[10 minutes ago]etas
[10 Minutes Earlier]
The street was busy in its characteristic noisy cadence—fishmongers yelling, fruit vendors measuring out pears, knives chopping scallions on heavy wooden blocks. The bell attached to the glass door was ringing as a tall young woman walked into the building, her bearing straight, her coat buttoned, her hair pulledback into a tight no-nonsense bun. She moved with the deliberate serenity of a person taught how to be invisible yet unforgettable.
The humid air of the market in Seoul was thick with the smell of grilled fish, sugared rice cakes, and wet pavement from the drizzle last night. Neon signs whirred by even in the middle of the afternoon, their colors bleeding through cracked pavement as shopkeepers yelled out bargains and older ajummas shoveled fruit into rickety towers. In the thrum of voice and the hard scrape of delivery trucks pushing through too-narrow alleys, a tall woman walked carefully, her leather purse pressed tightly against her body as though the city would steal it from her.
She was distinguishable. The pale undertones of her complexion, the high-bridged nose and the almond-slant of her eyes struck her as a Euro-Mongoloid admixture—neither quite foreign, nor quite local. Hers was a chestnut hair pulled into a hard bun that spoke of fastidiousness. Every few steps, she would glance at the crumpled shopping list in her hand and move her lips silently in computation.
The shopkeeper, a graying man with hands weathered by work, recognized her immediately. He leaned forward from his stand piled high with apples and persimmons.
"Ah. nanny-ssi," he stated in Korean, his voice carrying the deepest hush of respect. "Neo, George Park Hun-ui nanny aniya?"("Ah. nanny, aren't you George Park Hun's caregiver?")
The female stood up, her eyes blinking as if surprised by the identification.
"Ne. ne," she answered in awkward Korean, her voice tracing the syllables tightly, painfully. "Naneun. nanny. ofittle Hun."("Yes, yes. I am nanny of little Hun.")
What she said caused two ajummas sitting nearby to exchange looks and suppress guffaws behind hands. The shopkeeper, nice enough not to guffaw, rubbed his jaw and shifted into more deliberate, halting speech.
"Neo eotteoke j
("How are you?")
The woman's lips pressed thin. She searched for words, fumbling, and then gave up with a sigh. Her voice shifted, colored with a faint Eastern European lilt.
"Please. better English. My Korean, not so good."
The man took a breath and nodded, his voice shifting unwillingly into English. "Fine, fine. I ask—how you are? You look. tired."
The nanny smiled awkwardly and shoved a lock of her hair out of her face. "Yes. Busy. Always busy tending to Hun. He is. difficult boy."
This, at least, was comprehensible by locals. Everyone at this market had some knowledge of that boy she was recounting. George Park Hun—son of the man whose family name exerted power like an iron club through the black alleys of Seoul. The crime lord whose power ranged from this very market's street vendors to skyscrapers of glass in the distance. If this woman was taking care of that boy, she walked amidst perilous shadows at her back.
The shopkeeper eased his tone and took a plastic bag. "So. what you buy today? Vegetables? Fruits?"
The woman took a look at her crumpled piece of paper and smiled politely at him. "Only best for Hun. Apples, milk. and. sweet bread."
There was no venom in her tone, only responsibility. But even as she enumerated the groceries, every shopkeeper around her nodded slightly, knowing that satisfying this foreign-featured nanny well was satisfying the boy's father—the boss whose domination of the underworld of Seoul might break men like persimmons under his hand.
She had a chestnut-brown mane that reached just to her shoulders, not shiny but smoothed neatly enough to pass for dignity. She had pale gray eyes touched with green, the sort that seemed to catch light unnaturally, too intelligent for a woman who wore her exhaustion like a skin. She was dressed in a cream cardigan pulled over a navy flowered frock, its hem skimming scuffed leather shoes that hinted at long days spent standing rather than walking for pleasure. She told her name to the shop owner, Elena Markovic, though most within the precinct had already grown accustomed to referring to her as the foreign nanny.
Elena walked through the rows of slender aisles with the practiced step of one who'd done this a hundred times before—rice, milk, fresh leaves, two packets of instant noodles grabbed under her arm for the boy's late-night desires. The fluorescent lights whirred overhead, and the shop owner nodded in recognition, interjecting between Korean pleasantries that she only half-understood. Her response was clipped, a bit awkward, but civil enough to keep matters smooth. She walked with her head bowed slightly, shoulders hunched, a stranger yet to shake off the heaviness of feeling watched in a neighborhood that couldn't forget a face.
