The night stood still, as if it, too, held its breath.
The city wasn't deeply asleep—just weary, having tucked its sounds away in its alleys. On the outskirts, where the rails had grown into the earth, a lone spotlight still burned above the old Kyeongseong station. The light was dim, reddish, and seemed to remember those who had long ceased to come here.
Ryeon walked along the platform slowly, surely, but with the caution natural to those accustomed to survival. Each step was measured, his breathing even, his gaze fixed forward — toward where the darkness looked denser than the air. He didn't know why he had come. Min Ki was silent; the network offered no signal. But his body itself led him here — to where the sense of danger mixed with something else, something nearly forgotten.
A step echoed from behind a column. Ryeon didn't flinch; he simply stopped. The steps were human — not a threat, not surveillance. And when the shadow separated from the wall, he recognized the man even before he saw his face.
— You came after all, — Jisung said softly.
Ryeon was silent. Only his gaze was cold, direct, like a target sight. Jisung stood without a camera, without protection. Just himself — hands hanging loosely by his sides, a face where weariness was strangely mixed with resolve.
— Why are you here? — Ryeon asked. His voice was low, calm, yet an order pierced through it.
— I wanted to talk, — Jisung replied. — That night, when everything happened... I couldn't just leave.
He took a step closer, but Ryeon stopped him abruptly with a look.
— That's close enough.
— I know you don't want to see me, — Jisung said quieter. — But I must explain why I did it.
— You published what should have stayed in the shadows, — Ryeon's voice grew harsher. — Why? To prove you're alive?
— No, — Jisung shook his head. — To make you come.
The pause was long. Ryeon squinted, as if trying to discern where the meaning was and where the naïveté.
— You wanted me to come? — he repeated coldly.
— Yes. I need help. — Jisung breathed the words out, as if afraid he wouldn't get them out in time. — Not money. Not protection. I'm not the type to ask for favors. But I can't operate alone anymore.
— Mistake, — Ryeon countered instantly. — I don't help people.
He turned, as if about to leave, but Jisung's voice held him back again:
— Wait. You know what is happening out there. You've seen more than anyone. I tried to figure it out — and now they are coming after me.
Ryeon stopped. The silence lasted a second, two. Only the wind shook the lamp, and its light slid across his face.
— You chose this yourself, — he finally said. — You went where you shouldn't have.
— Yes, but now there is no way out.
— There always is, — Ryeon cut in. — Just not the one you'll like.
Jisung stepped closer, one step.
— I'm not looking for rescue. I'm looking for the truth.
— The truth doesn't heal. It kills, — Ryeon said quietly. — And if you haven't realized that yet, you're living too slowly.
He stepped closer, not to intimidate, but to make it clear — it was over. His shadow blocked the red light, and for a moment his face became almost indiscernible.
— Listen, — Jisung said, almost a whisper. — I didn't write for a story. I just... wanted to see you again. Because only you can figure out what is starting now.
Ryeon smirked — quietly, without joy.
— Wrong address. I don't save people. I avoid them.
— Why?
— Because the living are too loud.
Jisung froze. He understood he couldn't push further. But he still didn't retreat.
— I won't leave just like that. If you don't want to help — tell me straight.
Ryeon looked at him, his eyes cold as a blade.
— Fine, — he said. — Listen carefully.
He took a step closer, just enough for the words to fall directly into Jisung's ear.
— If you don't stop, if you keep digging — I will personally make sure you regret ever breathing.
It was said without anger. Just a fact. And that was precisely why it sounded scarier than any shout.
Jisung didn't answer. He just nodded, slowly, as if he accepted the rules but did not abandon his intention.
Ryeon stood for another second, then turned and walked toward the exit.
When he vanished under the archway, Jisung remained alone. The wind stirred the dust, the rails quietly chimed, and the lamp overhead flickered, as if trying to say something.
Min Ki, watching through the screen, noted the intersection of the routes — two points that met at the old station. He didn't call out. He only exhaled:
— Contact.
And the city plunged back into silence — the kind that holds the trace of breath, and the memory of those who didn't want to, but met anyway.