The bridge met him with the same wind, the same cold, and the same light as before. The air smelled of moisture and iron; the water beneath the spans rolled heavily, reflecting the city's neon as if trying to hold onto its glow before it finally drowned in the river. Ryeon stood, leaning on the railing, and looked down — to where the waves softly broke the light into fragments. The fog moved slowly, swirling, touching his face, leaving cool droplets on his skin.
He didn't know why he had returned here. Maybe he wanted to check if any trace remained in this place — a smell, a sound, a memory. But the bridge was empty. Even the echo of footsteps was absent.
The headset came alive with a quiet hiss. Min Ki's voice cut through the sound of the wind, but it was more reserved than usual.
— I see your signal. Where are you?
— On the bridge. — Ryeon answered calmly.
— The place where it all began? — A short pause. — You know you don't usually return to old locations.
— I know.
— Then why?
He was silent for a few seconds, watching the neon shimmer in the water. There was no answer — only his breathing mixed with the wind.
— I don't know, — he finally said. — I just came. Maybe because I couldn't not come.
Min Ki chuckled, but there was no amusement in the sound.
— You've really become strange, Ryeon. Before, you acted without thinking. Now — you stand on a bridge, look at the water, and stay silent.
— I suppose that's true, — Ryeon said, quietly, almost with weariness. — It's just... too many coincidences lately.
— Coincidences?
— He appeared again. That journalist.
A pause. The wind picked up, and for a few seconds, there was only noise on the line.
— You mean Jisung? — Min Ki pronounced the name without emotion, but Ryeon felt that interest was hidden beneath the tone.
— Yes. I don't understand who he is. And why I keep running into him. The city is huge, yet he's always nearby. It's as if he knows where I'm going before I do.
— Maybe he's just lucky, — Min Ki said quietly. — Or perhaps he watches you better than you watch him.
— Possibly.
Ryeon gripped the railing tighter, feeling the cold of the metal under his fingers.
— Yesterday, I thought everything was accidental. But the more I remember — the more it seems he's not a coincidence. I can't figure out why he was there again. And why, when I see him, I get the feeling like... everything has happened before.
Min Ki sighed, not irritated, but weary.
— You've been alone too long, that's why you start looking for meanings. You don't need to understand — you need to complete the mission.
— Maybe, — he answered calmly. — But sometimes what we call a coincidence is just part of a route we didn't choose.
— You're philosophizing. That's unlike you.
— Just thinking out loud.
— Then think quieter, — Min Ki tried to change the subject, but his voice still remained soft. — I don't like it when you talk like that.
— Why?
— Because it sounds like you're about to do something reckless.
Ryeon quietly smirked.
— No. Today, I'm just standing.
— You'd be better off just working, — Min Ki snapped.
A few seconds of silence. Then he spoke again, in a different tone — professional, even, one that left no room for feelings:
— I have a new assignment. Simple. No risk. You need to check a facility — an old administrative building in the industrial zone. Take pictures of the facade, the back entrance, and the roof. Send them to me. I'll forward them to the client.
— When?
— Now. Before the fog lifts. Take pictures from different angles. No GPS, no signature.
— Understood.
— And one more thing, — Min Ki added after a short pause, — be careful. It's too quiet tonight. The city isn't quiet just for no reason.
Ryeon looked at the water — the wind had changed direction again, and the reflection of the streetlights rippled like a breath.
— I understand, — he said.
— And, Ryeon... — Min Ki's voice became quieter, almost inaudible. — If he shows up again — don't you dare interfere.
— I won't interfere.
— Promise me?
— No.
He cut the connection without waiting for an answer and simply stood for a while, feeling the wind pull at the hem of his jacket, the steel of the bridge trembling beneath his soles, the city whispering somewhere below — in the sound of the water, the honking of cars, in its own breathing.
He took out his camera, checked the focus, and took a couple of test shots — the bridge, the water, the lights, a trail of fog. The lens caught a reflection, and for a moment, it seemed to him that a familiar figure, in a grey coat, with a camera on their chest, flickered somewhere among the lights. He blinked — no one. Only fog.
He put the camera away and headed down toward the industrial zone where the next assignment awaited. There, amidst the wet streets and old buildings, the city changed its breathing once more — from transparent, it became dense, smelling of rain, coffee, and paper.