Chapter 1
The village by the sea was small, tucked against the curve of the coast where the cliffs gave way to endless stretches of sand. Its huts were built of wood and straw, their walls bleached by years of salt wind, their roofs patched and repatched after every storm. Nets hung to dry between poles, boats rested like tired beasts on the shore, and smoke from cooking fires drifted into the sky at dusk, carrying the scent of fish stew and seaweed broth.
Life here followed the tide. The men rose before dawn, their muscles hardened by years of rowing against currents. They cast their nets, returned with the morning sun, and left again at dusk. The women mended, cooked, sold fish in the marketplace, and scolded their children when they played too close to the water. And the children, barefoot and untamed, raced along the sands, their laughter tangled with the cries of gulls.
Yet among all these ordinary lives was one who stood out like a pearl among stones.
Jeon jungKook
He was the only son of a fisherman, born an omega, and blessed—or cursed, depending on who spoke—with a beauty who lookes like he doesn't belongs to their community. He was slender, his frame delicate, his limbs graceful as reeds swaying in the wind. His face bore the softness of a maiden’s—long lashes that cast shadows when he blinked, eyes dark and deep as tidepools, lips full and naturally red as though stained with berries. His skin, though kissed daily by the sun, glowed instead of burned, as if the sea itself polished him.
Villagers whispered about him wherever he went.
“Too pretty for a fisherman's boy” some muttered.
“The gods must have made him by extra effect ."others sighed.
And yet, when he walked through the market, shells chiming at his ankles, even those who whispered could not look away.
For Koo did not simply walk. He adorned.
While the men of the village saw only fish and nets when they looked at the sea, Koo saw treasures. Every morning, after helping his father mend ropes or carry baskets, he wandered the shoreline barefoot, basket in hand, eyes scanning the sand for fragments others ignored. A broken shell, pink as a dawn sky. A spiral snail, worn smooth by waves. A shard of coral, shining faintly in the sun. He gathered them all, humming softly as he filled his basket.
And with those treasures, he created beauty.
In the quiet of his family’s hut, or sometimes beneath the shade of a cliff, he strung shells into necklaces, bracelets, anklets, waist chain and even delicate circlets for his hair. He bound them with thin threads of twine, sometimes weaving in strands of his own long hair for strength. When he wore them, the sea ornaments came alive. Around his wrists, shells glimmered like tiny moons. Around his ankles, they chimed like bells with each step. Across his neck, they rested like a crown gifted by the ocean itself.
The children adored him for it. They followed him, tugging at his sleeves, begging for trinkets. “Koo-hyung, make me one! Just one bracelet!” He would laugh, slipping a little shell ring onto a child’s finger, sending them squealing with delight. Even the older women, though they clucked their tongues at his strangeness, secretly admired his craft, sometimes trading fish or cloth for an ornament.
But not everyone was charmed.
One evening, as the sun bled gold into the horizon and the tide lapped higher than usual, Koo sat near the doorway of his family’s hut, weaving a hairpiece from tiny pearlescent shells. He hummed to himself, his long lashes lowered, a strand of hair falling over his cheek. The shells in his basket glowed faintly in the dimming light.
“Koo-ya!”
His eomma’s voice sliced through the gentle hush of waves. She stood with her hands on her hips, her sharp gaze fixed on him. Her hand still smelled of the stew she had been stirring, and her hair was pinned up untidily, a few strands stuck to her forehead.
Koo looked up, blinking. “Ne, eomma?”
His mother marched closer, pointing to the shoreline where twilight deepened. “How many times must I tell you? Don’t wander so close to the sea when the sun goes down. Do you want trouble to come find you?”
Koo puffed his cheeks, the way he always did when scolded. “Eomma, I wasn’t wandering. I was collecting. Look at this one—” He held up a small shell shaped like a heart. “Isn’t it pretty? It’s perfect for the crown I’m making.”
