Stranger that I Know: The Forgotten Promise

1 – Ilya the superstar

South Korea,

Seoul,

Year 20XX

The spacious room was bathed in soft amber light, shadows pooling in the corners like secrets unspoken. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, clean and carefully curated, while a wall of untouched books loomed like silent spectators. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant hum of the city seemed worlds away, muted and surreal.

"How are you feeling, Finn?"

On the comfortable water-blue sofa sat a man in professional attire, his pure white doctor's coat crisp and spotless. Opposite him was another man, still wearing a mask and sunglasses, even indoors.

"Do I have to feel something different? And call me Ilya," came the curt reply.

It was hard to discern any emotion behind the mask and sunglasses.

The doctor leaned back, unruffled. "Didn't you say 'Ilya' makes you feel unfamiliar?"

"That's why I like being called Ilya," he replied flatly.

"Fine, Ilya," the doctor conceded. "Are you still having suicidal thoughts?"

"The world and people around me feel strange and unfamiliar," Ilya said, his tone detached. "It's like I don't belong here, as if dying would take me to where I'm truly meant to be."

The doctor paused thoughtfully. "Have you ever considered raising a pet?"

"What's there to consider about?" Ilya's response was indifferent.

"You've built a wall around yourself since childhood," the doctor explained. "It's stopping you from opening up emotionally to the people around you. Maybe an innocent, loyal companion without any greed could help you."

Ilya's POV

I am Finn Willson.

The world knows me as Ilya, a good-looking, good-natured rising star.

Today, I turned twenty-two. No one knows it, not even my parents, who gave birth to me. They've forgotten. Even my fans don't know my real birthday; my agency set a fake one because I was born on an 'unlucky' day.

So, what am I doing special on my birthday?

Visiting my psychiatrist.

As I left his office, I couldn't shake the thought: this was always a waste of time. Ten years of therapy, and it never helped. I've watched that so-called doctor grow from a one-room clinic in an alleyway to this spacious, polished office, and yet nothing about me has changed.

Sliding into the driver's seat of my car, I muttered curses under my breath. That damn doctor. Ten years, and he couldn't help me even once.

Life felt like a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. Meaningless. Pointless. Just existing.

Pulling off my mask and sunglasses, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Messy hair. Dark circles carving deep into my cheeks. I looked like hell.

You might wonder why I even keep going to therapy.

It's simple. I've had dreams, and nightmares, really, since I was a kid.

Dreams of killing my siblings.

Waking up in those dreams only to see myself dead instead. The dreams don't stop, and insomnia has become my constant companion. Those violent urges don't just haunt my nights; they linger all day, especially when I see my siblings. Every time I look at them, I feel an overwhelming urge to slit their throats.

Yeah, I know I'm sick.

My thoughts were spiraling again, reaching that dangerous point where the desire to kill myself, or them, rose to the surface. That's when my phone buzzed with a notification.

'Happy birthday, my dear Finn. I hope your coming days are filled with love and happiness.'

Seeing the message, I couldn't help but smile. A soft, sweet smile that felt foreign on my face.

I was seventeen the first time I tried to kill myself. That incident had been enough to make my parents finally notice my condition. They locked their precious children away from me after that, but little else changed. Insomnia stayed, and so did the thoughts.

Now, at twenty-two, the only thing I have to look forward to is the Vice President of my agency, Cairo Astor. He's the person I fell in love with, the only ray of light in my pathetically dark life.

"Should I go meet him as my birthday gift?" I murmured to myself, half-smiling at the idea.

Before I could decide, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was my annoying manager, Leo.

"Ilya, I'm waiting for you at your apartment. Please hurry!"

I groaned. I really hated him. If it weren't for Cairo, I would've asked for a replacement ages ago.

"Just reaching," I muttered into the phone, my tone dripping with irritation.

That's me:

A good-looking, talented, rising star with a trashy personality, greedy parents, bloodsucking relatives, and a completely psycho mind.

End Of Ilya's POV

In the evening of the same day:

"Please have one more drink, Sir."

One of the co-workers approached Ilya, who was still wearing his glasses, though this time they were a more fashionable pair.

The small get-together was taking place at the set, a location far out of the city, in the middle of nowhere, before the official start of shooting.

"Sorry, I'm on medication,"

Ilya said, politely declining. His side glance caught his manager, Leo, deep in conversation with the director and producer, leaving him stranded among unfamiliar faces.

"Come on, you're not the main lead for this drama. No need to act all high and mighty,"

a co-actor slurred loudly. He was clearly drunk, but no one present made any attempt to stop him as he rudely filled Ilya's glass until the liquid overflowed. Not even Leo noticed.

After spending three years playing lead roles, Ilya had lost a lot of standing following the failure of his last drama especially because of his unauthorized act. Feeling his anger flare, he grabbed the cup and drank it all in one go.

"That's right! I'm your senior. You have to respect me, no matter how big of a star you think you are!" the drunk man, Vinzo, declared, his words spilling out as he continued pouring. Before things could escalate further, Arya, the drama's lead, stepped in.

"Sir Vinzo, let him go now," Arya said firmly.

"He may not be the lead, but his role is still bigger than yours."

Vinzo scowled but relented, leaving them alone. However, Ilya, already tipsy, poured himself another drink.

"It's fine. You don't have to force yourself,"

Arya said softly, gently placing a hand on Ilya's face as it moved toward his lips.

Ilya gave a sly smile, his sunglasses mysteriously gone. His half-closed, intoxicated eyes gleamed, and his porcelain-like skin had turned a bright shade of red. His lips, slightly wet from the alcohol, curved into a seductive smile that could make anyone falter. He leaned in close to Arya, his voice barely a whisper.

"Stay away from me, you fucker."

Standing abruptly, Ilya excused himself, claiming he needed the bathroom. Instead, he walked toward a small balcony tucked into the corner of the building.

Standing there, he glanced back into the room. His manager was flirting with a newly hired actress, oblivious to Ilya's departure. The room was alive with more than fifty people, excluding contract workers and crew preparing for the next day's shoot.

With a sigh, Ilya turned his face toward the open air, letting the cold wind sting his flushed cheeks. The dizziness from the alcohol was beginning to fade, but the redness in his face deepened.

The set was surrounded by a dense jungle. An ancient building and a small shrine originally stood on the grounds, and an additional structure had been constructed specifically for the shoot. The drama was being produced on a grand scale.

"Was that… light?"

Ilya squinted toward the shrine. A faint glow flickered within, though he distinctly remembered being told that the shrine was off-limits. The caretaker had forbidden entry, allowing them to shoot only in its vicinity.

Curiosity got the better of him. Without a word to anyone, Ilya slipped out of the room unnoticed.

The moment he stepped outside, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The silence was eerie, not even the faint buzz of insects disturbed the night. The air felt heavy, as though the world around him had suddenly grown alien.

As he approached the shrine, a thick fog materialized out of nowhere, swallowing him whole. For a moment, his senses abandoned him, and unease gripped his chest. Desperate, he stumbled forward, relying on his memory to guide him toward the shrine.

The fog dissipated just as abruptly as it had appeared, and Ilya found himself crashing headfirst into the shrine's door.

Dazed, he crumpled to the ground. Warm blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, pooling and seeping beneath the shrine's door. He lay there, helpless, watching his blood disappear into the darkness beyond the door.

As his consciousness faded, the last thing he saw was the heavy wooden door slowly creaking open from within.