The sun lay heavy on Seoul, blazing off the Han River and the glass towers of Yeouido. Heat shimmered over the streets, carrying the faint scent of roasting chestnuts and diesel from the buses.
Two children darted along the crowded Jongno sidewalk, shrieking with laughter as they wove between office workers and market carts. A paper cone of hot hodu-gwaja tipped, scattering warm walnut cakes across the pavement.
"Did you hear?" a vendor muttered while sweeping crumbs from her stall. "Someone in a white mask pulled a woman off the subway tracks last night."
Her friend snorted. "Urban myth."
"Ya! Be careful!" another vendor shouted. The children only giggled, chasing a wayward plastic bag rolling toward the curb.
A horn blared. A delivery truck bore down, brakes whining against the asphalt.
...
A man appeared from the edge of the crowd. He crossed the lane in a blur, coat snapping at his sides, and swept the children up
He wore a plain white mask that caught the sunlight like a flash of bone.
He scooped the children up, his grip firm, almost unnervingly so, and set them safely on the curb.
"Who is that?" a vendor whispered.
"Why's he wearing a mask in daylight?" another voice said, half-uneasy, half-awed.
The man gave no answer. He set the children on their feet and walked away, the mask catching the sun as he disappeared into the crowd.
The crowd murmured after him, a low ripple of questions following the blank white face until it vanished.
...
A woman shouted for help as her grocery cart tipped into the gutter. The masked man was suddenly there, he intercepted the cart, catching it smoothly that seemed almost rehearsed, a faint smile hidden beneath the mask.
"Is that him?" a teenager whispered, phone held high.
"Same mask," his friend said, already filming.
...
A delivery scooter skidded on wet bricks near the riverfront. The rider slid, limbs flailing.
The white mask appeared, steady hands pulling the rider to his feet.
"Why doesn't he talk?" a vendor asked, holding her own phone just far enough to catch the shot.
...
In the evening market, an old man's wallet slipped from his pocket. Before it hit the ground the masked figure caught it, he returned the wallet with a nod, lingering just a fraction too long, as if measuring how the man's eyes followed him.
"He's everywhere," someone muttered.
"Guardian angel," another replied.
"Or a thief with good PR," someone else said, but they kept recording.
...
Clips spread across feeds of social media: shaky videos, blurred stills, captions guessing at his name.
#WhiteMask climbed the city's trending list.
Some called him a hero, others a fraud.
On the streets, the murmurs grew louder.
"Who is he?"
"Why hide his face?"
"What's he planning?"
The man never answered. He only kept moving, mask blank in the glow of screens, each small act turning rumor into legend.
...
Notifications stacked faster than anyone could read them.
On train platforms, in elevators, in the lull between meetings, people watched the same shaky videos: the masked man lifting a child, catching a wallet, stopping a runaway cart.
Thumbs tapped like and share.
Comments scrolled in every language of the city:
"He's real."
"Where next?"
"Finally, someone who cares."
"A stunt. Watch, it's marketing."
Screens lit the night trains like fireflies. Every replay sharpened the silhouette of the white mask.
Weeks later the streets began to change.
The main avenue pulsed with late-afternoon noise, music from kiosks, vendors calling prices, the smell of frying batter. And there, moving through the crowd, were dozens of masks.
A courier wearing a mask with a blue delivery bag stooped to help a woman with a twisted ankle.
Two students in matching hoodies and masks hauled a fallen bike upright and patched the rider's chain.
A pair of office clerks, masks tied with ribbon, handed out bottles of water to workers resurfacing the road.
People cheered them on, phones raised again.
Near the fountain, a fresh poster clung to the brick wall.
Bold black letters over a poster with the masked man's figure:
"FOLLOW THE MASKED MAN. HELP ONE ANOTHER. BE THE CHANGE."
Wind tugged at the paper's corners.
Someone stopped to take a photo.
Someone else started to record.
The crowd's hum thickened, a low current of excitement running beneath the city's everyday noise, as if a single quiet rescue had cracked something open, and now anyone could step through.
…
The plaza glowed with late-day sun. Towering screens reflected the light onto hundreds of faces packed shoulder to shoulder. Phones hovered like a forest of small moons.
At the heart of it all stood the man in the plain white mask.
People surged closer but held a respectful circle, their murmurs rolling like distant surf. Vendors climbed planters for a better view; children perched on shoulders.
He raised a gloved hand. The crowd quieted.
"This city belongs to all of us," his voice carried, low and clear through a simple megaphone.
"Together we will bring change, to this country, to this world. We will help each other. We will not wait for permission!"
Everyone answered him with cheers, applause, the flash of phone cameras. Someone began a chant, and the plaza took it up, the word Change pulsing against the glass walls of the surrounding towers.
A photographer's lens caught the moment the sun struck his mask, turning it into a perfect disk of white.
…But in the way he lingered on each gaze, there was something more: a careful orchestration, a pattern only he could see.
…
TWO DECADES LATER – SAME PLACE
The masked man's head was tilted down, lights strobing red and blue across the mask's new markings. His mask had changed: white streaked with black lines like cracks across porcelain.
Night settled heavy and smoke-thick.
The plaza's giant screens flickered with emergency alerts. Buildings along the avenue burned, their windows spilling orange light into the dark. Sirens wailed, mixing with the distant crash of glass and the shouting of masked figures scattering through the streets.
