Deadline
Cha Jong-u had barely stepped into the lobby of the National Assembly before deciding that at least half of the questions the reporters gathered here today would not be worth listening to. By nature, the journalists who swarmed political circles were a mainstream lot who moved in service of their own interests more than the greater truth.
Even when the country was turned upside down and citizens were thrown into chaos, their fingers never stopped. Always on edge lest someone else break a story before them, and with little regard for whether the facts checked out — that was a trait they all shared without exception.
In that, Cha Jong-u felt a strange kind of contempt that verged on recognizing something of himself. As a politician who drew attention wherever he went, the image projected to the public had always been paramount — and such things were, as a rule, the product of meticulous calculation.
Personal gain over consideration for others. Not the relentless drive for reform, but the desire to claim ground by stepping over people one rung at a time — in the world he occupied, those were the values that mattered most.
And a national zombie outbreak had done nothing to change that.
The temporary briefing zone — white marble floors, a red carpet running down the center — had reporters gathered in clusters, each seated with a camera in hand. It was a space that usually buzzed with noisy press conferences, but today the atmosphere was distinctly grave.
It could hardly be otherwise. The zombie outbreak that had first occurred days ago was a disaster no one among the Korean public had anticipated.
Zombies, of all things.
Cha Jong-u let out a soundless laugh at a word that belonged in movies and dramas. The majority of people had coined the term “zombie” upon seeing individuals who moved like corpses, lunged at people, and displayed unbridled aggression — but the reality of what was causing it was somewhat different from what they feared.
To be more precise — it was a fentanyl drug crisis. The phenomenon now being called the “zombie outbreak” had first surfaced two days prior, in a post uploaded by an anonymous account on a social media platform.
The post contained nothing in the way of explanation — just the word “zombie” — alongside a roughly thirty-second video. In it, a person was shown lunging at others exactly as a zombie would, and the clip spread at an explosive pace within moments.
At first, no one believed the video was real. Most assumed it was footage from some film set, while others dismissed it from the start as AI-generated content.
But it didn’t take long for people to begin accepting as reality what had previously seemed fit only for the movies. Not long after the video began circulating, the number of people who had witnessed the horror with their own eyes grew exponentially.
Rapidly spreading infection and indiscriminate aggression. Eyes and behavior that could not, by any stretch, be called human — it was more than enough to plunge the entire nation into terror.
And right now.
The reporters sitting in this room since early morning were those who had turned up to hear the government’s official position.
Of course, as was always the way in this world, none of them were here out of genuine concern or a drive to uncover truth. Connections and back-channels had been exchanged long before any of this became a story.
But there was no need to make a show of it. As long as both they and Cha Jong-u walked away from this with something gained — that was enough.
“The representative is entering.”
The sharp burst of camera shutters didn’t so much as faze Cha Jong-u as he took his place on the temporarily constructed podium. In the solemn atmosphere, what caught the eyes of those present first was none other than Representative Cha Jong-u’s attire.
He was a man who had always insisted on a suit for any official appearance — so seeing him in a muted zip-up jacket, the kind worn only in times of national emergency, served as a stark reminder of how serious the current situation truly was. And the reporters, who had already pieced together the picture through quiet back-channels, began firing questions before Cha Jong-u had even opened his mouth.
“The fact that Representative Cha Jong-u is here rather than the Minister of the Interior — does that constitute an admission that the government’s initial response was inadequate?”
“How does the current government view the situation? The public is deeply anxious!”
“There are reports that Minister of the Interior Kim Cha-hyeon is stepping down — is that true?”
The quiet interior of the National Assembly erupted into noise in an instant. Mixed in among the questions were some designed to lay the groundwork for political maneuvering — but at this moment, what commanded the most attention was the truth of the incident itself.
As flashes continued to burst ceaselessly, a few of those standing on the podium squeezed their eyes shut or turned their heads — but Cha Jong-u, who stood at the very front, didn’t blink once. He let the barrage of questions wash over him as he organized his briefing materials, and then, expression unwavering, he parted his lips.
