**BUSAN** at 2:14 AM was a city of ghosts and neon.
From the rooftop of a decaying apartment complex in **SASANG-GU**, **LEE JOON-HA** watched the world breathe. He wasn't looking at the glowing **GWANGANDAEGYO BRIDGE** or the distant lights of **HAEUNDAE**.
He was looking at the cracks in the pavement, the flickering streetlights, and the way the fog rolled over the harbor like a heavy, tired shroud.
**JOON-HA** sat on a cracked plastic chair that groaned under his minimal weight. On his lap sat a second-hand laptop with a flickering screen, its cooling fan whirring like a dying insect struggling to stay upright.
His job was simple, mind-numbing, and utterly invisible: data entry for a mid-sized logistics firm.
Thousands of rows of numbers—weights, dates, shipping IDs, and destination codes.
It was soul-crushing work that paid just enough to keep the electricity running and his gym membership active. But **JOON-HA** didn't mind the silence. In fact, he preferred it.
At twenty-three, he lived a life that felt like a placeholder. He was handsome—dangerously so. Even in his faded grey hoodie and worn-out jeans, his sharp jawline and deep, soulful eyes looked like they belonged in a high-end fashion editorial rather than a rooftop in a low-income district.
His visuals were "soft," almost unreal, like a portrait painted by someone who had forgotten what human flaws looked like.
But he had no public presence. No **INSTAGRAM** followers to admire his face. No friends to call for a late-night drink. No family to visit during **CHUSEOK**.
He was just a ghost in the machine, a silent observer of a world that didn't know he existed.
"Twenty more rows," he whispered to himself, his voice raspy from hours of silence.
His fingers danced across the keyboard with a mechanical precision. He was disciplined, not because he loved the work, but because discipline was the only thing he truly owned. In a world of chaos, his morning workout and his nightly data entries were the anchors that kept him from drifting away into nothingness.
He reached for a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, his eyes drifting momentarily toward the night sky. The stars over **BUSAN** were usually drowned out by the city's light pollution, but tonight, they seemed unusually sharp.
Then, the world broke.
It happened in the span of a heartbeat. For exactly 0.3 seconds, the universe suffered a **CATASTROPHIC MALFUNCTION**.
**JOON-HA** froze. As he looked up, the deep velvet black of the sky stuttered. It flickered, revealing a blinding, neon-green grid underneath for a fraction of a second. The moon shivered, its edges doubling and vibrating like a poorly rendered 3D movie seen without glasses.
The distant sound of city traffic didn't just stop—it looped. A high-pitched digital screech, like a scratched CD, echoed through the air, vibrating in his very teeth.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was gone.
The sky was back to black. The moon was solid. The city hummed its usual, low-frequency tune.
**JOON-HA**'s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His breath came in shallow hitches. Most people in **BUSAN** were sleeping. Those who were awake were likely looking at their phones, their TVs, or their drinks.
But **JOON-HA** had been looking at the sky.
He hadn't just seen the **GLITCH**; he had felt it. A physical ache had bloomed in the center of his chest—a sudden, sharp pang of profound empathy. It wasn't pain for himself. It was the feeling you get when you see a majestic, ancient tree being struck by lightning.
The universe hadn't just malfunctioned. It had been hurt.
"What was that?" he breathed, his coffee cup trembling in his hand.
He waited for a siren, for people to scream, for the news to break. But there was only silence. The world continued its ignorant dance, unaware that its fabric had just been torn and mended in the blink of an eye.
Suddenly, his laptop screen went dark. The whirring fan stopped. The city lights below him didn't turn off—they simply stayed still.
The wind died. A moth, which had been circling the dim lightbulb above his head, froze in mid-air. Its wings were locked in an impossible position, defying gravity. A drop of condensation falling from his coffee cup hung like a crystal bead, suspended halfway to the floor.
Time hadn't just slowed down. It had been paused by a higher authority.
[**SYSTEM ERROR DETECTED**.]
A voice—cold, genderless, and impossibly clear—echoed directly inside his skull. It didn't sound like a person; it sounded like the vibration of the earth itself.
[Searching for an **OBSERVER**...]
[Analyzing Local Nodes for **EMPATHY SYNCHRONIZATION**...]
[Criteria: High Empathy Threshold. High Discipline Index. Low Social Anchor.]
**JOON-HA** felt an invisible wave wash over him. It wasn't a physical sensation, but an intrusive one. It felt like a thousand years of his history—his lonely childhood, his quiet gym sessions, his silent nights on this rooftop—were being scanned in a millisecond.
[Candidate Found: **LEE JOON-HA**.]
[**EMPATHY SYNCHRONIZATION**: 99.98%.]
[Compatibility: **OPTIMAL**.]
A screen materialized in front of him. It wasn't made of light or pixels; it looked like a hole had been ripped into the fabric of space, revealing a golden, scrolling script underneath.
[**REALITY IS SUFFERING FROM CRITICAL FRAGMENTATION**.]
[**THE MULTIVERSE REQUIRES MAINTENANCE**.]
