Heavenly Army, Doraon dorai_ By Ooahan JS
To top it off, she clutched the blanket tightly against her chest, as if to preserve some modesty.
I raised my hand again to shake her awake, but it trembled uncontrollably. Even when I tried to steady it with my other hand, the shaking wouldn’t stop.
As I reached toward her, a creeping sense of unease washed over me.
Her jet-black hair didn’t look real. It gleamed unnaturally, as if it didn’t belong in this world. The strands sparkled, catching the light like they were reflecting starlight.
My breath hitched.
Was she even human?
A chill ran down my spine as the realization hit me.
Could she be… a ghost?!
“Uwaaahhhh!”
Goosebumps rippled across my entire body. The fine hairs on my arms stood on end like iron filings drawn to a magnet, a sight I’d never seen on myself before.
Even I, someone who prided myself on not scaring easily, felt my courage draining.
Her jet-black hair, the pallor of her shoulders, and her ghostly complexion—I couldn’t bear to keep looking at her.
If only there had been a Bible or a Buddhist rosary on the floor. But of course, there wasn’t.
I regretted rejecting the rosary Mom had tried to give me a month ago.
“Wear this. It’ll ward off ghosts,” she’d said.
“What? Mom, are you nuts? Ghosts don’t exist. Pfft, hahaha!”
I’d laughed it off as superstitious nonsense, but now I desperately wished I had that rosary in my hands.
Should I sing a hymn? Chant a prayer?
I racked my brain for the Buddhist mantras I’d overheard as a kid, trailing after Mom at the temple like some stray dog. Gritting my teeth, I muttered under my breath,
“Ma-ha Ban-ya Ba-ra-mil-da Shim-gyeong… Kwan-ja-jae-bo-sal…”
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying she would disappear.
But when I opened them, she was still there.
I was about to panic again, but then I noticed something—she was breathing.
The steady rise and fall of her shoulders was unmistakable.
Thank God. Ghosts don’t breathe.
Relief washed over me. I should’ve checked that from the start. What a dumb misunderstanding.
As I calmed down, I noticed her feet. Smooth, pale, and delicate, they looked almost unreal. Perfectly pedicured, they seemed as meticulously maintained as an art piece.
Who has feet like this? I thought, astonished.
I shook my head, chastising myself for spiraling into ridiculous thoughts.
The only reason my mind was running wild was because this woman—a complete stranger—had somehow entered my one-room apartment, a place no one else had ever set foot in.
That realization brought back a shiver of unease, but I reminded myself: she wasn’t a ghost.
Moving cautiously, I slid off the bed and tiptoed toward her, each step as light as a cat’s.
The closer I got, the more my jaw dropped.
Her face… it was perfection. Utterly stunning.
“She’s gorgeous…”
Even as a fellow woman, I couldn’t stop myself from practically drooling.
I felt my cheeks flush. The absurdity of the situation—standing here, blushing at a stranger’s beauty—made me feel both embarrassed and pathetic.
I crept closer, stopping just in front of her.
And then I froze.
Up close, she was even more breathtaking. Her beauty was blinding, almost divine.
A slender face, skin as smooth as a peeled egg, impossibly long lashes, a perfectly sculpted nose, and lips that looked both soft and confident.
She was unreal. A vision straight out of a fantasy or a manhwa.
“This has to be plastic surgery,” I thought.
“She’s probably had implants in her nose, eyelash extensions, and goes to a dermatologist five times a week. There’s no way this is natural.”
But then another voice in my head whispered, “Don’t jump to conclusions. What if she’s a natural beauty?”
That thought made me sad. Why does God always play favorites?
Some people get everything—looks, wealth, fame. They’re the ones people call “the golden child,” the kind who seem tailor-made for perfection.
God is so unfair.
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