[2050, Confidential Strategy Room]
On the outskirts of the city, inside a sealed-off strategy room equipped with external shielding systems.
Shuttered windows and sound-dampening devices pressed the air down so heavily it felt dangerous to even breathe.
Men and women in dark suits sat around the long conference table.
On one wall, glowing faintly red in the shadows, was a logo:
"Carbon-Free Economy Alliance."
Assemblyman Jeong Jae-yoon looked up from the tablet in his hands.
"This climate bill,"
he said slowly,
"can be neutralized with nothing more than a well-steered public opinion."
His gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where a woman in dark glasses sat silently—Han-na Lee.
"Ms. Lee, the sentiment analysis you compiled last week—
could you bring it up now?"
"Yes, sir."
Han-na gave a curt nod and tapped at her tablet.
Moments later, a holographic display bloomed in the air above the table.
Keywords flashed across it in sharp letters:
Climate Indoctrination Theory,Youth Politicization Scandal,
LUKA Technology Failure Allegations.
A strategist flipped through his notes and added,
"Suyeon Kim's side has secured partial stakes in certain media outlets, so direct attacks could backfire.
But if we frame the youth climate forum itself—paint it as naïve or divisive—that narrative will ripple more easily across social media."
At that, a middle-aged man on the right side of the table spoke up.
Black suit, gold tie. His business card read:
Vice President, Strategic Planning, JH Industries.
"Assemblyman Jeong, our group still has massive capital tied up in carbon-based infrastructure.
If government spending tilts toward solar or zero-energy districts, our construction contracts will evaporate."
Jeong Jae-yoon nodded.
"Which is why we need the frame: climate transition equals economic regression."
The vice president smiled thinly.
"Do you remember a man named Choi Jae-hoon—someone we supported until last year?"
He shrugged lightly.
"Back then, he seemed useful enough. But now he's leaning toward civic movements.
And I hear he's been nominated in this by-election."
His eyes grew cold.
"This time, it would be best to… remove him from the board."
Han-na looked up at him quietly but said nothing.
Jeong flipped his tablet, a news clipping of Suyeon glowing on the screen.
He stared at it for a moment before speaking in a low, deliberate voice.
"She's not someone we raised, nor someone we chose."
Then, like delivering a verdict, he added,
"From now on, anyone standing in our way is someone to erase."
Silence coiled through the room, taut and wordless.
Han-na closed her tablet and quietly stacked her notes.
In her pupils, there was no flicker of resistance or agreement—
only the carefully arranged calm of absolute silence.
In the gray air, the sense of a blade sliding unseen began to spread.
And across the city, unseen by those at its center, truth itself was beginning to warp.
Social media feeds refreshed in torrents.
Portal site algorithms bent subtly, almost imperceptibly.
"AI System Manipulation Scandal – Did 2050 Youth Intervene in the Past?"
"Youth Climate Forum Turning Into Political Stage."
"Eco-Populism: Hiding Behind Children?"
The headlines were short, sharp, deliberately phrased to stir doubt.
Comment sections filled with the traces of planted accounts:
"This all sounds made up."
"Government's just playing the sympathy card."
"Using kids like this is disgusting."
Within seconds, the narratives surged to the top.
Refined suspicion spread like a crisp autumn draft—cold, persistent, invasive.
The sun was still out, yet the temperature was unseasonably low.
That morning's gentle sky was already turning gray, thick with dust.
Winter had not yet arrived, but something colder—an air that froze the heart before the body—was already sweeping through the world.
And still, Suyeon and the children had no idea that this tide was rising against them.
[2050, Ji-hyeok's Apartment]
The city was cloaked in a chill far too sharp for autumn.
Moisture hung thinly in the air, and droplets—somewhere between drizzle and dust-laced rain—tapped intermittently against the window.
Seoul's September was no longer the "crisp fall" people once knew.
Beneath a sky smudged with gray clouds, Han-na paused in the corridor of an apartment building.
She pressed a hand lightly against her chest, hesitated for a moment, then finally reached out and rang the intercom.
The door opened slowly. Ji-hyeok appeared in the doorway,
his expression blank—a mix of wariness, fatigue, and something unreadable.
"What is it?"
"An errand," Han-na said softly. "May I come in for a moment?
It won't take long."
Ji-hyeok let out a short sigh, then stepped aside without a word.
Han-na entered quietly.
The room was still and muted. A blanket, still warm from use,
lay in disarray on the bed.
Without comment, she set down a bag with porridge and medicine on the table.
"You look like your cold's gotten worse," she murmured.
Ji-hyeok turned his head away.
"It's nothing."
A silence lingered. Han-na slipped the strap from her shoulder and spoke slowly.
"Truth is… I felt it from the first time I saw you.
When I look at you, I see the person I used to be."
Ji-hyeok turned his gaze back, watching her without a word.
"There was a time when I wanted to change the world.
To do something meaningful. I thought I could.
I believed conviction was real."
A quiet smile touched her lips, though a shadow of bitterness clung to it.
"But as time went on… I learned not how to hold to conviction,
but how to be persuaded, how to give up, how to let myself be used.
