The next twelve days became a blur of seconds that refused to stay in line.At Luma Group, every clock ran differently. Some jumped ahead, others looped back.The IT team called it a system error. The executives called it a synchronization drift.Only Yoon Ha-rin and Kang Jae-hyun knew the truth.
The world was breathing in twelves.
Ha-rin sat at her desk, sketchbook half-hidden beneath spreadsheets. Na-eun leaned against the partition, sipping bubble tea like the universe wasn't rearranging itself.
"So," Na-eun said, "rumor mill says Director Kang has been glaring at time again. Should I book him therapy or a clockmaker?"
Ha-rin smiled faintly. "Maybe both."
Na-eun squinted. "You two have that look."
"What look?"
"The we've-been-through-a-metaphysical-storm-and-accidentally-fell-in-love look. It's trending this quarter."
Ha-rin bit her lip to stop the laugh. "You really should be in marketing."
"I tried," Na-eun said. "HR said I cause morale spikes."
They both laughed, but when Na-eun walked away, the laughter faded.Ha-rin's gaze drifted to the clock on her wall.12:12.
Again.
She whispered under her breath, "I get it. We're late for destiny."
Later that evening, she found Jae-hyun on the rooftop terrace, staring at the sky as if waiting for it to blink.He didn't turn when she approached.
"You see it too, don't you?" she said softly.
He nodded. "The stars?"
She shook her head. "No. The rhythm."
He looked up again. High above Seoul, planes moved like fireflies. But in between them, faint golden ripples shimmered — concentric waves barely visible, pulsing outward from somewhere near the horizon.
"Echo Three," he murmured.
She stood beside him. The air was cooler up here, fragrant with wet concrete and night jasmine.
"How many more times do you think we'll see twelve?" she asked.
"As many as it takes," he said. "Until we finally understand what it wants from us."
They stood there in silence for a while, shoulders almost touching, not quite.The city stretched beneath them — restless, beautiful, alive.
Jae-hyun sighed. "Funny. I used to think success was measured in quarters and profit graphs. Now I count time in heartbeats."
She smiled, looking at him. "So how many heartbeats today?"
"Twelve," he said, smiling back. "Always twelve."
She laughed softly. "You're turning it into poetry."
"Blame you," he said. "You turned my spreadsheets into prophecies."
Wind swept her hair into his face; she tucked it behind her ear and looked away, embarrassed.But he caught the gesture — that small, human detail that somehow felt more intimate than a thousand words.
"Ha-rin," he said quietly.
She turned. "Hm?"
"If this echo resets the world again… and we forget each other… what's the first thing you'd want me to remember?"
Her eyes softened. "That you always overthink."
He smiled. "That's cruel."
"It's true."
"Then what's the second thing?"
She hesitated. "That I loved the way you say my name. Like it's a secret the world shouldn't hear."
He blinked — just once — and the smile that followed wasn't polished or practiced; it was real, raw, and a little broken.
"Then I'll spend the next twelve lives saying it until it sticks."
A sudden gust of wind lifted a paper from her folder, sending it tumbling across the terrace.Both lunged to catch it — their hands met mid-air, fingers locking around the page.
The world paused.
No sound, no motion. Only heartbeat. Twelve beats.
One. Two.The city lights froze mid-glow.
Three. Four.The wind turned liquid, hovering in place.
Five. Six.Their eyes met — wide, stunned, and yet calm.
Seven. Eight.He whispered, "Do you hear it?"
Nine. Ten.She nodded. "It's not the clocks this time."
Eleven.The sound grew louder — a steady, human rhythm.
Twelve.The paper between their hands glowed faintly, words appearing on it in silver ink.
"Countdown initiated — Heartbeat Twelve."
And then time resumed.
They stared at each other, breathless.
Ha-rin looked down at the paper; it was blank again.But her fingertips tingled where they'd touched.
"Was that…" she began.
He finished for her. "The start."
She swallowed hard. "Of what?"
"Whatever comes after the end."
They sat on the bench near the edge of the rooftop. Below them, Seoul glimmered like spilled constellations.
"You know," she said softly, "I used to think the world was too big to ever feel small enough to hold. But right now…"
He looked at her. "Right now?"
"It feels like it could fit in my hands."
He smiled. "Then hold on to it. We might need it later."
She chuckled. "Practical as always."
"Someone has to keep us from turning destiny into a sketchbook," he said, eyes twinkling.
"I already did," she replied.
They both laughed — that easy, stolen laughter that made everything else disappear.
As midnight neared, the hum of the city deepened. Distant thunder grumbled again, echoing through the clouds.
Jae-hyun looked up. "Every time it rains, something changes."
She tilted her head. "Then maybe rain isn't weather anymore. Maybe it's memory."
He turned toward her slowly. "What if memory is what's keeping the loop alive?"
Ha-rin hesitated. "You mean— if we forget, it ends?"
He nodded. "And if we remember… it begins again."
"Then we're trapped."
He shook his head. "No. We're chosen."
She stood, walking to the railing, the city wind brushing past her hair. "Chosen or cursed — it feels the same sometimes."
He joined her, close enough that their arms touched. "Maybe the difference is who you face it with."
Her heart tightened. "And who are you facing it with, Director Kang?"
He smiled, eyes glinting. "You, Miss Yoon. In every version of time that will have us."
The words weren't dramatic — just simple, grounded, perfect.
She looked at him for a long moment, rain beginning to fall again in gentle lines.He didn't move, didn't blink, as if memorizing the way she looked under the storm.
And then she whispered, "Twelve heartbeats. That's all time needs to remind us we're alive."
He reached out, taking her hand. "Then let's make them count."
The rain thickened, but they stayed.
Twelve raindrops hit the railing.Twelve streetlights flickered below.Twelve breaths between them — steady, synchronized.
Somewhere beyond the skyline, the hidden pulse of Echo Three grew louder, like a second city awakening beneath the real one.
Ha-rin leaned her head on his shoulder. "When this is over, promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't go back to the version of you who was afraid to feel."
He turned his head, resting it lightly against hers. "Deal. But you promise me something too."
"What?"
"If time offers us another twelve minutes, you don't waste them drawing."
She smiled, eyes closed. "What should I do instead?"
He whispered, "Live them with me."
The city clock struck 12:12.Lightning laced across the horizon, illuminating the rooftops like a film reel caught in rewind.
Every digital screen across the district blinked once, showing a single message before fading:
ECHO 3: ACTIVE.
The rain stilled mid-fall for half a breath.
And just before the night swallowed the sound again, Ha-rin swore she heard it —a heartbeat, deep and slow, echoing from somewhere within the earth.
Twelve beats.
Then silence.