But his eomma wasn’t swayed. She crouched in front of him, cupping his chin gently but firmly. “My son, you don’t understand. The sea is not just waves and pretty shells. It holds secrets. There are things in those waters that no fisherman dares speak of.”
Koo’s brows knitted. “Like what?”
His eomma’s eyes darkened as she lowered her voice. “Sea creatures. Beautiful, dangerous beings. Some say they lure human with their voices. Some say they curse those who see them. But one thing is certain—” She paused, as though weighing her words. “If you ever touch one, the sea will claim you. You’ll be bound for life, tied as their , whether you will it or not.”
Koo blinked, startled by the sharpness in her tone. Then his lips curved mischievously. “So if one of these creatures touches me first… would that make me their partner?”
His eomma gasped, swatting his arm. “Yah! This child—always making jokes. Don’t tempt the sea with your foolishness.”
From inside the hut, his father’s laugh rumbled like distant thunder. Sitting cross-legged by the fire, he was mending a net, his large hands steady despite the years of callouses. “Aigoo, woman, you’ll frighten the boy with your old tales. Let him collect his shells. My child loves to roam around pretty things".
His eomma shot him a glare. “Easy for you to say. You don’t see how the sea stares back at him. He spends too much time near it. One day, I fear it’ll take him away.”
Koo tilted his head, smiling playfully. “Maybe the sea already loves me, eomma. It gives me gifts every day.” He lifted his shell crown as proof.
His father chuckled again. “Our Koo… chasing beauty even in the waves. You were never meant for a fisherman’s life, were you, son?”
“I don’t care for nets,” Koo admitted, shrugging. “The sea gives me enough without killing her creatures.”
His eomma sighed, brushing his hair back with a tender hand. “Promise me, Koo-ya. Promise you won’t wander by the shore at night.”
Koo’s smile softened. For all his playfulness, he hated to see worry crease her face. “I promise, eomma.”
But even as he said the words, the waves outside whispered to him, and something in his heart stirred with curiosity. He thought of her warnings—sea creatures, bonds, mates—and a shiver ran down his spine. Not of fear, but of wonder.
---
The fishing village slept early. By the time the sky bruised into indigo and the last gull’s cry faded into the waves, doors were latched and fires lowered. Nets hung heavy with salt, and the boats pulled up on the sand rocked lazily, like tired beasts sighing in their rest. Beyond the huts, the sea whispered against the shore, neither asleep nor awake, eternal in its breathing.
Inside one of the smaller huts near the cliffside, Koo lay beneath a light quilt, the shells he wore at his wrists and ankles chiming faintly whenever he shifted. Though he was growing into youth, with the slender lines of an omega’s body that promised marriage in the years to come, he still shared his nights with the old nanny who had raised him from the cradle. She claimed it was for his safety—his parents could not always keep an eye on him, and Koo, curious as a rabbit, often slipped away when he shouldn’t. But if truth be told, the nanny simply loved the boy too much to let go, and Koo, spoiled by her comfort, never resisted.
That evening, the moon cast silver across the thatched ceiling. The hearth had gone quiet, but the smell of charred wood lingered in the air. The old woman lay on her side, her joints stiff from years of work, yet her hand still found its way into Koo’s hair, combing slowly through the long, silky strands. She had done this since he was a baby, and though he no longer needed lullabies, the motion soothed him.
For a while, only the waves filled the silence. Then Koo’s voice broke through, soft and hesitant.
“Nanny.”
The old woman hummed, a sound deep in her throat, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. “Hm?”
“Today… eomma scolded me again,” Koo mumbled, turning on his side to face her. His shell anklets clinked softly against one another. “She said I shouldn’t go near the shore at night. She said there are… creatures.”
The nanny’s fingers slowed in his hair. She did not answer at once. Outside, the sea exhaled, drawing the boy’s gaze toward the doorway where faint light spilled in from the moon.
Koo blinked, lashes heavy, lips parting. “Are there really… sea creatures?”
The nanny’s hand rested against his head, her thumb brushing his temple. A pause, long enough that Koo thought she might not answer. Then she gave a low chuckle.
