Seoul Central Station. 02:14 A.M.
The last express from Busan hissed gently into the platform, steam curling around steel and glass before powering down.
A half dozen passengers disembarked—some half asleep, some with earbuds in, all minding their own business and reaping the benefits of non-rush hour travel.
Kyosuke Sagara moved with them, but not among them.
He wore a nondescript black hoodie that was almost always up. No markings, no bright colors. To them he was just another insomniac whose face would disappear into memory.
He moved with practiced anonymity—not slow, not fast, just normal. Years on the run taught him that anything else got noticed, and noticed fast.
The station seemed like a cathedral of technology—LED panels flashing numerous advertisements reflecting on glass panels, unoccupied booths glowing a faint blue, service drones humming gently.
One of them hovered above him for a few seconds.
He waited.
No ping. It drifted past him.
He continued walking.
He reached the outer gates. He looked up. No guards—just a biometric scanner. The machine registered his false identity, beeped, and he stepped outside.
The outside air hit him and he breathed it in—crisp, cold, strangely refreshing.
It was thinner, dry cold. Busan's thick humidity helped him mask the signatures—breath, heat, residuals. Here in Seoul, he felt exposed.
He stood at the curb for a moment and let a delivery bike pass him by. He followed it with his gaze. The streets both ways were empty, save for the light of the twenty-four-hour convenience stores, dimly-lit coffee chains. The wind funneled down both streets, tugging at his coat. Surveillance totems stood in silence—glass-eyed watchers humming faintly in the cold.
And in that wind, he felt her.
It wasn't scent. Nor sound.
Weight.
A slight pressure on the back of his tongue. A resonance pulsing through the concrete.
The Constant stirred inside him—a presence he has carried for years. Not spiking, not flaring.
Just humming.
She was here. Of course she would be here.
Somewhere in this vast city, Lisa Tharinchai was probably awake. Or dreaming. Or both.
He closed his eyes.
The hum grew louder. A subtle vibration in his ribs.
He breathed in. Forced himself to stabilize. Exhaled through slowly, teeth clenched.
The hum folded. Grew quiet. Never completely gone—just there. Waiting. Watching.
He knew it was risky to come back here. But after years on the run, the Constant had been slipping out of his control. Fragile. Unpredictable.
He needed help. But of course, he was also here. Same place as where she was.
Crossing the street, he slipped into motion again. His path was not random—he'd calculated the blind spots. Knew where the footage recycled.
He passed a billboard near the Namdaemun line.
There she is again. Seems like she is everywhere these days.
Global superstar LISA kicks off her solo Asian Tour! See the face of AUROR@ live in Seoul!
A silver dress. Suspended, mid-turn.
Radiant, as always.
Lisa.
He knew that name. Knew the girl behind it, long before she went supernova.
Back when her laugh was real and his world hadn't cracked apart.
He'd give anything to go back. But time is cruel. And time doesn't bargain.
He looked away before the Constant reacted.
He kept walking.