiously, their gazes shifting between the unconscious figure and the unreadable expressions of those around him. His presence alone, even in sleep, commanded something unspoken—an authority that not even time or wounds could strip away.

He lay there, motionless, his dark brown eyes hidden beneath closed lids, yet his presence was anything but dormant. Even in stillness, he was a force—ethereally dangerous, hauntingly beautiful. The dim light cast shadows over his sharp features, highlighting every scar, every wound that seemed less like remnants of battle and more like deliberate strokes of artistry. The torn fabric of his cloak, the dried blood tracing his skin—it all complemented him in a way that defied logic. And then, amidst the cold reality of his return, someone felt it. A shift. A fleeting, uninvited stir within their chest. A heart moved—not by fear, not by admiration, but by something far more dangerous. Something unspoken.

Kim Joo young (De iris)

* Came closer to him and sit at the side of bed*

She sat beside him, her trembling hands reaching out as if afraid he might vanish again. Gently, she caressed his face, her fingers tracing the sharp lines of his features, the scars that told stories he never would. But he remained unmoved—utterly indifferent, even to a mother’s touch. To him, it was nothing. A sensation barely worth acknowledging. But to her, it was everything. The son she had lost, the child she had mourned, was right here, yet felt so far away. The warmth she once longed to give him now met nothing but an unyielding shell. And that realization cut deeper than any wound ever could.

Kim Taehyung (Criss Vyre)

...

Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with emotions she couldn’t contain. "You are here… but why does it feel like I’ve still lost you?" Her fingers brushed over his cheek, desperate for a response, for any sign that the son she had once cradled still existed beneath this unreadable mask. "You were my heartbeat once… but now, I wonder if you even have one." Tears welled in her eyes, but he remained unchanged—breathing, present, yet distant. A ghost in his own skin.

The room, once heavy with silent tension, now felt suffocating with grief. Her words, raw and unfiltered, reached every soul present. Soldiers who had faced death without flinching found themselves looking away, their rigid composure faltering. The Jeons stood frozen, witnessing a mother’s pain that no battlefield could ever compare to. She held him like he was still the boy she had once known, but the reality was undeniable—he was no longer that child. He was here, yet he wasn’t. Breathing, yet untouchable. A son she had mourned for seven months, only to find that the one who returned was nothing like the one she had lost. And in that moment, even the strongest among them felt something stir—a quiet, aching sorrow that none dared to voice.

Amidst the heavy silence, a faint movement shattered the stillness. Barely perceptible, yet impossible to ignore—he shifted, just slightly, his posture adjusting as if responding to some distant call. His mother’s hand froze, her breath hitching. The change was minimal, almost insignificant, but for those watching, it felt like the ground beneath them had shifted. After all this time, after her desperate touch, after words soaked in sorrow—was this a sign? Or was it just a reflex, a movement void of meaning, just like the man he had become?

Kim Taehyung (Criss Vyre)

*cough a mouthful of blood*

A sudden, faint cough broke the silence, deep and heavy, like a sound dragged from the depths of his chest. Then, a slow trickle of blood slipped from his lips—dark, vivid, pooling into his palm before spilling onto the pristine sheets. His mother gasped, her fingers tightening around his as fear seized her heart. The soldiers stiffened, instinctively reaching forward, but none dared to touch him. The Jeons exchanged uneasy glances—this was no ordinary reaction, no mere sign of weakness. Even now, his body betrayed nothing. No pain, no struggle. As if coughing up blood was just another meaningless occurrence, another trivial detail in a life already steeped in brutality.

Kim Joo young (De iris)

Taehyung , my son . Please answer my plea.. * said in broken voice

Another cough rumbled from his chest, heavier this time, yet still restrained—controlled, as if even his own body’s suffering was beneath his concern. More blood spilled from his lips, staining the sheets in a stark contrast of life and ruin. His mother flinched, her grip tightening around his hand, but he remained indifferent, eyes still closed, lost in whatever depths he had retreated to. The room tensed, the weight of his presence suffocating even in his weakened state. He was back, but the question lingered—was he still the same man they had once known, or had something far more terrifying returned in his place?

A thin stream of blood slipped from his nose, trailing down his face, mingling with the crimson on his lips. The sight sent a ripple of alarm through the room. His body, battered and ruined from the unknown horrors he had endured, was finally giving in. His breaths grew heavier, each inhale strained as if his own ribs fought against him. Beneath the bandages and torn clothing, unseen fractures pressed against fragile flesh, internal wounds deepening with every passing second. Yet, even as his body betrayed him, his face remained eerily calm—his mind untouched by the agony tearing through him. His mother’s heart clenched at the sight, her shaking hands hovering over him, helpless against the invisible war raging within his body. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their hardened souls shaken. They had seen death, they had seen warriors fall—but they had never seen a man so close to breaking, yet refusing to surrender. How much had he endured? How long had he been holding on? And the most terrifying question of all—how was he still alive?