“Aigoo, my pretty Koo. You’re growing fast. Already asking about things your mother would rather you never hear.”
Koo pouted, cheeks puffing slightly. “I was just curious.”
“Curiosity is the first step toward trouble,” the nanny teased gently, though her eyes softened as she looked at him. His beauty was striking even in the dim glow, his skin smooth as polished driftwood, his lashes long enough to cast shadows. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and sighed. “It’s nearly time to think about marriage for you. That’s why your eomma worries.”
Koo wrinkled his nose. “Marriage? Nanny, I’m not even—”
“You’re not a child anymore,” she cut in, though her voice held no scold, only affection. “Your body will bloom before long. And omegas like you… fragile, soft, easily taken. The sea knows it too.”
Koo shivered, pulling the quilt higher. “What do you mean?”
The nanny leaned back on her elbow, her eyes narrowing as though searching the shadows for memories. For a long moment, she only listened to the waves. Then she began, her voice low and steady, like the start of an old tale.
“The sea holds many things, child. Fish, yes. Pearls, yes. But also… lives not like ours. Some are harmless. Some are kind. And some are not. They say there are creatures—beautiful ones—who walk like human but belong to the water. Skin like moonlight, voices like wind. Their beauty isn’t always a gift. Sometimes it’s a weapon. They lure humans with it.”
Koo’s lips parted. “Lure them… why?”
“Because not all hunger is for food,” the nanny said simply. “Some hunger is for souls. For blood. For mates who never asked to be bound.”
Koo’s breath caught. He curled a little closer, eyes wide. “Did anyone… ever meet one?”
The nanny hesitated, then nodded once. Her wrinkled fingers resumed combing through his hair, gentler now, as though to soften her words. “A long time ago. Before your father was born. There was a fisherman, young and proud. He went out one stormy night when no other dared. He wanted to prove himself braver, stronger. But when he returned at dawn, his eyes were wild. He claimed he had seen a creature in the water. Not a fish. Not a man. Something between. Its face was so beautiful he thought the sea had made a jewel and set it adrift. He stared too long. He swore he never touched it—but he looked. That was enough.”
Koo swallowed, throat tight. “What happened to him?”
The nanny’s voice dropped lower. “The next night, he vanished. His boat was found drifting alone, his nets torn as though something had ripped through them. Some say the sea creature dragged him down, for humans aren’t meant to gaze upon them without leave. Some say the sea took him as punishment. No one knows. But his wife wept until her eyes dried, and his children grew fatherless. That is the danger, child. The prettier the face, the sharper the teeth may be behind it.”
Koo pressed the quilt to his chin, shells at his wrists clinking faintly. He imagined silver eyes in the dark waves, watching. Imagined a hand, pale and cold, reaching out of the tide. A shiver prickled his skin.
The nanny noticed, and her expression softened again. She kissed the top of his head, her lips brushing his hair. “Don’t be afraid, Koo-ya. These are only stories. But stories are born from truths, even if small ones. Remember this: if you hear a voice near the sea at night, don’t answer. If you see a face too beautiful to believe, turn away. And above all—never touch what the sea lays at your feet. For if you do, the sea will bind you, and she does not loosen her knots.”
Koo nodded, though his throat felt dry. “I… I don’t want to be bound.”
The old woman smiled sadly. “Then be careful, my rabbit. Curiosity is sweet, but it can lead you where you cannot return.”
Koo lay quiet after that, his lashes heavy with sleep. The nanny’s hand still stroked his hair until her movements slowed, and her breath deepened beside him. But he stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, hearing the sea outside.
The waves seemed louder than before, their rhythm less like water and more like a heartbeat. Sometimes, when the wind shifted, he thought he heard whispers, too faint to catch. He shut his eyes tightly, clutching his quilt.