[Position Offered: **OBSERVER INTERN (TIER 0)**]
[Employer: **INFINITE CONTRACT SYSTEM (ICS)**]
[The **EMPATHY SYNCHRONIZATION THRESHOLD** has been exceeded. You have witnessed the truth of the **FRAGILITY**. Will you sign the **CONTRACT**?]
**JOON-HA** stared at the floating text, his mind reeling. He was a man of logic, of data, of tangible numbers. This was beyond madness. This was a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and caffeine.
"I'm dreaming," he whispered, hoping the sound of his own voice would shatter the illusion.
But his voice didn't echo. It felt flat, absorbed by the frozen air.
[This is not a dream, **LEE JOON-HA**, building the voice responded. [This node—the planet you call **EARTH**—is currently under '**STASIS PROTOCOL**'. If the fragmentation witnessed at 02:14:03 AM is not addressed, this reality will be de-rendered within 400 years.]
**JOON-HA** looked at the frozen moth. He looked at the suspended drop of water.
He thought about the thousands of people in the buildings below—the children sleeping, the couples arguing, the elderly staring out of windows. They were all part of a "**NODE**" that was apparently falling apart.
He felt that ache again. That suffocating, deep empathy. It wasn't just for the people; it was for the structure of everything. It was like seeing a beautiful, complex clock about to be crushed by a hammer.
"Why me?" he asked. "I'm just a data analyst. I have no power. I have no influence."
[**ICS** does not require power,] the system replied coldly. [Power is a resource we provide. We require a witness. We require someone who can feel the 'pain' of a collapsing universe without breaking. We require an **ADMINISTRATOR** who values the existence of the system more than their own ego.]
The golden script shifted, forming a long, complex document that stretched into the air. It was a contract—dense, professional, and terrifyingly absolute.
[**CONTRACT TERMS**:]
[1. Service: **MAINTENANCE OF EXTERNAL UNIVERSES**.]
[2. Compensation: **TIER-BASED AUTHORITY** & **EARTH-NODE WEALTH ALLOCATION**.]
[3. Aging: **BIOLOGICAL STABILIZATION PROTOCOL** (Aging Suspended during Operational Hours).]
[4. **TIME DILATION**: 1 Minute (**EARTH**) = 6 Months (**EXTERNAL OPERATIONAL ZONE**).]
**JOON-HA**'s eyes widened at the last line. Six months? In one minute?
If he stayed away for ten minutes, years would pass for him. He would live a thousand lives while the coffee on his desk was still warm. The sheer weight of the isolation hit him like a physical blow.
"I'll be alone," he realized.
[You will be the **MAINTENANCE**. An **ADMINISTRATOR** is always alone among the stars.]
**JOON-HA** looked at his laptop, then at his cramped, lonely apartment. He had always been alone. He had spent twenty-three years preparing for a solitude he didn't even know was coming.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the **GOLDEN QUILL** that had materialized in the air.
"If I sign... can I save it? Not just this world, but the others?"
[You will be the only thing standing between **ORDER** and the **VOID**.]
**JOON-HA** gripped the quill. It felt heavy—heavier than any weight he had ever lifted at the gym. It was the weight of responsibility.
He signed his name. ***LEE JOON-HA***.
The moment the last stroke was completed, the golden script shattered into a million sparks. The **STASIS** broke. The moth flew away. The water drop hit the floor with a loud *thud*.
But **JOON-HA** wasn't on the rooftop anymore.
[**CONTRACT SIGNED**.]
[Welcome, **INTERN LEE JOON-HA**.]
[Initializing **FIRST OPERATIONAL ASSIGNMENT**...]
The world around him dissolved into streaks of white light. He felt his body being pulled apart at a sub-atomic level. It didn't hurt; it felt like a cold, antiseptic cleansing. The dark circles under his eyes, the slight ache in his back from the chair—all of it vanished.
His cells were being stabilized. His biological clock was locked.
[Zone: **UNIVERSE 102-B** (**LAYER 2**)]
[Objective: Repair the Dying Core of '**AETHELGARD**'.]
[Deploying in 3... 2... 1...]
**JOON-HA** opened his eyes.
The neon lights of **BUSAN** were gone. In their place was a sky of bruised purple, filled with three moons that were cracked like old marble. He was standing on a floating island of violet stone. Below him, a world of alien forests and crystalline cities was slowly turning to grey ash.
The air smelled of ozone and ancient dust.
He looked at his hands. They were the same hands, but they felt different. More 'real'. More solid.
[The **CONTRACT** begins now.]
[Estimated Duration: 1 Year (Internal Time).]
[**EARTH TIME** Elapsed upon return: 2 Minutes.]
**JOON-HA** stood up, straightening his hoodie. He looked at the dying world before him. He was terrified, lonely, and overwhelmed.
But as he felt the faint throb of the '**GLITCH**' in this world, that familiar empathy rose up within him.
"Okay," he whispered to the purple sky. "Let's get to work."
On **EARTH**, a coffee cup was still steaming on a rooftop in **BUSAN**.
But for **LEE JOON-HA**, the long silence had just begun.