The hum of the ventilation wasn't just a sound—it was a constant, viscous whisper, as if the bunker itself were speaking its own language. It reminded Seo-hyeon that the walls around them were thin, and beyond them was only darkness, concrete, and the scratching of claws on stone.
Outside, somewhere above, zombies scraped at the concrete, trying to break in. The sound was muffled, like the echo of a distant storm, but it chilled his blood every time.
Seo-hyeon sat hunched over his lab table, as if under the weight of his own thoughts. In his palm lay a ring with a Stella crystal. It glowed with a soft white fire—barely noticeable, yet alive. He once called it a beacon. Now, it was the last shard of hope.
Min-jun. His Min-jun. The one whose dark eyes always found him in a crowd. The one whose sharp smile could warm even the dampness of these corridors.
Seo-hyeon clenched the ring until his knuckles turned white.
"You should have stayed..." The whisper slipped out on its own.
There was no answer. Only a drop of water falling from a rusty pipe in the corner.
He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand and forced himself to look around. Life in the bunker went on. Under the dim lamps, gardeners dug in the lean soil, cooks kneaded sticky dough, and engineers argued again over a rusted pipe. A hundred people clung to routine like a life raft.
But Seo-hyeon felt like an outsider. He was their hope—the researcher who was supposed to find a cure. And at the same time—their sentence. He couldn't even save one person.
He adjusted his glasses and leaned over the test tubes. The chemical smell stung his nostrils. But in the back of the room, shadows stirred.
"Seo-hyeon..."
He flinched. The voice was so familiar. He turned around—nothing. Only flasks and equipment. But his heart beat faster.
"Damn imagination..." he breathed, and looked at the ring once more.