And before I knew it, I had become the one persuading others,
pushing them to give up."
Ji-hyeok drew in a silent breath.
"The feelings you're going through now," she continued softly,
"might be the very things I once turned away from."
Han-na lowered her gaze, then lifted it again.
"But lately… I wonder if it isn't too late after all.
If someone else can find the courage, maybe I don't have to compromise quite so much either."
For a while, Ji-hyeok said nothing. Outside, the rain kept slipping quietly down the glass, as if winter had come early.
At last, he spoke in a low voice.
"…Is something wrong?"
Han-na shook her head.
"I just hope you make a different choice than I did. It won't be easy.
But when the moment of choice comes, whatever you decide…
I hope you don't feel alone. Not like I did."
She placed a single business card on the table, bowed her head lightly, and slipped out the door.
Ji-hyeok noticed, strangely, that the air in the room felt different.
Ever so slightly—almost imperceptibly—it felt warmer.
Outside, the autumn rain still fell.
[2050, Ji-hyeok's Apartment]
A morning chill lingered in the air, sharper than one would expect for autumn.
A hand in yellow knit gloves pressed the doorbell, its dull chime breaking the silence.
"Ji-hyeok, it's us."
He looked up, surprised.
Outside stood Ji-an, Si-a, and Do-yoon.
Ji-an raised a small thermos, steam faintly rising from its lid.
"Mom told me to bring this for you."
Behind her, Do-yoon jingled a car key with a grin.
"If you're not too sick, we've got somewhere to take you.
I even borrowed my brother's car—don't worry, I drive fine."
Si-a let out a quick laugh.
"Once you see it, you'll probably forget you were sick at all."
A faint smile tugged at Ji-hyeok's lips as he followed them into Do-yoon's battered electric car.
Outside the window, a gust of wind sent a ginkgo leaf spiraling to the ground.
By the time the car slipped off the highway toward the coast, Ji-an finally spoke.
"Do you remember the ocean we went to last time?"
Ji-hyeok slowly nodded.
The car stopped atop a bluff overlooking the sea.
They stepped out and walked toward the shore.
Beyond the breakwater stretched the horizon—the sea,
startlingly clear and luminous under the autumn sun.
"Here," Ji-an said softly.
"This is the ocean Se-a fought for, the one she changed."
Si-a added quietly,
"Because of her project, not only our own waters,
but oceans around the world are being restored.
We helped protect this together."
Ji-hyeok gazed silently at the horizon,
where gray and blue merged into one.
The cool wind brushed his cheek, yet carried with it a strange warmth.
"…So it was real."
His voice was quiet, yet steady.
"What we changed… it really lasted."
Ji-an nodded.
"And we can still change more."
They sat side by side on the edge of the breakwater.
Do-yoon carefully pulled a laptop from his bag.
"There's something I wanted to show you.
While working on the broken LUKA system, I found an old test recording."
The screen flickered with an outdated interface.
An audio file began to play.
A young developer's tentative voice filled the air:
"This isn't just an AI program.
I built LUKA to change what might be humanity's last days.
If sincerity can travel across time, maybe even this ruin can be undone…"
Moments later, the sound of gunfire cracked through the recording.
And over it came a clear, unfamiliar greeting:
["Hello, Developer. What kind of future do you dream of?"]
With LUKA's bright voice, the file abruptly ended.
Ji-hyeok stared at the screen for a long moment, then whispered,
"…He truly believed.
Right to the end, he believed we could change someone."
His tone was calm, yet faintly trembling.The tremor flowed quietly into the cold sea breeze.
Ji-an, eyes fixed on the screen, spoke softly.
"That developer must have been alone too.
He knew the same helplessness, fear, and hope we feel now."
Si-a drew in a breath and nodded.
"And he didn't give up hope. Even with gunfire all around…
he still believed in the future."
She turned her gaze toward the sea,where autumn sunlight shimmered and danced across the water's surface.
Do-yoon gently closed the laptop.
"You weren't just connected by chance.
It was his single act of courage that carried forward—and now here we are, standing before a sea that's been changed."
Ji-hyeok rose slowly to his feet, his shadow stretching long against the autumn sky.
"Then it's our turn to carry it on. Not through a broken LUKA—through our own hands."
Ji-an stood up beside him.
"Exactly. Not just technology… but with heart."
Si-a soon rose as well.
Do-yoon slipped the laptop back into his bag and added,
"I'll keep trying to fix LUKA anyway. No promises, but…"
At that moment, the sound of waves reached their feet.
Without words, their shared gaze carried a vow.
The autumn sea said nothing, yet within its silence, someone's truth still lived.
Ji-an hesitated, then gently reached for Ji-hyeok's hand.
Warmth passed between their fingers, cutting through the cold air.
Ji-hyeok looked at her, startled,
but instead of pulling away, he slowly tightened his grip, as if afraid to let go.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to fall silent around them—only the crash of waves and the faint thrum of their joined hands remained.
Ji-an lifted her eyes to him, and he met her gaze.
There were no words, but something unspoken lingered between them,a fragile spark that felt both new and inevitable.
And so, another future quietly began to take root.