It began with the clouds.
Not a storm yet—but a gathering.
A quiet folding of the sky into itself.
Soft gray tendrils, blooming above Seoul like ink in water.
The clouds loomed gently at first, like a whisper brushing against glass. Still far off, still slow.
Down below, the city breathed in electric light.
Seoul's wide avenues stretched in straight, careful lines, their wet pavement catching the pale glow of streetlamps. Old brick shopfronts leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with newer glass towers, each bearing the marks of rebuilding—patched stonework, steel braces, fresh coats of paint that couldn't quite hide the scars beneath. Street vendors shouted under canvas awnings, steam curling from pots into the night air. Motorbikes hummed past, weaving between delivery trucks and compact taxis.
Here, the gutters ran clear. The power stayed on. Patrols walked in pairs, rifles slung but eyes sharp. There were no gangs here, no nightly curfew sirens, no gunshots echoing between buildings. The worst danger was a pickpocket, or so people liked to believe.
And tonight, belief would be enough.
Tonight, the music belonged to her.
Eun Byol danced across the empty stadium's stage, her boots hitting the floor in sharp, precise rhythm. Her black bodysuit caught the light, each movement cutting through the shadows in perfect sync with the beat. Backup dancers followed as if tethered by the same invisible thread. Her breathing came heavy, her skin slick with sweat, but her gaze stayed locked on the imagined roar of a crowd filling the stands.
It was their final rehearsal.
Security guards stood at every exit, their breath misting in the cool air. Overhead, two small inspection drones drifted soundlessly, lenses scanning for anything that didn't belong—blades, bombs, monsters. Some habits never faded after the Great Rift.
The world beyond the walls wasn't safe. But here, for a night, people could pretend it was.
The song ended. The silence rang. Her team clapped; a few called her name. Stagehands flashed her a thumbs up from the shadows.
Then came the voice that always found her, even in silence.
"Perfect."
Manager So Jin emerged from the wings, jacket unzipped, towel looped around his neck. His half-smile looked practiced, the kind that never reached the eyes.
"We're all set. Tomorrow's show will break every record."
He passed her a chilled water bottle. Their fingers touched briefly. She smiled, polite and unreadable.
"Manager So…" she began, keeping her tone even. "Can we talk alone for a moment?"
He looked at her, then at the crew.
"Five minutes," he said, nodding.
They walked past the lights, past the noise, into the shadowed back lot where the air felt heavier.
The clouds were closer now.
She took a sip of water.
"Will my father be here tomorrow?"
A pause.
"No," So Jin said softly. "I'm sorry."
She stood still. Her grip on the bottle tightened, the plastic warping under her hand.
"He's still in the West?"
"He's doing important work," So Jin replied. "With the government. Keeping things safe. You should be proud."
"You said he might come this time."
"I know."
"You always say that."
He gave her the smile again.
"Don't let it get to you. Tomorrow, millions will be watching. They need to see hope. They need to see you."
His hand lingered on her shoulder just a little too long. She stepped back and bowed.
"I'd like to be alone."
"Don't take too long."
Her boots echoed as she walked the empty hall beneath the stage. The silence pressed in.
In the small backstage bathroom, she locked the door. Stared into the mirror.
The girl staring back didn't blink.
She blinked first.
And then, the world tilted.
Her fingers clutched the sink. Breath caught in her throat. The tile floor softened underfoot. The air thinned. The lights stuttered.
Something was wrong—deeply wrong.
Her chest felt distant, her reflection began to waver, as if the glass were water. A sound—low, rolling thunder from somewhere far beyond the city—passed through her bones.
She fell before she could scream.
Everything went black.
Outside, the storm grew teeth.
Rain came first in pinpricks, then in sheets. Neon signs rippled in the puddles.
"THE GREAT CONCERT: EUN BYOL, LIVE IN THE HEART OF SEOUL!"
But in the gaps between the lights, another name lived.
A shadow beneath the sun.
T.I.A.Z.
The Hero of Order.
The Boy Who Held the West.
Tears.
His face filled the side of a building—calm, unyielding, his posture rigid in the dark uniform of the Aegis Shield. A faint halo of digital clearance flickered at the corners of his eyes.
"A brighter world is built with sacrifice, not silence."
The words weren't a performance.
They were an order.
Backstage, the silence cracked.
Water dripped from a broken pipe, each drop landing in rhythm with the rain outside.
Ha Joon sat in the dim corridor outside the women's showers. Like before. Waiting.
Something fell inside—a dull crash.
He stood. Knocked.
No answer.
He waited a moment more, but unease had already taken root.
He pushed the door open.
Clang.
The rusted pipe came down hard across his skull.
Blood. Pain. Darkness.
And the end.