It was raining when he stepped out onto the street again — not a storm, just a restless mist that made everything look half-finished.
Kyosuke Sagara had been in Seoul for four days. Normally too long. Especially after the bus incident.
He should have been gone. But he wasn't.
He needed to see him. Now. And then he would leave.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Kyo walked into the night.
No phone.
No ID.
Just a black windbreaker, a duffel bag, and a borrowed room in a condemned building.
He kept his presence small.
No resonance pulses.
No kinetic excess.
HID was already watching — of course they were.
But the more he slipped, the easier he'd be to corner.
But the city was louder than he remembered.
Brighter. Hungrier.
Screens blinked from every bus stop, cycling through idol ads, cosmetics endorsements, and short drama clips that cut faces into perfect fragments of emotion.
People didn't look at each other anymore.
That helped.
Kyo moved through it all like he wasn't part of the world.
Like he was holding his breath inside someone else's life.
The rain beaded in his hair.
He kept his head low.
He didn't run.
But the Constant — the thing that had always lived under his ribs — was stirring.
Every block closer to the city's center made it thrum a little louder.
Like Seoul was waking up around him.
Like something was searching for him.
Or someone.
By his fourth night, he perched on the edge of a service roof six stories above Sinchon.
Plastic signs and LED billboards screamed across the intersection below —
ads for cosmetic products, a movie poster of Evan Park mid-smile,
and a three-second clip of Lisa walking through an airport terminal.
He didn't flinch at her face.
But he didn't look away either.
There was nothing left to say, even to himself.
He sat perfectly still.
The rain thickened.
The Constant hummed faintly under his palm.
He clenched his fist until it stopped.
Near midnight, he found the street he was searching for —
a side road behind a used electronics store,
where a man named Won-kyu once sold burner IDs out of a ramen shack.
The shack was gone.
Replaced with a vape shop.
A kid out front, wearing a patched U.S. Army jacket, was willing to talk.
He pretended not to recognize Kyo.
"They're already watching Seoul," the kid said quietly.
"That bus thing — whatever it was — lit them up."
Kyo stayed silent.
"But the guy who used to keep you out of their eyes? Still around.
Not exactly hiding. Just doesn't answer to anyone."
Kyo's voice was low, but steady.
"Where?"
"Mapo. Private-room karaoke bar. You'll hear him before you see him."
Kyo walked for hours.
No cabs.
No trail.
No mistakes.
He kept his steps steady, grounding himself with each footfall,
folding the Constant inward to avoid even a whisper of resonance.
Then a girl in a yellow jacket brushed him too fast at a crosswalk —
and stumbled.
He caught her elbow. Reflex.
But the contact triggered a ripple.
A tremor.
A pulse so faint only he could feel it.
The girl blinked up at him.
"Thanks."
Kyo released her.
Didn't respond.
Didn't look back.
He kept walking.
The hum beneath his skin followed him all the way down the street.