It was not until she spun to exit, her loaded plastic bags digging into her fingers, that something pulled inside her chest. The silence was off. The thud of sneakers she anticipated by her side was not there. She turned, eyeing the shop door, the crowded aisles, the gum rack by the till. No George. Neither the slovenly buzz he always generated when he was bored, nor the yank at her sleeve when he hoped to sneak chocolate into the stack. The gap at her side—from whence he always was—retained its emptiness, and the thought hit her like a piece of glass gliding beneath her ribs.
Her breath hitched, shallow, then sharpened. The boy was gone.
Elena's heart was racing when she stepped out into the narrow street, plastic bags digging more tightly into her hands, the neon brightness of the market sign above her ringing rather too loudly. She glanced left, then right—just the dull tramp of late-night shoppers and the subdued rustling of voices screened from the noodle cart a block down. No George.
Her lips parted, speaking in a hushed tone, almost trembling into the atmosphere as if speaking rationally would ground the panic climbing her spine.
"Where the hell did you go, George…?" she said grudgingly. "You were just there, not more than five minutes ago." She held the bags against her body, slowing her breathing, concentrating. "Maybe he slipped out. Maybe he's hiding, acting like a brat once more. Right? Just hiding?" Tear streaks dirtied her face, and her voice cracked, whisper edges. "But no, no—he wouldn't. not here. Not tonight." Her own feet paced restlessly against the pavement, panic shaping teeth in her stomach. "If he's gone—if something went wrong—I'm dead. I'm fucking dead." The words hung there like smoke, raw and jagged, her face mirrored in the market window: eye-widened, jaw-clenched, a trapped woman between the terror of losing a child and terror of answering to the man that owned him.
The world narrowed to a single sight—the small figure of George, his little sneakers scuffing the edge of the crosswalk, his tiny arms spread as though he were drifting through a dream. Beyond him, headlights bore down, blinding white, the rumble of a delivery truck grinding through the night with merciless indifference.
Elena's breath seized in her throat. The bags slipped from her hands, apples tumbling and rolling into the gutter. Her body moved before thought could catch up, her voice tearing through the air like a cracked bell.
"GEORGE!"
The name ripped out of her chest, frantic, desperate, scattering the idle chatter of pedestrians into sudden gasps. Her heels clapped the pavement, knees burning as she launched herself forward, every instinct shrieking louder than the truck's horn that now wailed in warning.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed—the child's small head turning lazily at the sound of her scream, the truck looming closer with its steel frame and unforgiving momentum, and Elena's arms stretching out, fingers clawing for the fragile scrap of life that had wandered so carelessly into death's path.
The world narrowed to a single sight—the small figure of George, his little sneakers scuffing the edge of the crosswalk, his tiny arms spread as though he were drifting through a dream. Beyond him, headlights bore down, blinding white, the rumble of a delivery truck grinding through the night with merciless indifference.
Elena's breath seized in her throat. The bags slipped from her hands, apples tumbling and rolling into the gutter. Her body moved before thought could catch up, her voice tearing through the air like a cracked bell.
"GEORGE!"
The name ripped out of her chest, frantic, desperate, scattering the idle chatter of pedestrians into sudden gasps. Her heels clapped the pavement, knees burning as she launched herself forward, every instinct shrieking louder than the truck's horn that now wailed in warning.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed—the child's small head turning lazily at the sound of her scream, the truck looming closer with its steel frame and unforgiving momentum, and Elena's arms stretching out, fingers clawing for the fragile scrap of life that had wandered so carelessly into death's path.
ChatGPT said:
Suddenly, Elena's cry collapsed into silence, her breath catching sharp in her throat as if the air itself had been stolen. The roar of the truck, the shuffle of startled feet, even the shrill notes of the horn—all of it seemed to collapse into a hollow pause, as though the world itself had been muted. For a few impossible seconds, the night carried no sound, no motion, only the strange stillness of time severed from its flow.
Her eyes darted downward, bracing for the horror of what she thought she'd find, but instead George was standing at her side, clutching the edge of her coat with wide, bewildered eyes. He was safe, breathing, unscathed—though confusion shimmered across his small face as if he, too, didn't know how he had been pulled from the jaws of death.