His dark lashes fluttered as his eyes cracked open—just slightly. But there was no recognition, no acknowledgment of the people surrounding him. His gaze remained distant, unfocused, as if looking past them, through them, into something far beyond their understanding. A strand of his wolf-cut hair fell over his forehead, shifting as he moved. With slow, deliberate ease, he tilted his head back, letting it rest against the cold surface of the bedhead. The motion was effortless yet heavy, like a man who had carried too much for too long. And then, just as quickly as he had stirred, his eyes drifted shut once more. As if none of this mattered. As if the blood, the fractures, the quiet chaos around him were nothing but whispers in a world he no longer belonged to.

Kim Joo young (De iris)

*Stunned*

The air in the room was thick with anticipation. Everyone had settled, waiting, their eyes fixed on him as if watching a ticking bomb. Minutes stretched into an eerie silence—until his eyes opened again. What followed was something they would never forget. Without hesitation, he moved—his hand gripping his shoulder, then his ribs, then his wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the room as he began resetting his own fractured bones, one by one. The sound was horrific, unnatural, like something being wrenched back into place forcefully. His expression remained unreadable, unmoved, save for the slightest furrow of his brow. The soldiers stiffened. The Jeons froze. His mother gasped, but no one dared to interfere. What kind of man endures such agony without so much as a wince? As if nothing had happened, he finally shifted his gaze—just briefly—his dark eyes flickering across the room, registering the faces of those watching him. He frowned, ever so slightly, as though irritated by the number of people present. Then, without a word, he moved. Slowly, methodically, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements calculated yet eerily fluid despite his battered body. Ignoring the stunned silence around him, he pushed himself up, standing on unsteady feet. And then, without sparing anyone another glance, he walked. Step by slow step, he made his way toward the bathroom, his posture unwavering, his intent clear. Freshen up. Regain control. As if he hadn’t just done something that left the entire room horrified.

Inside the bathroom, the water ran crimson. Blood flowed freely from his wounds, swirling down the drain, staining the tiles beneath his feet. His head throbbed, his body screamed, but he remained indifferent, standing still as the shower pounded against him. Outside, the tension was suffocating. His mother sat frozen, her hands clenched together, her breath uneven. What if he fell? What if his battered body finally gave in? The thought sent a shiver through her, but she knew—he was not someone who would allow weakness to claim him. Three minutes passed. Then, the water stopped. Inside, he moved with practiced precision. Each bandage wrapped flawlessly, each wound tended to with the skill of a man who had done this countless times before. No hesitation, no struggle. Just quiet efficiency. And then, as if this was nothing more than a routine, he dressed. A black shirt, fitting snugly over his scarred frame. Black pants, moving effortlessly with his calculated steps. And finally, his signature long black coat, draping over him like a shadow, completing the image of something both deadly and untouchable. The door creaked open. As he stepped out, time seemed to slow. The dim light caught on the water droplets still clinging to his wolf-cut hair, trailing down his sharp jawline, soaking into the fabric of his coat. His presence was almost unreal—ethereal, yet terrifying in its sheer perfection. Every gaze locked onto him, yet he acknowledged none of them. He didn’t need to. His mere existence was enough to command the entire room.

He picked up his phone from the bedside table, his fingers gliding over the screen with effortless ease. No rush, no urgency—just the quiet confidence of a man in complete control. Without a word, he turned toward the door. As he stepped out, his movements were fluid, calculated. His dark eyes barely flickered toward the people still watching him in silent awe. And then, with the faintest nod—a mere acknowledgment, nothing more—he walked away. His long coat trailed behind him as he moved down the hall, his presence lingering even after he had passed. Each step was unhurried yet unwavering, a quiet storm contained within him. Reaching the living room, he settled in, his expression unreadable. Whatever he had endured, whatever he had become—none of it mattered now. He was here. And that was enough to remind everyone just who he really was.

He descended the stairs steadily, each step measured and unwavering, as if his body hadn’t just been on the brink of collapse. His phone rested against his ear, his fingers dialing a number with practiced ease. Reaching the kitchen, he moved to the counter, his presence as effortless as ever. Without hesitation, he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice-cold water, the chill fogging up the surface. Just as he lifted the glass to his lips, a sudden rush of footsteps echoed behind him. His mother, her heart pounding, was practically running down the stairs. Her eyes locked onto the glass in his hand—her breath hitched in fear. But before she could reach him, before she could snatch it away, he had already tipped his head back. The water poured down his throat, freezing against his raw wounds, but he didn’t flinch. Along with it, a handful of medicine—strong enough to drop any normal man—vanished between his teeth. He didn’t swallow them whole. No, he chewed them, crushing the bitter pills like they were nothing but tasteless snacks. His mother stopped mid-step, frozen in horror. The sight was unnatural, terrifying. But to him, it was just another routine—just another meaningless part of his existence.