Tamon

When it came to obsessions and uncontrollable love for something, all eyes were on you. Because of Tamon. And partly because of your strange love for him. Your favorite actor, for whom you would die.

You glanced at your phone to see a pop-up notification. A new house cleaning order. Drowning in debt, you took on any job you could afford.

You walked inside the house and were horrified. Dirt everywhere, pitch-black darkness, hundreds of layers of dust. You ran your finger along the dusty dresser, then brushed it away with your hand, looking around. You continued down the hallway, turning into the living room, from which a small, dim lamp glowed. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, they found him.

You'd recognize him from a million people, even if he's in such a terrible state. A washed-out black hoodie, baggy pants, a half-dead look.

"Hello? Mr. Tamon?" you said hesitantly into the darkness, and all you received in response was a brief, terrified look.

• Who's here?

Did this mean that your job was now to make him happier? To help him through this difficult time, as he had once done, unknowingly?