Min was running.
Breath tearing through his lungs, legs burning, he sprinted across an endless field of tall, whispering grass. Snarling, inhuman, hungry, echoed behind him. He didn't dare look back.
The field ended abruptly.
A cliff. A sheer drop. Wind howled up from the abyss below.
If he stayed, he would be torn apart.
If he jumped, he would die.
For a heartbeat, he stood on the edge of the world.
Then he leapt.
Falling…
Falling…
Falling…
Min jerked awake with a gasp.
The ceiling of his small Wonju room slowly came into focus. Sweat drenched his shirt. His breath trembled, ragged.
Just a dream.
Another one.
"Min!" his aunt's voice cut through the door. "It's time to go to work!"
"Yes, Auntie!" he shouted back, forcing steadiness into his voice.
He dragged himself to the bathroom. He was eighteen now, older, taller, but carved thin by grief and memories he refused to name. A year had passed. A full year since that night.
He washed up quickly, leaving his nightmares swirling down the drain, and stepped outside.
A wooden sign greeted him as always:
WELCOME TO WONJU.
Wonju lay quiet beneath a pale afternoon sky. The basin city rested among distant mountains that curled around it like silent guardians. Life moved slowly here, gentle, predictable, nothing like the neon chaos of Seoul or the brutal pulse of Mapo.
He crossed the street toward his relatives' restaurant. The radio inside was already on, crackling with static.
"…The Korean Government Digital Board reports continued progress on the National Intranet System…
Connections with NATO remain stable…
Cross-continental test transmissions scheduled for…"
Min tuned it out. He always did.
Anything about the "new government internet" twisted something inside him, something he didn't want to look at too closely.
He hadn't touched a computer since that night.
Sometimes he couldn't even look at one.
He tied on his apron, straightened menus, refolded napkins—anything to keep his hands busy.
"Min-ah," his aunt called from the kitchen, balancing two steaming bowls. "Table three."
"Yes, Auntie."
He delivered the food with a polite smile, then returned to the counter. Routine. Safe. A year of this life had dulled the ache of the past.
Almost.
The door slid open.
A man stepped inside, hood up, jacket dusty from long travel. Broad shoulders, steady gait, the unmistakable awareness of someone who lived by scanning every corner of a room.
Not a local.
Min looked up from wiping the countertop.
Their eyes locked for half a second.
Something tightened in Min's chest. A flicker of familiarity like recognizing a shadow more than a face.
"Welcome," Min said, voice practiced and calm. "Please sit wherever you'd.."
The man didn't move to a table.
He walked straight to the counter.
Min blinked. "Uh… sir? Did you want to order?"
The man reached up and slowly lowered his hood.
A faint scar crossed his cheek. His expression was hard, weathered, but not cruel. There was weight behind his eyes like someone carrying too many unspoken stories.
Min's breath hitched.
I know him.
But from where?
His aunt peeked from the kitchen. "Customer?"
"Just talking," the man replied without looking at her.
Min swallowed. "Do we… know each other?"
The man didn't answer the question.
Instead, he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low—steady, intentional.
The restaurant fell silent.
Even the radio seemed quiet.
"Been looking for you," he murmured.
Min froze.
The man's gaze sharpened.
And then.
"Mapo needs you, Min."
The world seemed to tilt.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
The man didn't blink.
Didn't soften.
"Seoul needs you."
The words hit harder than any nightmare. They dragged memories he had buried back into the light, his brother collapsing, the glow of monitors, the echo of laughter that still haunted him.
The man stepped back just enough to give Min space to breathe.
Then, with quiet finality:
"We need you."