Noodle Shop Owner Smiled.

  Not with anger, not with irritation—just amusement, light and effortless, as if the situation unfolding before him was nothing more than an insignificant joke.

  But a person's presence speaks louder than their words.

  Then came the sound.

  A soft, lingering hiss. Like silk being torn apart. Like a snake shedding its old, withered skin.

  Park Tae-hyun watched as the man in front of him began to peel himself away.

  The transformation was slow, deliberate. The skin sloughed off in thin sheets, curling at the edges like old wallpaper loosening in a damp room. And at the same time, his entire body began to shrink—his broad frame collapsing inward, his solid build thinning out, as if a slow leak had sprung from within.

  Like a balloon deflating.

  What remained was a young man.

  Still dressed in the apron, still wearing the same clothes—but everything else had changed.

  His face was youthful, smooth, carrying an air of natural seduction. His lips curved in a smile that seemed effortlessly captivating, neither forced nor exaggerated, just enough to tug at the senses. And his eyes—

  Something about the way they slanted ever so slightly, the way they shimmered with veiled amusement—

  It was charming.

  It was not the kind of charm that came from looking alone, but something deeper, something instinctive. Some men were born with it—an allure that blurred the lines of attraction, that unsettled expectations. History had seen emperors abandon their kingdoms for men like this. Men who were more captivating than women themselves.

  "Am I good-looking?"

  The question came smoothly, as if it were nothing more than idle conversation.

  Park Tae-hyun felt his stomach lurch. His nausea, forcibly suppressed after the unfortunate meal, threatened to rise again. He waved a hand weakly in front of his face, a gesture somewhere between refusal and surrender, then placed a hand over his chest as if physically restraining himself from vomiting.

  —Every grain of food on a plate is hard-earned.

  That was a principle he lived by. Food was to be respected, cherished—especially the food that had already made the arduous journey down his throat, on the verge of being transformed into the energy his body needed.

  The young man sat down on a nearby chair, spinning a lighter between his fingers with absent-minded ease.

  He wasn't looking at Park Tae-hyun with malice, nor curiosity—just a casual sort of amusement.

  Because he had been found out.

  He had thought his disguise was perfect that no one would notice.

  But here, in this tiny noodle shop, someone had seen through him.

  More than anything, it was disappointing.

  All those years of practice, all those years spent perfecting every expression, every movement, every nuance—

  For nothing.

  After all, he had spent his entire life watching.

  Memorizing.

  Ever since he was a child, he had studied his parents. Every motion, every word, every shift in tone—it was carved into his bones, etched into his very being.

  He had simply become them.

  "How did you find me?" the young man asked at last.

  "You're not a ghost?" Park Tae-hyun responded at the same time.

  A flicker of confusion crossed the young man's face.

  For a moment, he thought he was being mocked. That Park Tae-hyun was ridiculing him, playing along with some joke at his expense.

  But no.

  Park Tae-hyun was serious.

  He had thought, from the very beginning, that he was dealing with a ghost.

  He didn't want to meddle.

  Hell, not long ago, he had been struggling just to get enough money for a freezer. He wasn't exactly in a position to go around sticking his nose into other people's business.

  But this—

  This was happening right next door.

  It was one thing to avoid unnecessary trouble.

  It was another thing to ignore something unraveling right in front of him.

  So he had made a choice.

  If it was something small, something he could deal with—he would handle it.

  If not—

  He would just leave.

  "Your nails," Park Tae-hyun said simply. "I'm a little sensitive to nails."

  The lady boss had handed him his noodles.

  The boss had handed him a cigarette.

  Two different people.

  But the same nails.

  The thickness, the shape, the level of calluses on their fingers—those varied. But the patterns, the fine ridges on the nails themselves—those remained the same.

  Park Tae-hyun had been paying more attention to nails lately. Not just his own, but others' as well.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  And this time—

  He had noticed.

  The young man narrowed his eyes, an unmistakable flicker of frustration crossing his face.

  A detail overlooked.

  A mistake was made.

  For all his efforts, for all the work he had put into this craft, this was where he had been found out.

  A single misstep.

  "Are you not a ghost?" Park Tae-hyun asked again.

  The young man exhaled, then reached out and grabbed Park Tae-hyun's hand, pressing it against his chest.