---
The morning after the nanny’s tale, Koo’s mother rose before the dawn, restless. Something about her son’s beauty, his innocence, his endless wandering to the sea unsettled her. Whispers of the old stories clung to her heart. She knew what the villagers said — that children too pretty, too strange, often drew the sea’s attention. And she could not shake the fear that the sea was already watching her son.
So she did what mothers in the village had always done when fear grew too sharp to bear. She called for the shaman.
By midmorning, the old man arrived. Bent with age, wrapped in robes that smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, his face was a map of deep wrinkles. His eyes, however, were sharp — too sharp. They missed nothing. Children hid behind their mothers when he passed; grown men lowered their heads. He was said to hear the sea in his dreams, to speak to spirits that lingered between tide and wind.
Koo sat cross-legged in the hut, fingers busy with a string of shells though his mind was far away. His mother hovered anxiously behind him, biting her lip. His father waited outside with the men, leaving this matter to those who understood omens.
The shaman lowered himself onto the mat opposite the boy. For a long time he said nothing. His gaze rested on Koo, traveling slowly from the top of his head to the tips of his shell-adorned feet. Koo shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, his long lashes fluttering, but he did not look away.
Finally, the shaman spoke, his voice rough as gravel.
“Your son is… diffrent”
Koo’s mother stiffened. “means??
The old man did not answer at once. He leaned closer, peering into Koo’s face as though reading a language written in his skin. The boy’s delicate features, his soft lips, his doe-like eyes — all seemed to catch the faint light seeping through the hut’s cracks.
“Child,” the shaman murmured, addressing Koo directly now, “your faith is not like others. It is not written in nets and boats, nor in marriage arranged by your parents. You will not be given your fate. You will bring it to yourself.”
Koo tilted his head, puzzled. “Bring… it? How?”
The shaman’s eyes narrowed, shadows gathering in their depths. “You will call it. Without knowing, you will call. And when it comes, you will not be able to refuse. That is what the spirits show me.”
Behind Koo, his mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “What does that mean?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
But the shaman did not turn to her. His gaze remained locked on the boy. “Listen carefully, child. Do not go near the sea. For the sea is listening. And it waits for you.”
Koo’s breath caught. A chill ran down his spine, though he tried to mask it with a small laugh. “The sea waits for everyone. We live by it.”
The old man’s face did not soften. “No. Not like this. The sea waits for you.”
His mother grabbed Koo’s shoulders protectively, pulling him closer to her chest. “Then we’ll keep him away! I’ll watch him day and night. He won’t set foot on the sand.”
At last, the shaman leaned back. His eyes, clouded with age yet gleaming with something beyond sight, shifted toward her. “You may try. But a fate that belongs to the sea cannot be locked away in a hut. Remember my words.”
He rose then, joints creaking, and stepped outside, leaving behind the weight of his prophecy.
Inside the hut, Koo sat frozen, the shells in his lap forgotten. His mother’s arms wrapped around him tightly, too tightly. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his back.
-------
No one knows one thing
From the day he first learned to walk, Jeon jungkook had loved the sea.
Not in the way the fishermen loved it — with nets and oars, with prayers for full catches. Not in the way the mothers loved it — with dread, fearing the tide might one day swallow their children. His love was different. Gentle. Secret.
Koo loved the sea the way a child loved a friend.
When no one was watching, he would slip out of the hut and run barefoot across the sand. He would sit at the edge where the water kissed the shore, dipping his toes into the foam. He whispered to it as though the waves could hear. He told them about his day, about the shells he collected, about how his father laughed, about how his mother scolded. He even told them about the small worries that clung to his chest, the little aches of growing.
And the sea always answered.
Not in words, no. But in the rhythm of its tide, in the hush and sigh of waves. Sometimes it was a soft giggle, sometimes a deep murmur. Sometimes it roared, and he knew it was angry. But it always answered.
He grew up this way, a boy with shells in his hair and salt in his breath, a boy who belonged to the sea even if no one knew.
But after the shaman came, everything changed.
