For those who don't know much about cars, buying one isn't just a matter of money—it's a headache, a leap of faith, a gamble that requires trust in people who supposedly know better.

  Sooner or later, they find themselves asking for advice from a friend or a relative who's into cars, hoping to avoid stepping on a landmine. Because the truth is, not all cars are created equal.

  Some have flaws, some come with hidden defects that aren't obvious until it's too late—problems with quality, performance, or durability.

  But at the end of the day…

  You shouldn't be able to burn a hole through the door of a car with a cigarette butt.

  And yet, here it was. A small, charred hole on the door panel, the material giving way like fragile tissue.

  No one could call this a manufacturing defect anymore.

  No excuses about shoddy craftsmanship or cheap materials would explain this.

  This wasn't just a bad car.

  This was a paper.

  A Paper Car.

  The driver was middle-aged, with deep lines carved into his face—creases from time, from worry, from things left unsaid. But his eldest son was just a kid, still in elementary school. When he spoke, he said his son had given him this car.

  That word—"??" (gave)—

  It could also be written as "???" (burned).

  His son had burned a paper car for him.

  Because his father was already dead.

  Park Tae-hyun sat in the backseat, silent. His fingers brushed over the tiny hole in the door panel, the charred edge still warm.

  Had he really not noticed until now?

  No—he had noticed. He just didn't want to see it.

  Because what was the point?

  He wasn't human anymore either.

  If he started playing the righteous exorcist, hunting down spirits and sending them to the afterlife, wouldn't that make him a traitor?

  A ghost that hunts ghosts.

  A turncoat.

  Tae-hyun exhaled slowly, pressing his palm over the hole, as if he could will it away. As if he could pretend none of this was happening. He let his head rest against the seat, eyelids heavy, posture lazy. Sleepy. Unconcerned.

  Just a man on a late-night drive.

  He thought back to his childhood at the orphanage. The halls smelled of cheap disinfectant and warm rice, and in winter, the windows fogged up so thickly you could barely see outside.

  There was a man there, an old staff member named Uncle Jin. Officially, he was the P.E. instructor, but in reality, he did a little bit of everything—sweeping floors, fixing broken chairs, guarding the front gate.

  The kids called him "Uncle Jin the Doorman."

  Uncle Jin had a habit of telling ghost stories. He loved the way they flinched, the way their little hands clutched at blankets or gripped each other's sleeves. The orphanage director scolded him more than once, said he'd give the kids nightmares.

  But Uncle Jin never stopped.

  Tae-hyun still remembered one story in particular.

  "The Ghost Sedan."

  It was said that not every soul moves on after death. Most do—crossing into the afterlife, drinking the waters of oblivion, slipping into reincarnation like a tide pulling them away.

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  But some remain.

  And among them were the ghosts of sedan chair carriers.

  They appeared on empty roads at night, their shoulders weighed down by an invisible burden. They would stop travelers, smiling wide, and offer their services. The price?

  Unbelievably cheap.

  But the currency wasn't money.

  It was life force.

  In the underworld, sedan carriers served the kings and gods.

  And an ordinary living person?

  Not worthy.

  Taking their ride meant surrendering something—years off your life, pieces of your soul, bit by bit, until there was nothing left.

  Like an old man kneeling in front of you, bowing too deeply, pressing his forehead to the ground—

  Something was being taken away.

  That story had stuck with Tae-hyun. He remembered it, word for word.

  Maybe because of what happened the night before Uncle Jin died.

  That man—who never once stepped beyond the orphanage's front gate—had wandered the dormitory, peering into every room as if searching for something.

  Tae-hyun had been awake.

  He had seen him.

  Uncle Jin hadn't spoken. He had just looked, eyes tracing over sleeping children, lips pressed into a thin line.

  And the next morning, he was gone.

  Tae-hyun didn't believe in coincidence.

  When someone knows they're about to die, their ghost stories stop being just stories.

  The driver was still talking. His voice filled the car like white noise, endless, unbroken, as if he was afraid of silence.

  Tae-hyun didn't respond.

  "Some people walk around with a sign on their forehead that practically says, 'I'm begging to die.' It's annoying, you know?" the driver muttered.

