Year 2025, March 28th- Korea.
Morning buses groaned down the slick streets, their brakes hissing in the damp air. Delivery scooters weaved between them, splashing through shallow puddles left by last night's rain. The crosswalk chime beeped steadily, guiding half-awake office workers clutching convenience store coffees. Somewhere in the distance, a street vendor's cart rattled as he flipped hotteok on a sizzling griddle, the sweet smell mixing with exhaust and the faint tang of wet asphalt.
In a narrow apartment above a corner grocery, Ryu Minjae was still in bed when the smell of frying eggs reached his room.
It was almost noon.
The warmth from his blanket and the soft patter of spring rain outside made getting up feel like an extreme sport. His phone alarm had been silenced an hour ago — not that he had anywhere to be.
From the kitchen came the familiar voices.
"Appa, you'll be late if you don't leave now."
"I know, I know. Where's my umbrella?"
"By the shoe rack, Dad. How come you always forget after putting it there yourself."
"Getting old dear!"
His father's deep voice was followed by the clatter of dress shoes on the wooden floor. His older brother, Minseok, emerged from the bathroom in a pressed shirt and tie, adjusting his cuffs like he was walking into a board meeting instead of another day at the company.
"Eomma, don't forget to tell Minjae to—"
"Eat breakfast? I always tell him," his mother replied, flipping eggs with a quick wrist.
Minjae groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. He wasn't avoiding breakfast — just the lecture that came with it.
A softer voice piped up.
"Should I bring oppa a tray, Mom?"
That was Minji, his seventeen-year-old sister. Always cheerful, always the family's mediator. She was helping their mother chop vegetables for kimchi jjigae, the steady tok tok tok of the knife echoing through the small apartment.
"No," his mother said. "If he's hungry, he can get up himself. He's not a baby."
Minseok sighed as he put on his jacket.
"He's twenty-three and still sleeps like one."
That jab finally got Minjae to sit up, hair sticking in every direction.
"Yeah, yeah, go save the economy, hyung," he muttered loud enough to be heard, "I'll handle world peace from here."
Minji giggled from the kitchen. His father chuckled too, but his brother just rolled his eyes and left with him for work.
The apartment grew quieter, save for the sizzling pan and the occasional thump of a knife hitting the cutting board.
Minjae dragged himself to the small dining table, scratching his neck.
"You could've made ramen," he said, sliding into a chair.
His mother shot him a look.
"You could've finished college."
He smirked faintly — a smirk that didn't quite hide the sting.
"Touché."
He didn't see the faint flicker in the ceiling light, or hear the soft hiss of static from the radio.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn't moved an inch.
Minjae shoveled a spoonful of rice into his mouth, still half-asleep.
His mother slid the plate of eggs closer to him.
"Eat more. You look like you've been living in a cave."
"Maybe I have," he said through a mouthful, "a cave where no one nags me about my life choices."
Minji giggled and set down a bowl of jjigae in front of him.
"Here, oppa. Don't burn your tongue."
"Thanks, kid," he mumbled, blowing on the steaming soup. "At least someone around here's on my side."
His mother frowned.
"Don't encourage him, Minji. He needs a job, not a cheerleader."
Minjae sighed dramatically.
"Eomma, you act like I'm doing nothing. I'm… exploring options."
"Sleeping until noon is not an option," she said flatly.
He smirked.
"Then I guess I'm pioneering a new lifestyle."
Minji covered her mouth to hide another laugh.
"Oppa's just in his 'resting phase,' right?"
He pointed his spoon at her.
"Exactly. Someone gets it."
His mother shook her head but didn't push further. They ate in relative peace for a moment, the soft sounds of chewing and rain dripping from the balcony filling the air.
Then Minji spoke again, a little hesitant.
"Oppa… did you see the news yesterday? About the weird lights over Busan?"
Minjae raised an eyebrow.
"No. Was it aliens?"
"They said it was some kind of… atmospheric phenomenon," she said, glancing toward the muted TV in the corner. "But it looked strange. Like cracks in the sky."
His mother clicked her tongue.
"Probably just something from China blowing over. Don't believe everything you see online."
"But it's true they showed it live." Minji was revolting.
"Woah, woah, calm down now, Minji. It can be changed even if it's telecasted live, kid," Minjae said, his tone firm but not harsh.
Minji frowned, crossing her arms. "How? Once it's live, it's out there! You can't just undo it like magic."
"You'd be surprised," Minjae replied, leaning back on the couch. "There's delay systems, editing tricks, even quick switches to backup footage. It's not rocket science—though you make it sound like it is."