  "Painted Skin is a skill passed down from my ancestors," he said quietly. "It's just that it has been discontinued for many generations. Only in my lifetime has it been revived."

  The gesture was intimate. A little too close.

  But more than that—

  It was strange.

  Instinctively, Park Tae-hyun gave a slight squeeze.

  Soft.

  Too soft.

  Like there was nothing beneath the surface, like there were no bones at all.

  His brows furrowed.

  "No bones?" A pause. Then—"No, it's osteomalacia."

  Rickets. A disease caused by calcium deficiency, preventing bones from hardening properly. Park Tae-hyun had been a doctor, after all. He knew these things.

  But this—

  This was extreme.

  There were old records—unofficial histories—of a prince from the State of Lu, born with a body so fragile, so pliant, that he could move like a snake, slip through the smallest of spaces.

  "You can think of it as a genetic condition," the young man said lightly. "A rare one. Many generations of my family couldn't become Painted Skin because they didn't have it. But I..."

  He trailed off with a smile.

  "So, you're really not a ghost?" Park Tae-hyun pressed.

  The young man looked at him seriously for the first time.

  "My name is Baek Cheong-won," he said.

  Park Tae-hyun exhaled, rubbing his temples.

  "...Who were you imitating?"

  "My parents."

  Silence.

  Park Tae-hyun blinked.

  Then he let out a soft, bitter chuckle.

  Alright.

  This was a big misunderstanding.

  A long exhale, then:

  "Then... I'm sorry."

  "I'm not angry," Im Cheong-won replied. "But I am curious—why do you keep treating me like a ghost?"

  Park Tae-hyun hesitated.

  Then—

  "It's nothing."

  A pause.

  "Have you seen a ghost before?" Baek Cheong-won asked.

  Park Tae-hyun met his gaze.

  His voice, when it came, was quiet. Serious.

  "I am a ghost."

  The words hung between them, weighty, unshakable.

  For a moment, Baek Cheong-won simply stared.

  Then—

  Laughter.

  Soft, incredulous laughter, as if he had just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world.

  He looked at Park Tae-hyun like he was a fool.

  Like he was insane.

  And Park Tae-hyun just nodded.

  Because that was how it always was.

  Tell someone the truth, and they would think you were joking.

  Lie to them—

  And they would believe every word.

  Then, he couldn't help but burst into laughter.

  Looking at Park Tae-hyun,

  It was like looking at an idiot.

  Park Tae-hyun simply nodded. Sometimes, it was just like this—you tell someone the truth, yet they think you're joking. And when you try to joke, they believe it completely.

  "Anyway, my apologies. But I have to ask—was that human skin real?" Park Tae-hyun asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

  "Fish skin," Baek Cheong-won replied matter-of-factly. "Processed, painted, and shaped."

  "Then what kind of noodles are you actually selling?" Park Tae-hyun was confused. "I've heard that the Hezhe people make clothes out of snakeskin and sell them as expensive art pieces. Wouldn't your stuff be worth even more?"

  "I can't make a business out of something that was passed down from my ancestors."

  "Then you must be rich already," Park Tae-hyun speculated.

  "My family's house was just demolished," Baek Cheong-won said casually. "We got more than twenty new apartments in compensation."

  "..."

  Park Tae-hyun took a deep breath.

  The world was just so unfair.

  In his past life, he had worked tirelessly in a hospital, struggling to save lives. Even after years of grinding effort, he barely made any money. Meanwhile, some people simply had their houses torn down and ended up with more property than they knew what to do with.

  Even though Tongmyeong wasn't as expensive as Seoul, housing prices were still steep.

  A second-generation rich kid through demolition compensation… How enviable.

  Park Tae-hyun shook his head. "Are you planning to keep running this noodle shop?"

  "Are you planning to keep running this bookstore?"

  Both of them asked their questions at the same time.

  "Let's wait and see," Park Tae-hyun replied.

  "Same here."

  "Well, I'll be going. By the way, do you have any other flavors of sujeonggwa?" Park Tae-hyun asked, suddenly curious. "Like… bitter melon flavor? Grape flavor?"

  "I have a secret recipe. You can try making it yourself," Baek Cheong-won replied honestly.

  "Good idea." Park Tae-hyun reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

  Damn.

  It was like touching cotton.