  Park Tae-hyun narrowed his eyes. A slow drowsiness crept over him, soft and insistent, like waves pulling him under.

  His body wanted to sink into it—to let go, to let the night swallow him whole.

  But he knew better.

  This wasn't real sleep.

  He exhaled a quiet laugh, the sound barely more than a breath.

  Now he understood.

  The driver had been chattering nonstop for a reason. Not just to pass the time. Not just out of habit.

  But because he was terrified of silence.

  Because silence meant sleep.

  And sleep meant—

  Tae-hyun closed his eyes, resting his head against the seat. His fingers curled lightly over the fabric, steady, patient.

  Alright, then.

  Let's see where this road leads.

  The car slowed. The driver's voice faded, growing thinner, as if distance itself was swallowing it.

  Somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming, Tae-hyun felt the shift—the faint, intangible sensation of something dissolving around him.

  The driver turned his head. His expression flickered—hesitation, conflict.

  Then, suddenly, he clenched his jaw, shook his head hard, and sighed.

  And kept driving.

  A soft glow seeped into the car, filtering through the windows. Not the artificial glare of streetlights, but something gentler. Warmer.

  A memory.

  Tae-hyun's fingers twitched. He stirred, slowly opening his eyes.

  The world outside had changed.

  No longer the dark, empty road—no longer a place where ghosts drove paper cars.

  Instead, the streets bustled with life. The traffic lights blinked red and green, horns honked impatiently, and the hum of city life pulsed through the air.

  The driver was still behind the wheel, humming to himself, his face lit with the simple joy of an ordinary day.

  The radio played a song—one of those chart-topping ballads, the kind that looped endlessly in convenience stores and cafés.

  A school bus passed in front of them.

  On the back window, a small girl stood up.

  She was turned toward him. Even from inside the car, Tae-hyun could see her clearly.

  She wore a blue lily-white dress, her dark hair neatly tied.

  Cute.

  Innocent.

  His fingers tightened slightly.

  He knew this girl.

  She was the same girl he had saved back then.

  Doctor Im had mentioned that her father wanted to throw a thank-you banquet—to express his gratitude for saving her life.

  Tae-hyun's gaze darkened slightly.

  So this driver… was the cause of the crash?

  The one responsible for all those injured children?

  His grip on the cigarette between his fingers loosened.

  In the front seat, the driver chuckled softly.

  "What a pretty girl," he murmured to himself. "Just like my youngest…"

  He didn't know Tae-hyun was watching. Didn't realize he wasn't alone in the car.

  Tae-hyun's eyes flickered over him, searching for signs.

  Drunk? No.

  Angry? No.

  So then—what caused the accident?

  Just as that thought formed, the little girl moved.

  Her lips parted.

  And her tongue—

  Spilled out.

  Not the normal, delicate motion of speech, but something unnatural.

  Something wrong.

  A long, red tongue, unfurling like a silk ribbon, stretching… and stretching…

  Long enough to make the scalp prickle.

  Long enough to make the air feel colder.

  And her eyes—

  Mocking.

  Amused.

  Fixed on the driver.

  Then—

  A strangled scream.

  "Holy shit—A GHOST!!"

  The driver panicked. His foot slammed on the accelerator.

  The car lurched forward.

  The school bus loomed ahead.

  "Boom."

  Metal crunched. Sparks flared against the night.

  Tae-hyun blinked.

  The next moment—

  He was standing in front of the bookstore.

  Paper ashes fluttered around him, drifting on the wind, glowing faintly before vanishing into the darkness.

  He lifted his hand.

  Unscathed.

  Not a single scratch on him.

  The driver had kept his promise.

  He had taken him to his destination.

  But Tae-hyun didn't step inside right away.

  He stared at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember burn slowly.

  Somewhere in his mind, a voice echoed.

  "Uncle, you can't smoke in the hospital."

  The girl's voice.

  Light. Innocent.

  A reminder of something fragile.

  Something worth protecting.

  He took a slow drag, then exhaled, his lips curving into the barest trace of a smile.

  His own life had long drifted past the line of the living.

  And yet, here he was.

  Still standing.

  Still breathing.

  But in the end…

  What monster had he saved?