A tall figure in a long coat stood alone in the alley, a thin ribbon of smoke curling from his lips. The city moved on without him, footsteps and engines muffled by the narrow walls. His eyes stayed calm, sharp, as if cataloging every shadow in front of him—even now, at the end. His name was Kim Ryojo, a 28 years-old man, and the doctors had told him this day would be his last due to a terminal illness that is slowly eating away his life span since birth.
𝗣𝗮𝗮𝗵...
He exhaled deeply after taking another drag, his gaze drifting over the city as if saying goodbye. Today was the last week. He left the alley, his tall frame moving slowly along the sidewalk until his eyes met the setting sun. For a few moments the world felt beautiful—not the sharp, analytical beauty of a detective, but something softer he had never allowed himself. Growing up without parents, without financial or emotional support, had eroded every chance of peace. To him, even this quiet was a luxury.
"To think… this week is my last," he muttered, his voice low. A faint crack at the end made it clear there was no going back.
The damage had been done long ago. Years of emotional instability, buried under a composed mask. He walked on, eyes forward, hand slipping into his coat pocket to pull out his phone.
On the screen, his solved cases blinked back at him—rows of titles, dates, and case numbers from his honorable years as a detective. A small smile tugged at his lips. Then, as if a dam broke, the weight of it all crashed forward and he started to weep.
"These records I hold forever… will have a place in my name," he whispered.
He skimmed through the files again, then tapped over to the novel he had been reading in his last days. A fantasy book he'd reread all week, the world he'd loved for five years—the world where heroes always got second chances he never had.
𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝗵… 𝙘𝙤𝘂𝗴𝗵𝗵…
He covered his mouth as his body trembled, blood speckling his palm. Even so, he kept reading. The lines blurred for a moment, then snapped back into focus.
Memories poured in: sitting in hospitals, rereading the same novel on borrowed tablets, tracing the lives of characters who kept getting saved when he never had.
[Leo Vhon and his party entrusted themselves with each other, before fighting the monsters ahead of them as they roared…]
Kim turned to the final chapters, watching the heroes battle the greatest evil in exchange for eternal peace. Time blurred around him. He left the city and walked to the countryside's seashore, phone still in hand, the last chapters of the novel calling him forward.
At the edge of the beach, he went under the umbrella rock that he always came to in the evenings—fewer people here, fewer eyes. Rain fell quietly as he settled in, the story unfolding in his hands while his body fought a separate, losing war.
[Leo's team fought for him until the very end, knowing that giving up now would mean throwing away everything they had worked for. They swarmed the demon king at once, moving with the coordination and tactics they had practiced for years…]
Kim kept reading, his body slowly crumbling beneath the cover of the rain. The final chapter arrived.
[His team gave it their all even while injured. The demon king, Bismarck, finished them off one by one—but Leo impaled him with his divine spear, forcing Bismarck into a scream of pain.
RAHHHHHHHH!!!
Bismarck then took hold of Leo — but before the demon king could even react, Leo proceeded with his plan.
"I'll take you down with me, Bismarck!!"
Leo drew a border around them, isolating the demon king and himself. Unwavering, he unleashed his final, decisive strike.
BOOMMMMM!!
... ... ... ]
Kim's thoughts drifted, imagining the weight of the action that Leo did in his mind. If Leo's last act brought peace, then what had his own life amounted to? He placed his phone down, back against the stone, eyes heavy.
The rain soaked through his coat but dulled the ache for a moment. The novel closed in his mind before it closed on the screen.
coughh... cough..
He covers his mouth, looking at the blood on his palm as his body continues to fail him. He musters all of his remaining strength in looking at his phone, gazing at the fantasy novel — a silent wish came.
"If only…" He thought, "just once… let me be born again. I don't care who I am, what role I play. Just… give me back the life I fought for."
He pauses, thoughts drifting before his match flares at his cigarette — then he inhaled it one last time.
Paahh..
He exhales, smoke enveloping the air around him, "Fuck.. This isn't how I want things to end.." He said to himself in a low tone, he wept in sorrow and longing — despite that, the praise, honor , and appreciation for his work as a detective made him proud, a quiet pride in himself that makes it slightly worth it.
His eyelids grew heavier. His body failed, his breath slowing. A faint smile touched his lips as his organs shut down, facing an unfair, tragic end with a quiet sense of peace.