That morning, his mother clutched him so tightly his bones ached. Her eyes were wet, her lips trembling. The shaman’s words had struck deep into her heart, and though she tried to brush them away as superstition, her fear betrayed her.
“You mustn’t go near the water, Koo,” she said again and again. “Not in the day, not in the night. Not ever without me.”
Koo nodded obediently, his lashes lowered. But inside, something ached. For how could he give up the sea?
-------
That night, the hut felt smaller than ever.
Koo lay on his mat, the quilt pulled high to his chin, his mother’s arms wrapped tightly around him. She had not let go since the shaman left. Her embrace was fierce, as if she feared he might dissolve into mist if she loosened her hold.
“Just sleep, my child,” she had whispered, her breath warm against his hair. “Stay by me. Don’t even dream of the sea.”
Koo had nodded, though his throat burned.
But when her breathing slowed into the deep rhythm of sleep, his eyes remained wide open, glowing faintly in the dark. He shifted just enough to glance toward the small window above his bed. Through the gap in the wood, the moon hung large and pale, pouring silver across the world.
Beyond it, faint but steady, came the sound of the sea.
It was louder than usual tonight. Not angry, not storming, but insistent — a low groaning, a restless sighing, as if it were calling. Each wave crashed with a voice he knew too well, a voice he longed to answer.
His chest ached.
For the first time in years, he could not go. He could not slip away, could not dip his toes in the water, could not whisper his secrets to the tide. His mother’s arms bound him as tightly as any rope.
Koo pressed his lips together, trying not to whimper. His shells chimed faintly with the movement, quickly muffled under the quilt.
He turned his gaze back to the moon. The glowing orb watched over him like an old friend, silent, eternal. Slowly, he let out a soft sigh.
“Moon,” he whispered, so quietly even the crickets outside could barely hear, “will you carry a message for me?”
The moon said nothing, but its light spilled brighter through the window, painting his face in silver.
“Tell the sea…” His voice trembled, and he bit his lip before continuing, “…tell the sea that Koo misses him. That I wanted to come tonight, but I couldn’t. Eomma won’t let me. She’s scared.”
The sea groaned again, louder, and Koo’s heart clenched as though it understood. He pressed a hand over his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his robe.
“Tell him I’ll come back,” he promised, his lashes heavy with unshed tears. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow. But I’ll come. I always do. I’ll never leave him waiting too long.”
He smiled faintly, a fragile curve of lips in the dark. “So you must tell him, Moon. Don’t let him think I forgot. My beloved sea… he must know I keep him in my heart.”
The shells around his wrists glimmered faintly, catching the moonlight like tiny stars.
Then, slowly, his eyes closed. His mother’s arms remained tight, the sea kept calling, and the moon stood guard above — carrying a boy’s whispered promise across the waves.
And in the distance, the sea stirred.
---
The hut was silent, except for the soft, even breathing of Koo’s mother as she slept beside him. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders was warm and heavy, holding him close, preventing even the smallest movement. For a moment, it was comforting.
Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
A loud groan rolled from the sea, vibrating through the sand and the walls, echoing like some ancient voice that had not been heard for centuries. Koo’s eyes shot open. His heart sank. The sound was not playful, not gentle, not the usual sighing lull of the tide he loved. The sea was restless… angry… uneasy.
He froze for a heartbeat, then slowly, carefully, slipped from under his mother’s embrace. He could not go outside — she slept too deeply, and any sudden movement would wake her. But the window above his mat offered a view.
Koo crept toward it and knelt. His delicate hands gripped the wooden sill. From this distance, he could see the waves tossing, white foam catching the moonlight, glimmering like pale fire. His chest tightened, a deep ache spreading through his ribs.
He placed a palm over it, resting it there, feeling his heart hammer beneath the skin. And then he spoke — soft, barely more than a whisper.
“Calm down…” he said. His voice was steady but tender, carrying a warmth that only a mother could give. “Calm down… it’s alright. Calm down, It’s okay. Don’t be angry.”
The words were meant not for himself, but for the restless sea.
