Min Ki hadn't slept in two days.
On the screen, where dozens of lines used to flicker, only one remained — empty, cut off, as if the network itself had exhaled and died.
He tried to restart the channels, sent test signals, cycled through keys and routes, but nothing worked. The name R-01 didn't respond.
The system registered only silence — and that silence felt alive, deliberate, as if someone had left it there on purpose, in place of an answer. Min Ki sat with his forehead resting on his palms.
The glow of the monitor broke his face into patches of light — fatigue, anger, and something close to fear. He spoke to the screen as if it could hear him.
— Damn it, Ryeon... what did you do.
He knew: when someone vanished like this, it wasn't a glitch. It was a decision.
Numbers trembled on the panel. Data packets ran in circles. And then — a brief impulse. A single one. Faint, like a heartbeat echo on a dead monitor.
Min Ki exhaled; his fingers hovered above the keyboard. He caught the frequency, clung to a fragment — but the signal wasn't systemic. It was alive, raw, unformatted, like something breathing from another layer. He didn't know if it was an error or a pulse. But for the first time in a long while, he felt that the connection still existed. Not by protocol — but by something human.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. And for the first time in years, he felt fear — not for the system, but for the person behind it.
***
Autumn covered the city in a warm haze. The air smelled of wet paper, coffee, and fresh paint — as if the world was trying to erase its old traces but couldn't wash away the scent of the past. The streets glistened after the rain, neon signs rippling softly in the puddles.
People hurried by, holding umbrellas, eyes lowered, faces hidden.
Ryeon walked without one. Raindrops clung to his hair, rolled down his collar, leaving thin warm trails. He moved quickly, but there was no direction in his stride — only motion, the kind that belongs to someone searching for a place to disappear.
He felt a gaze. Not sharp or invasive — quiet, cautious, yet so dense that the air between his shoulder blades grew warm.
He stopped for a moment by the window of a bookstore. The glass was fogged; inside, yellow light glowed, the scent of paper and coffee lingered. In the reflection — his own silhouette. And behind him — a faint shadow.
He didn't turn around. Just stood there, pretending to look at the covers, though he saw only the subtle movement in the glass.
The shadow froze.
Then took a step.
He knew that rhythm. Ji-son.
The sound of footsteps was uneven, as if the person walking didn't know why they were doing it. Ryeon stayed still, pretending to read the titles. Outside, rain tapped the glass; from a café around the corner came the clink of cups — the world humming softly, like a score leading to something inevitable. Not a meeting. Not a confrontation. Just a gaze that had come too close.
He felt it on his skin — that invisible touch of warmth, hesitant, uncertain. Something stirred in his chest — not irritation, not fear, but recognition. The kind that comes when someone looks at you longer than a second and doesn't look away.
Ryeon exhaled slowly, not changing his pose. And then, faintly — just a hint of a smile. A signal of acknowledgment: I see you too.
No words followed. He stepped aside, melted into the flow of people. The shadow behind him moved as well — uncertain, yet with the kind of persistence that leaves no real choice.
Ji-son kept his distance. He didn't know why he followed. Not for a story. Not for truth. He just wanted to be sure the other still existed — beyond the network, beyond the noise.
And every one of his steps echoed through Ryeon like a breath. The space between them wasn't pursuit. It was contact — sliding, unseen, but close enough to make the silence come alive again.
***
The wind drove rain across the shopfronts, making the lights waver like ink bleeding on wet paper. Ryeon crossed the street and stopped by a café — the air thick with coffee and burnt sugar, warmth glowing behind the glass. He stepped inside.
The bell over the door rang softly — a small sound, enough to make the world slow down. The silence that had followed him from the street dissolved in the aroma of roasted beans. He chose a seat by the window, took off his wet jacket, and ran his hand through his hair.
Outside, through the glass, stood a man holding a camera.
No umbrella. Water slid down the lens, yet it was still aimed not at the street — but inward, toward where Ryeon sat.
Ji-son didn't lift it to his eye. He just held it. Between them — glass, rain, reflection. And still, Ryeon could feel the gaze.
Every second under that look seemed to trace itself across his skin — a memory of touch without contact. He pretended not to notice. Opened the menu, though he didn't plan to order. His breathing slowed. His pulse evened out. That was how he survived — by blending in, by becoming quiet.
The barista approached, asked something softly. Ryeon answered without looking up:
— Black. No sugar.
When she left, he allowed himself a single glance toward the window. Ji-son was still there. Watching not like a reporter, but like someone searching for proof that what he saw was real.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Rain drummed against the glass, each drop sounding like a step that neared them but never met.
Ryeon slipped a hand into his pocket, found his earpiece — cold, smooth metal, a fragment of another life. He turned it on.
A click. No signal. No sound.
But in the silence — breathing. Not Min Ki's. Not the system's. Humans. Slow. Steady.
He didn't know if he truly heard it or only remembered.
Outside, Ji-son took a step closer to the glass. Ryeon raised his eyes. And in that instant, their gazes met.
Everything else vanished — noise, rain, people, light. Only the clear pane between them remained, where silence turned into sound.
Ryeon didn't smile. He simply looked — calm, even, without promise. And Ji-son understood: this was an answer.
Not permission. Not forgiveness. Recognition.
Ryeon turned off the earpiece. The world filled again — spoons, murmurs, laughter, life. Yet none of it felt as real as that single moment of silence, where two people had breathed together through rain and glass.
He finished his coffee, left a coin on the saucer, and walked out. When the door closed, the bell rang again — echoing his breath.
Ji-son didn't follow. He just stood there, staring at the reflection in the glass, where the warmth of that gaze still lingered.
And he realized — to watch someone is also a way of touching them.