Hidden Patterns | Kpop Demon Hunters x Reader

[ 13 ] too sweet to forget

150 years ago, late Joseon period.

A young boy with grayish-blue hair that veers slightly towards turquoise sits on a worn wooden swing, rocking himself back and forth. The swing creaks softly beneath him with every motion, while afternoon light filters through the thin canopy above, golden rays spilling over the dirt like a gentle blessing. His bare feet brush against the ground every few seconds, a quiet rhythm that fills the otherwise still air. In his lap rests a doll—a crude little thing sewn from scraps of old fabric, its seams fraying and its head slightly misshapen. Still, to Baby, it's perfect. It's his only friend. He runs his fingers along its patched body with care, smiling tenderly.

This is peace. Rare, fleeting, precious peace.

But as always, it doesn't last.

Laughter shatters the silence. The sound crawls along his spine like icy fingers, pulling his stomach into knots. He stiffens on the swing, his grip tightening on the doll as a collection of shadows stretch across the ground. When he turns his head, they're already there—a group of boys. Older than him, taller, and meaner. They stand in a circle, teeth flashing like wolves, eyes glinting with cruel delight. Their laughter grows even louder as they approach.

"He's playing with that doll again," one of them jeers, voice thick with mockery. "Ugh. So gross."

"Seriously," another adds. He steps closer, kicking at the dirt near Baby's feet. "It's such an ugly doll, too. He couldn't even get a decent one. What a loser."

The circle closes in. Baby lowers his gaze, shoulders curling inward as tears prick at his eyes. He wants to vanish. He wants to sink into the earth and never be seen again. His lips tremble, and he sniffles softly.

"Aw, just look at him," a third boy laughs, somehow even more derisively than the others. "He's gonna cry again. You really are a baby, huh?"

That word. That cursed word. It sticks to him like a brand—Baby. A name he never asked for. A name they forced on him, against his will. A name that makes him burn from shame.

The laughter swells, cruel and merciless, filling the air until it drowns out his own thoughts. Baby clutches the doll tighter, pressing it against his chest as if it could shield him from the storm that's approaching. But they don't let him keep even that small comfort. A hand shoots out, snatching the doll from his grasp.

"No!" Baby leaps from the swing, scrambling towards them, but he doesn't make it far. A shove slams into his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The taste of dirt fills his mouth, and tears blur his vision as the boys howl with laughter.

He watches helplessly as they tear the doll apart piece by piece. The stitches unravel under their fingers, the fabric ripping like paper, the little head tossed aside with casual cruelty. His heart twists into something sharp, something absolutely unbearable.

"Stop," he chokes out, crawling forward on his hands and knees. "Please—stop!"

They don't stop, though. Of course not.

Not once have they ever stopped.

By the time they're done, the doll is nothing but scraps scattered across the ground. One of the boys makes sure to kick dirt into his face well after the fact, just for good measure. Or perhaps to make him feel even more pitiful than he already does.

"Loser," the same boy spits, his grin wicked and wide. "Why do you even bother showing your face? Just stay inside where no one has to look at you. You'd be doing everyone a favor."

The group erupts into laughter one last time before they turn and walk off, their voices fading into the distance. Baby doesn't move until they're gone. He waits until he's certain the nightmare is over. When he finally does, it's only to crawl toward the ruins of his doll, his trembling fingers gathering the shredded pieces with desperation.