Elena's heart hammered against her ribs. She turned sharply, scanning the frozen street, her gaze cutting through the fragments of life that hung suspended. And then she saw him—Rudra. He was a short distance away, already walking, but not like any passerby. His steps carried an unusual gravity, an almost reluctant drift, his shoulders drawn tight as though he bore a weight no one else could see. He didn't look back, didn't wait for thanks, only moved with that odd, deliberate gait, slipping further into the stream of the city as though nothing extraordinary had just occurred.
Her breath came back in a rush, the world jerking back into existence—the truck horn, the yells, the commotion swelling around them—but all Elena was capable of was gripping George more firmly, her gaze locked on the boy retreating, who had recast the moment from death into life as a mere afterthought.
[» Achievement Unlocked: Za Warudo]
[After some minutes]
Rudra stumbled through the deserted street, each step slogging as though the pavement itself longed for him to fall. His hand bore down hard against his ribs, shaking, the iron tang of blood already gathering at the back of his throat. His jaw worked hard, pushing him onward, eyes roving frantically for a sink, a drain—anything into which he might release the whirlwind within him before it devoured him alive.
{You recall that you can only pause time for 3 seconds? it took you 5 for that kid to move and those already deadly tolls that you receive every time that you pause time got multiplied by 1.5X}
"Chup. rahe. Bhairav," he growled beneath his breath, every articulated word tight with hurt, his teeth clamped.
(Shut it, Bh
He swallowed hard, anguish wracking his gut like a writhing creature, his vision clouding at the edges, but still he struggled his legs.
Rudra stumbled, knees buckling as the weight inside him finally won. The world tilted, and before he could brace himself, his body lurched forward over the railing of Seoul's great water bridge. His throat tore open in a wet, guttural retch, and then it came pouring out—thick strings of stomach mucus tangled with dark blood, the acid burn of bile, and half-digested remnants that hissed on the stone as if they wanted to eat through it. The smell hit him next, rancid and sharp, like a slaughterhouse mixed with sewage. He swore, through the blur of his watering eyes, he saw something in the river churn—dead fish bobbing to the surface as though his sickness alone had poisoned the Han.
{"Why are we at Seoul bridge now?"}
He fell against the railing of cold steel, rolling his head, gasping for a breath while doing his best to force it into his lungs. His hand wiped away the foul reddish froth from his face, streaking it against his cheek.
"What's wrong with Seoul's bridge?" He rasped back, half out of his mind, his voice hoarse as he twisted his head away from the seemingly interminable expanse of city lights. In that moment, he was almost serene, outstretched there, his shattered body leaning against the railing as if this was merely one more place for rest along a road that would not cease.
Bharaiva's voice came, not sharp but cool and pragmatic, as though it were tracing lines on a chalkboard inside Rudra's skull.
Think, Rudra. Who in their right mind leaves Incheon, goes through the madness of Seoul Station, and gets on a night bus all the way there—just to fall down on a bridge? Do you see the sense in that? Airports lead to hotels. Hotels lead to beds. Not… this.
The god's tone wasn't mocking; it was matter-of-fact, like someone pointing out the absurdity of a chess move. The bridge loomed with its pale lamps and the quiet churn of the Han below, too still for this hour.
Rudra half-lauged, half-coughed, grasping his belly as another lick of acid scorched the inside of his throat. He spat into the balcony railing, voice raw and dry.
"I don't know.army told me to stand here," he complained.
Not very far away, a small cluster of grown-ups in starched suits were congregated with some students, their words pointed and fretful, carrying over the bridge. Rudra picked up scraps—birthrate, 0.6, national crisis, incentives, decline.
Convenient. He approached them, a hand lodged in his hoodie pocket. The adults glared at him, some tense with awkwardness, the students whispering. Brown face in a uniform night crowd evoked mixed reactions—mistrust, suspicion, and disinterest.
One of them, mercifully, switched from Korean to halting English: "We are discussing… how to solve the population problem."
Rudra blinked. "That's it?"
Their eyes fixed on him, half expecting nonsense.
"It's not that complex," he said flatly.
don't utter it," Bharaiva hissed within his thoughts.
"Have sex," Rudra finished, tone blank, face unreadable.
The group froze. Silence stretched thin as a blade.
[Achievement Unlocked: National Policy Advisor.]