Around him lay fallen officers. Police vehicles smoldered, doors hanging open. A ring of armed units tightened, weapons drawn.
Two officers snapped cuffs onto his wrists. Cameras flashed from every direction. Citizens, reporters, maybe even those same early followers.
"STOP!"
Everyone froze. Mid-step, mid-shout, mid-fight, like time itself had paused. The masked figures turned their heads, rigid, waiting.
The man lifted his head, the black-streaked mask catching the firelight.
"Taeyang may have turned his back on us. But the fight does not end. Seojin will rise, and our legacy will continue. We are not finished!"
Murmurs spread among the frozen crowd, as if the words themselves held a weight stronger than fear or flame. The message was clear: the movement, the cause, and the myth were far from over.
The plaza trembled, not from the fire, not from the sirens, but from the certainty that a new chapter had begun.
…
"Breaking news from the city center: the masked figure who inspired hope has led an attack on multiple city blocks. Officers report widespread destruction and dozens of injuries."
The feed cut to aerial footage: smoldering buildings, shattered windows, overturned cars, and streets littered with debris. Fires licked at the edges of storefronts; smoke curled into the sky.
"We now have official footage from police sources. This is the man behind the so-called 'White Mask' movement. Authorities confirm he has been taken into custody."
A stark mugshot appeared on screen: the black-streaked mask removed, revealing a pale, unreadable face.
"For decades, the public believed him to be a hero, a protector of citizens and children. Today's events make it clear he was not the person we thought he was. His name was Yeon Oryong, 36 years old."
"Investigations over the past decade reveal that mysterious crime organizations, long thought to be separate and unrelated, were in fact coordinated by Oryong himself. He is now believed to be the mastermind behind a citywide network responsible for escalating violence, theft, and organized attacks."
"In the last 24 hours alone, citywide crime reports have increased dramatically. All incidents involve individuals wearing masks. Footage shows masked individuals looting shops, clashing with officers, and setting vehicles on fire."
The camera panned over streets still burning, flickering red in the night, crowds running, and police lines struggling to hold the chaos.
"In response, the government has announced a full ban on masks in public spaces. Law enforcement will enforce the ban immediately, and citizens are encouraged to report any violations. Mandatory self-defense courses are being rolled out in schools and workplaces to curb rising violence."
"Officials emphasize: the era of anonymous vigilantes is over. The city faces an uncertain future, and Yeon Oryong's actions may have forever changed the way we live among each other."
"MASKS BANNED."
…
The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, locking with a hollow echo. The room smelled of disinfectant and stale air. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing harsh glare on the pale walls.
Yeon Oryong stepped forward in a plain prison uniform, the fabric stiff against his frame. His hands flexed slightly at his sides, eyes scanning the visitation room before settling across the table.
There, on the opposite side, sat a teenager. No clear indicator of gender, just a quiet, self-contained presence: black hoodie with hands buried in the pockets, jeans neat but worn, hair tied into a messy short ponytail, and an expressionless, tired yet pretty face.
The teenager glanced up at Oryong once, their eyes flicking over him briefly, then his gaze dropped back to the table.
Yeon Oryong studied them, reading the silence as a deliberate choice. The weight of expectation hung in the air.
He sat, leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the cold metal table. His eyes, sharp despite fatigue, locked onto the silent figure across from him.
"Yeon Seojin," he said, voice steady, "do you have anything to say?"
Seojin's lips twitched into a faint, ambiguous chuckle, unclear whether they're about to cry or laugh.
"You know… I've been waiting for this day."
Oryong's lips curved into a brief, wry smile. "You've been waiting to take on the role? That's–"
Seojin's lips fell back into the emotionless line.
"No,"
Oryong's expression shifted to confusion. He leaned back slightly, studying the teenager. Their calm defiance was unnerving, a weight he hadn't anticipated.
"All these years," they said, "I've been nothing but an animal living in captivity. Forced to serve, forced to fight battles I never asked for…"
Oryong's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of guilt crossing his features.
They continued, their tone steady, unflinching. "I've never known what it's like to experience the warmth of a family… to be protected, to be loved. All I've ever known is the brutality of the world you've brought me into. The constant pressure to dominate, to survive… to be something I wasn't meant to become."
They let the words hang in the air, the room silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.
Oryong's lips pressed into a thin line. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, swallowing. The weight of what Seojin carried, everything he had endured, settled between them, heavier than any bars or chains.
"The thing I was waiting for…" they said slowly, each word deliberate, "was a new start. One without you being in control,"
"Your legacy… ends here."
Oryong's eyes widened, a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Did Taeyang… brainwash you?" he asked, voice tight, searching for some explanation.
Seojin said nothing. They simply stood, shoulders squared, and walked toward the metal door behind them. The chains of expectation and history seemed to fall away with each step.
"You don't understand, Seojin!" Oryong shouted, rising from the bench. "You have no other choice!"
Seojin paused only for a second, then pushed the door open.
"They will look for you, Seojin! They will!" Oryong called after them, voice cracking with urgency. "This is your destiny! You'll never live peacefully!"
Seojin's silhouette moved through the doorway, stepping into the corridor beyond. The metal door slid shut behind them with a CLANG that echoed through the room, leaving Oryong staring at the empty space, the silence of the visitation room pressing down heavier than any sentence or prison wall.