  Soft, weak, and boneless. If he held him in his arms and lay on a bed…

  Park Tae-hyun immediately shoved that thought away, forcing an image of Dr. Im stepping out of the shower in his pajamas to suppress the rising absurdity in his mind.

  With that, he turned and left the noodle shop.

  Inside, Baek Cheong-won walked into the back room, pulling aside a curtain. His gaze fell on a human-shaped skin hanging from a wooden rack.

  "Mom," he murmured, "do you think he actually believed me, or was he just pretending?"

  The woman's skin swayed gently.

  Just a little.

  As if to say—he didn't believe it.

  Or perhaps—it wasn't sure, either.

  When Park Tae-hyun returned to the bookstore, he found that the new freezer had been delivered and installed. Next, he would need to renovate the place. He couldn't just let this bookstore continue to rot away.

  The sign above the LED entrance read "Kim Bookstore", looking as outdated and lifeless as possible.

  This place, in that guy's hands, radiated an aura of "doomed to fail"—from top to bottom, inside and out.

  Sitting down in front of his computer, Park Tae-hyun attempted to log into his old account.

  Several tries later, he gave up. The identity verification wouldn't go through, and there was no way to appeal it.

  With a sigh, he stepped out and hailed a taxi. He figured he should get a new sign or at least a pair of wooden plaques for the door.

  He knew an old man who ran a wood-carved plaque shop. The guy had been donating to an orphanage for decades—even back when Park Tae-hyun himself was living there. When he grew up and started working, they had donated together.

  The shop wasn't far, nestled at the base of Wolves' Mountain. Unlike the surrounding stores selling incense and candles for temple-goers, this one specialized in hand-carved wooden signs.

  But when Park Tae-hyun arrived, he found the place in the middle of a deep clean. Even the sign had been taken down.

  A middle-aged man was directing workers, overseeing the changes.

  "Who are you?" the man asked when he noticed Park Tae-hyun.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Jang," Park Tae-hyun said, feeling a sense of unease. He had always respected the old man.

  "I'm sorry," the middle-aged man said. "My father passed away last month."

  "…Gone?"

  A quiet moment passed.

  He and Mr. Jang weren't particularly close, but they had known each other. It wasn't surprising that he hadn't been notified of the funeral.

  And considering how Mr. Jang had always donated his earnings to the orphanage, his family probably had no goodwill left for it. They wouldn't have wanted the orphanage to show up, just in case they asked for more money.

  "Are you here for a plaque?" the man asked.

  "Yeah."

  "We're not making them anymore," the man said. "From now on, we're selling incense and candles instead."

  Wolves' Mountain was one of the country's smaller Buddhist pilgrimage sites. Even if it didn't attract foreign tourists, locals still came to pray and make offerings. That alone was enough to make a living off temple commerce.

  It was just how things worked.

  "That's a shame," Park Tae-hyun said quietly.

  Maybe he'd visit Mr. Jang's grave later.

  "But," the middle-aged man added, "we still have a few plaques my father made before he passed. He never told us what they were for, and they weren't custom orders. If you want one, I'll sell it cheap. Otherwise, they're just going to waste."

  "Alright," Park Tae-hyun said. "Let me take a look."

  Following the man into a small back courtyard, he watched as the warehouse door was unlocked and the lights switched on.

  Inside, Mr. Jang's old carving tools lay abandoned.

  No one had inherited his craft.

  The world had moved on. People preferred glowing LED signs now—why bother with something painstakingly hand-carved?

  With a sigh, the middle-aged man brushed dust off a stack of plaques and said, "Take a look. Two hundred won each. If you want them, take them. If not, no big deal."

  Clearly, he didn't expect anyone to actually want them.

  Park Tae-hyun crouched down and examined the first plaque.

  "Life and death are determined by fate. Wealth and honor are decreed by the heavens."

  He shook his head.

  The middle-aged man sighed, already resigned.

  The second plaque read:

  "People fear ghosts because they do not understand them. But ghosts fear humans… because they know them too well."

  Park Tae-hyun hesitated. His fingers brushed the lettering.

  Something about it struck a nerve.

  This time, the middle-aged man didn't sigh. He didn't need to. No one in their right mind would hang something like this on a storefront.

  The third plaque:

  "Just listen. This is what I've heard."

  A slow smile crept onto Park Tae-hyun's face.

  The middle-aged man saw it and smiled, too.

  There was always at least one person who understood.