Minji rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, you always act like you know everything."
"I don't act—I just do," he said with a smug grin.
"Ugh, you're impossible," she muttered, though a smile was tugging at her lips.
Their mother watched the little back-and-forth with quiet amusement. She liked seeing them argue like this—not the serious kind of arguing, but the playful, almost childish banter that made the house feel alive.
"You two should be a live show," she said, chuckling. "I'd watch you more than any drama on TV."
Minjae shot her a mock bow. "Thank you for the endorsement, our first official fan."
Minji smirked. "Yeah, but we'd still have to cut out all your boring parts."
"Rude," Minjae replied, pretending to look deeply offended.
Minjae resumed eating, spoon clinking lightly against the bowl.
Minji hopped onto the sofa, sinking into the cushions like a cat claiming its territory, and instantly picked up her phone.
Minjae glanced at her, chewing slowly. He sighed, muttering under his breath, "There she goes, doomscrolling again." Then, louder, "Hey, Minji, why don't you do something better with your time?"
She didn't even look up. "Oh, look who's telling me to do something better," she shot back, her voice dripping with mock outrage. "This from the guy who wakes up at a time when people are killing themselves just so they can eat something."
Minjae set his spoon down with exaggerated care. "Wow. Strong words from someone whose workout routine is scrolling with her thumb."
"Better than lifting food from a bowl to your mouth like it's a full-time job," Minji said, smirking.
Their mother, now at the sink rinsing dishes, tried to hide her smile but failed. "You two… one day you'll realize you sound like a sitcom nobody wrote down."
"Oh, Mom, don't just join in between the banter," Minji said, finally looking up from her phone.
"I'm not joining, I'm just observing," their mother replied with a small grin. "And maybe adding a little spice."
Minjae chuckled. "Yeah, more like stirring the pot."
"That's rich coming from you," Minji said, pointing her phone at him like it was evidence. "You're literally the one who started this."
"I started this?" Minjae leaned forward. "No, I was saving you from rotting your brain."
"Oh please, my brain's fine. Meanwhile, yours is still half-asleep."
Their mother shook her head, sipping her tea. "You two need a referee."
Minjae smirked. "Nah, Mom, we just need a live broadcast so the world can see how unreasonable Minji is."
"Ha! And watch them cancel you within the first five minutes," Minji shot back, grinning.
Minjae pushed the last bite of rice into his mouth and stood up, stretching until his back popped.
"I'm heading out," he said, grabbing his hoodie from the back of his chair.
His mother looked up from clearing the table.
"Out where? You don't have work."
"Meeting a friend," he replied, slipping into his sneakers by the door.
Minji tilted her head.
"That hyung with the shaved head? The one who always drags you to PC bangs?"
"Yeah. Why?"
She smirked.
"No reason. Just don't spend all day gaming. You'll come home with square eyes."
He shot her a mock glare.
"Worry about your own eyes, high schooler. Don't you have exams?"
Minji stuck her tongue out at him. His mother sighed, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Don't be home too late. And buy onions on the way back."
"Sure, sure," he said, already stepping into the hallway.
The apartment building's stairwell smelled faintly of wet concrete from the rain. Outside, the air was cool and damp, the clouds still unnaturally still overhead. Minjae didn't notice. He jammed his hands into his pockets and started down the street toward the subway station.
The streets of Mapo were alive with the late morning rush — school kids in uniforms, delivery scooters buzzing past, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from a corner bakery.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Jisoo:
PC bang or chicken place first?
Minjae smirked and typed back:
Food. I'm starving.
As he crossed the street, a low, almost inaudible hum passed through the air, making the hairs on his neck stand up. It was gone as quickly as it came.
He frowned and looked up — the clouds hadn't moved an inch.
Minjae slowed his pace for half a second, glancing around.
Nothing unusual — just a couple of ajummas chatting by a fruit stall, a courier unloading boxes, the bakery owner waving to a regular.
He shook his head and kept walking. Probably a truck engine or some construction thing.
At the station entrance, he spotted Jisoo leaning against the ticket machine, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized jacket.
"You took your time," Jisoo said as Minjae approached.
"I had to deal with my sister lecturing me on eye health," Minjae replied.
Jisoo grinned. "The one who once watched an entire drama season in one night?"
"Yeah, her." Minjae swiped his card through the turnstile.
As they descended toward the platform, the hum returned — faint, but deeper this time, like it was somewhere beneath their feet.
Minjae glanced at Jisoo, wondering if he noticed, but his friend was busy scrolling on his phone.