Stranger that I Know: The Forgotten Promise

2 – A Stranger?

Ilya's POV

"How can you do this to your own sister?"

A woman's voice screamed—familiar yet distant, echoing through my skull like shards of glass. The noise swelled, relentless, as if the world itself was tearing apart. My ears felt as though they might bleed, the cacophony of voices colliding in a deafening roar.

Were they crying? Screaming? Did someone die?

My vision wavered, blurred, and distorted. Slowly, shapes began to form, and in the haze, I saw a man standing before me with sword in his hand—his body soaked in blood, his face obscured, frustratingly indistinct.

Who is he?

No matter how many times I've had this dream, I can never see him clearly.

I blinked, desperate to make sense of the chaos. The noise faded for a fleeting moment, leaving an eerie silence behind. But then it came crashing back—a tidal wave of sound that drowned me.

This time, I saw her. A woman, crumpled at my feet, lifeless and bathed in crimson. Blood seeped around me, soaking my shoes, warm and sticky against my skin.

"It's hot... why is it so hot?"

My voice cracked, trembling with fear. My chest tightened, each breath burning as though flames licked at my lungs.

The heat... it wasn't just in the blood—it was everywhere, consuming me. My skin felt like it was on fire, like I was being scorched from the inside out.

"Ahhhhh!"

A scream tore from my throat, primal and unrestrained.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!"

The searing heat, the deafening noise, the sickening sight of her lifeless body—they pressed down on me, suffocating me, dragging me deeper into the nightmare.

Someone save me... please, someone...

End of Ilya's POV

Ilya woke up to an unusual sensation, a mix of warmth and dampness against his skin, followed by a sudden chill as the cold air brushed his throbbing forehead.

His eyelids fluttered open, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. Looming above him was the sight of dark, cascading black hair.

"Ah!"

"Who... who are you?"

He scrambled to sit up, his body sliding back awkwardly on the cold ground. Only then did the figure fully come into view—a man with impossibly long hair that spilled like ink over his shoulders and chest.

The man's physique was striking, muscular yet elegant. His upper body was bare, save for the curtain of hair draped over it, while his lower half was barely covered by scraps of fabric that clung precariously hiding a man's pride.

Ilya took a shaky breath and instinctively shifted back again. His gaze, drawn almost magnetically, met the stranger's left eye a rare, honey-colored hue peeking out from beneath the curtain of hair.

'Honey? That's an unusual color for Asians.'

"Who are you?"

He asked again, his voice trembling slightly.

The man didn't respond. He didn't blink or move his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Ilya, frozen like a statue. The sight sent a chill down Ilya's spine, the eerie stillness of the man amplifying his fear.

Fighting to control his breathing, Ilya glanced around and realized where he was—near the shrine. Memories of the previous night came rushing back. He remembered collapsing here, blood dripping from his forehead. Yet, as he reached up to touch the spot, his fingers found no injury.

The skin was unbroken, though damp. Confusion surged through him. He vividly recalled the pain, the blood pooling around him but now, there was no trace of it.

His focus snapped back to the man kneeling a few feet away, still unmoving, his gaze unrelenting.

Gathering what courage he could muster, Ilya slid forward on his knees, ignoring the cold biting at his skin.

"Who are you? What were you doing?"

His voice wavered, but he pressed on, inching closer. The morning fog had begun to dissipate, revealing more of the man's imposing figure. Ilya shivered, partly from the chill and partly from the unnerving silence.

With his fists clenched tightly, Ilya summoned every ounce of bravery. He exhaled shakily, his breath visible in the crisp morning air, before reaching out. His trembling fingers brushed against the man's thick hair, gently pushing it aside to reveal his face.

The breath caught in Ilya's throat, his chest tightening in awe and disbelief. The face hidden beneath that veil of hair was hauntingly beautiful more striking than anything Ilya had ever seen. The sharp, sculpted features and flawless skin seemed almost otherworldly, radiating a beauty that both mesmerized and unsettled him.

His terror gave way to a strange mix of emotions fear, fascination, and something inexplicably deeper, stirring within the pit of his stomach.

"Ilya."

Hearing his name from the direction of his residence snapped him back to reality. He hesitated, his heart resisting the moment, but eventually, Ilya let go of his hair. Deep down, he didn't want to part from this sight.

"Where are you, Ilya?"

This time, the voice was closer, making him jolt and turn toward its direction. His manager was approaching, accompanied by another staff member. They must have realized his absence earlier in the morning when he failed to show up for makeup and pre-shoot preparations. Of course, they hadn't bothered to check on him the night before.

"You…"

Ilya turned back toward the stranger but in the brief moment his gaze shifted, the figure was gone.

He blinked, scanning the area. Other than the shrine, there was nowhere for someone to vanish so quickly. Yet the shrine's heavy metal door remained shut, as still and silent as ever. It was impossible for anyone to open it without making noise, let alone within a split second.

Ignoring his manager's increasingly insistent calls, Ilya continued searching, his eyes darting around. The stranger had disappeared entirely.

"Didn't I tell you? It's so hard dealing with a celebrity, especially one as troublesome as Ilya."

His manager's grating voice pulled him back. Ilya frowned, his annoyance plain on his face. It wasn't the first time he'd overheard such comments.

"That's just how celebrities are. They get all sorts of plastic surgeries and treatments to maintain their looks, then act all high and mighty," the other staff member added.

Ilya's lips tightened. He was used to people's judgments. They either idolized him for his carefully curated public image or resented him out of envy. It was always one extreme or the other.

"The pay is good, so I just have to suck up with him,"

The manager said, his tone attempting to justify his loyalty. After working with Ilya for five years, Leo should have known better. But instead, he indulged in gossip, further fueling the nonsense.

"What are you sucking up with, Leo?"

Ilya's sharp voice cut through the air as he stepped toward them, his mocking tone making both men visibly uncomfortable.

"Oh, Ilya! I was looking for you. Why are you out so early?"

The manager stammered, hastily changing the subject. Beside him, the staff member—who Ilya recognized as a small-time co-star—looked away awkwardly. Ilya could see where the jealousy stemmed from: the man was older but still stuck in minor roles.

"I was out for a morning walk,"

Ilya replied, straightening his coat with exaggerated pride. He was still wearing the same clothes from the previous night. Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking back toward the residence building.

A few steps behind him, the co-star whispered,

"Do you think he heard us?"

Although Ilya had stumbled with his last film, his quick recovery landing a major role in one of the biggest dramas within two months was proof of his influence in the industry. The co-star's ambition was clear; he was already contemplating how best to curry favor.

"Given his attitude? I don't think so…"

The manager replied under his breath, his eyes fixed on the back of Ilya's head.

'I heard you, you fuckers,'

Ilya thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Suddenly, he stopped and turned.

"Leo."

"Yes?" The manager flinched, straightening up nervously.

"Did you bring my beauty injections?"

Ilya asked, his mocking smile widening.

Both the manager and the co-star exchanged panicked glances.

'He heard!'

Ilya's sharp glare silenced them, and without another word, he turned back. As he walked away, his eyes flicked once more to the shrine. Its door remained shut, bathed in the clarity of the morning sun. He touched his forehead briefly, where a strange warmth lingered, stubborn and persistent.

Finally, he continued toward the building, his steps steady.

Unnoticed by the retreating trio, a single eye blinked from a small hole on the other side of the Shrine's door. Despite the weight and stillness of the metal remaining unmoved, dried red stains of blood marked its lock and the twisted string securing it.