The waves paused mid-crash. The water seemed to inhale, then exhale slowly. Foam softened. The groan, loud and terrifying moments ago, dwindled into gentle murmurs. Koo’s eyes widened.
“Do you see me?” he whispered, leaning closer to the glass. “I can’t come to you… but I’m here. I’ll stay… I’ll stay with you. Calm now. Please.”
The sea paused, then let out small, uneven groans. Not the angry rumbles from before, but soft, impatient murmurs. It shifted and shimmered under the moonlight as if it were trying to speak. Koo’s eyes widened.
“you… you want to know why?” he whispered, voice trembling slightly. “You’re asking why I’m not coming?”
A low splash echoed, and the waves pressed closer to the shore, froth curling like tiny fingers reaching toward him. The sea’s groaning grew slightly louder, rhythmic, demanding. Koo swallowed hard, heart tightening at the sight. Even from the window, he could feel the sea’s longing, the pressure of its curiosity, its insistence.
“I… I can’t tonight,” he whispered back, trying to soothe it again. His voice was soft, coaxing, gentle — the way a mother calms a restless child. “Eomma… she’s asleep… I can’t leave. But I’ll come soon. I promise. Soon, I’ll be there. Don’t be mad.”
The sea paused, small waves licking the sand, then gave a few low groans, almost like it had understood, though not entirely satisfied. It shifted restlessly, silver light glimmering on the crests. The murmurs seemed to demand an answer, pressing him with silent insistence.
Koo pressed both hands over his chest, closing his eyes. “I hear you… I hear you. I’ll come. I’ll always come to you. Just wait for me…”
The sea shivered one last time, then stilled completely. The only sound left was the tender, rhythmic sighing of waves reaching the shore, like a child lulled back to sleep. Koo’s chest eased.
A small, relieved smile curved his lips. He pressed his forehead lightly against the window, feeling the faint chill of moonlight on his skin. The shells on his wrists glimmered faintly, reflecting the calm sea outside.
Even from inside the hut, even bound by his mother’s arms, he had touched it. The sea had recognized him.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause — the waves, the moon, the hushed village. And Koo, kneeling at the window, whispered again softly, almost a promise:
“I’m here. Always… always here. Sleep now.”
And the sea obeyed, gentle and obedient, as if it had seen the boy through the window and heard the lullaby in his voice.
Koo was just straightening from the window when a low, worried voice cut through the night.
“Koo?”
He flinched, pressing his hands to his chest. His mother’s voice emerged from the mat, hair tousled from sleep, eyes half-lidded with concern.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” she asked softly but firmly.
Koo’s chest tightened. He could feel the echo of the sea’s calm pulse still lingering in him, a warmth he couldn’t yet let go of. “I… I just woke up… to drink water,” he murmured, trying to keep his tone casual.
His mother’s brows furrowed slightly, unconvinced. Her gaze swept over him, from the clinking shells at his wrists to the pale moonlight on his hair. Something about the way he lingered near the window made her uneasy, even in the dim light.
For a moment, she said nothing, weighing whether to press further. Finally, with a soft sigh, she shook her head and shrugged, deciding it was best to trust him, at least tonight. “Alright,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Drink your water. Then come back . No lingering near the window. It’s midnight, and you need your rest.”
Koo nodded quickly, feeling a mix of relief and regret. He had not wanted to be caught, but the sea had called to him so insistently… and he had answered.
He turned, his heart still a little tight, and padded quietly to the small jug of water by the corner . He sipped slowly, listening to the faint murmur of the waves outside, now calm again.
When he returned to the quilt, his mother’s arms opened automatically, gathering him once more. Koo nestled against her warmth, the memory of the sea still shimmering behind his closed eyes.
Even as he settled down, he whispered softly to himself, “I’ll come again… soon. I promise.”
Outside, the moon shone bright and silver. And the sea, patient and eternal, seemed to understand the promise of a boy who could not yet walk into its arms.
------- to be continued
