6:50 a.m.
The logistics hub in the northern sector of Kiren hummed like a living thing.
The air smelled of cold metal, ozone, and grease.
A young man in a black cap and worn-out jacket carried heavy crates without pause — his movements precise, mechanical, the kind of rhythm that comes only from someone who has long accepted pain as part of life.
The foreman, a stooped man with a cigarette clamped between his teeth, barked:
— Hey, student! That's the last one!
— Got it! — the young man replied curtly.
The light from the floodlamps fell across his face — sharp lines, chestnut hair slipping from under his cap. He looked too fragile for such work, yet somehow lasted longer than anyone else.
Two weeks straight — no complaints, no delays. Even the veterans watched him from the corners of their eyes, whispering among themselves:
— That guy… is he even human?
— Doesn't even sweat.
— Give it time. His joints'll give out soon enough.
When the final crate was loaded, the man stripped off his gloves and headed toward the exit.
The foreman flicked his cigarette into the trash, rasping:
— You really went all in again today.
— So did you, sir, — the boy said with a faint smile.
— Hah… kid, you don't belong in a warehouse. With that face, you should be on a runway, not hauling boxes.
The boy rubbed his neck awkwardly.
— Tried that once. Got scammed. Money's tight. At least here they pay daily.
— Damn crooks… may they burn in neon, — the man muttered. — See you tomorrow, kid.
The boy nodded and stepped outside. The air of Kiren was salty, tinged with iron.
A thin bundle of bills lay in his palm.
If I'd tried modeling, Kang Jihan would've found me within the hour.
Ryu Seonyeong smiled faintly.
His story about "debts" was as fake as the name he was using now.
Two weeks had passed since he'd secretly slipped from the southern port of Neira into Kiren and taken this night-shift job.
In that time, no one had suspected who he really was.
Apparently, Syncron's people — and Kang Jihan — were still combing Ark City, convinced he was hiding there.
He walked through a narrow alley where flickering neon met rusted gates and thought:
If for them, the hunt is a profession, then for me, running is life itself.
He knew there was an abyss between the two.
Three months ago, he'd leapt from the cruise deck off Merai Port, vanishing into icy waves.
Hours later, he was standing on the deck of a Taeyon Logistics cargo vessel owned by Han Dowon.
Sneaking back into the Lirean Federation had been harder than escaping it — but hypnosis made the impossible routine.
Since then, Seonyeong moved only at night — dockhand, passerby, beggar at a station.
No cameras. No traces.
He became the hum of wind — something you could sense, but never capture.
When the first rays of dawn cut across the horizon, he pulled his cap lower and slipped into a dim motel near the industrial district.
The smell of mildew and plastic no longer bothered him.
In his room, he drew the curtains tight and pulled off his sweatshirt.
From under his collar hung an old, heavy phone — gleaming faintly like a piece of jewelry.
He turned it over in his hands and sighed.
— Too dangerous to throw away, too heavy to keep.
It was a limited-edition model — built by Syncron, gifted by Matteo in Virein.
Every crystal embedded in its casing was a tracker; every engraved line — a signal.
If he removed even one, the device would activate.
He lay on the creaking bed, staring at the ceiling.
Han Dowon's probably losing sleep wondering where I went. Better this way. Let him live in peace.
Maybe in a few years Syncron would tire of searching.
Maybe he'd finally start over — somewhere far from the sea, far from memory.
He closed his eyes.
***
The phone rang.
He woke to find evening shadows on the walls.
A message blinked on the screen — from an unknown number:
"Hulk's been showing up less lately. Only his subordinates are still guarding the house and the office."
Seonyeong shot upright.
"Hulk." That was what his people used to call Kang Jihan.
He knows I'm not in Ark City?
The thought was both absurd and terrifying.
He knew Jihan would eventually stop relying on the bar districts — but not this soon.
Is he coming north already?
He gathered his thoughts, went downstairs, and spoke to the motel owner:
— Ajumma, may I use your phone?
— Don't you have your own?
— It's blocked. Borrowed money from my grandmother — she's angry now.
The woman sighed.
— Grandmothers… all the same. Fine, tell me the number.
She dialed and pressed the receiver to her ear.
— Ah, yes… one moment… — her face suddenly changed.
— Young man, your grandmother — Kim Ranhee? They took her to the hospital. Stroke, they said.
— What?! — Seonyeong snatched the slip of paper. — When?!
— A week ago. She's in intensive care. Central Hospital, Kiren.
The blood drained from his face.
He thanked her and ran outside.
The sun was already setting.
He knew he couldn't step into direct light — he threw on his hood, covered his face, and raised his hand to hail a taxi.
— Central Hospital, now!
The driver grumbled:
— You'll get yourself killed, kid, jumping into the road like that.
— I'll pay double. My grandmother's in critical condition.
The car sped off.
Seonyeong watched the city's lights smear across the glass — long, glowing lines bleeding into each other.
"If you don't have a wife, marry me."
The memory rose suddenly — Kim Ranhee, seventeen, shy, her braid shining in the sun.
So much time had passed. Now she was a frail woman under an oxygen mask.
When he reached the hospital, the corridors were drenched in sterile white light.
He found the right room — the sign read Kim Ranhee.
Through the glass, he saw a small figure under a white blanket, surrounded by tubes and monitors that blinked like distant stars.
He froze, barely breathing.
— Excuse me… — he stopped a nurse. — Is she conscious?
— No. Cerebral hemorrhage. She was brought in early last week. Stable now, but the prognosis is cautious.
He closed his eyes, fighting the tremor in his hands.
— Can I visit?
— Visiting hours start at seven. Thirty minutes only.
He nodded and sat in the corridor, lowering his head into his palms.
The world felt foreign again.
People always disappeared too suddenly.
He didn't want to remember.
But memories came anyway — soft, insistent, smelling of old paper and summer dust.
Maybe he should leave.
Ranhee's son lived in Virein; she wasn't alone.
Why should a vampire step back into a life where he didn't belong?
Yet his fingers were already dialing a number.
— Hello?
— Mr. Seonyeong?! — a woman's voice brightened instantly. — We were so worried! The children kept asking about you!
It was the head teacher from the orphanage.
— I just heard about Director Kim. Is she stable?
— Yes, the crisis passed. If she'd been brought in later, it would've been worse.
Thank goodness your friend was there.
— …My friend?
— Of course! The tall man with dark eyes — he used to volunteer with you, remember?
He found a car, paid for the hospitalization. Without him, things might've gone very differently.
Seonyeong went still.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
— …What did you say?
— Your friend. He said he hasn't seen you in a long time, but he's still waiting.
The line clicked dead.
The corridor lights dimmed, as if the air itself thickened.
Ryu Seonyeong lifted his head.
In the reflection of the glass door to the ward — his own face.
And somewhere, deep in that mirror, two green eyes seemed to smile back at him.