“Before I begin the briefing, I would like to express, on behalf of the National Assembly and the government, our regret at the unnecessary anxiety this sudden situation has caused the public. We deeply acknowledge the failure of the Ministry of the Interior and Safety, which should have moved swiftly from the outset, and as of today Minister Kim Cha-hyeon will be stepping down from her position. In her place, I have come here today to deliver this emergency briefing.”
The moment Cha Jong-u spoke, the clamor of reporters fell silent almost instantly. The gap was filled only by the rapid tapping of keyboards transcribing his words and the occasional burst of a camera flash. In an emergency briefing broadcast live, the government’s position took precedence above all else — which meant every person in the room was watching everyone else that much more carefully.
Above all, what had most quickly cooled the overheated atmosphere was the news of Minister Kim Cha-hyeon’s resignation — she who should have been standing at this podium instead. In disaster situations such as this, resignations from major figures tended to drag on interminably, so the government’s swift decision appeared to have caught the majority by surprise.
Cha Jong-u was, of course, well aware of that. Rather than showing any sign of being caught off guard, he read the room steadily and continued, his face betraying no trace of a smile.
“The government has already taken all necessary administrative measures regarding the situation that is of greatest concern and worry to the public, and access control at the sites and information management are both being conducted with public safety as the top priority. Bringing the current situation to a close as swiftly as possible is the government’s ultimate objective.”
Having delivered his prepared remarks with composure, Cha Jong-u finally raised his eyes to look at the reporters. It was, by any measure, a response shaped by convention and formula — but for the reporters gathered here, such minor details were beside the point. The central reason for their presence was to know what decisions the government was making and what actions it was taking in response to the crisis.
In that sense, the card Cha Jong-u had thrown down first was the most appetizing bait for the hyenas closing in. It had been fashioned at someone else’s cost — but Cha Jong-u was not a man who concerned himself with such trivialities. One reporter was first to lunge.
“Information is coming in suggesting that the so-called ‘zombie outbreak’ has been caused by illegally modified fentanyl. Is that accurate?”
The reporters around them grew visibly busy, as though preparing their next questions in sequence. Cha Jong-u directed his gaze toward the reporter in the front row and replied.
“The details will require further investigation, but the most probable cause is, yes, accurate. However, it is our position that attaching extreme labels based on unverified information only serves to compound social confusion — and that should be avoided as much as possible. This matter will also be addressed in a follow-up briefing as the investigation progresses.”
Unlike the clean precision of Cha Jong-u’s reply, the reporters seemed to grow only more agitated, every hand in the room shooting up at once. Taking turns was the protocol at a briefing — but the reporters, visibly worked up, were already calling out questions before being acknowledged.
“Reports keep coming in — shouldn’t the national disaster alert level be raised?”
“My understanding is that what started at a high school in Seoul has been spreading rapidly across the country. Can we truly say the public is safe?”
The disorder in the room was itself a reflection of just how extraordinary the current situation was.
But even in the face of all that, Cha Jong-u remained composed. In moments like these, showing even the slightest crack would mean everything he had built being savagely torn apart.
Fully aware of that, he stepped forward to cut off the chief of staff who was moving to regain control of the room, and pressed on with his response.
“As of now, we cannot say with confidence that it is fully safe — but the government is doing everything in its power to prevent the situation from spreading nationwide. Rescue operations for isolated areas and facilities currently under lockdown will be expedited. Above all, given the significant gravity of this matter, I would also like to inform you that the government is currently reviewing measures to restrict departures to and arrivals from other countries.”
And that was precisely why Cha Jong-u had been the one sent to represent the Ministry of the Interior and Safety at this podium. He was known, both inside and outside the National Assembly, for his unshakeable composure — and given the severity of the matter, it had been determined that sending him posed the least political risk to the government.
Beyond that, Cha Jong-u himself had every confidence in his ability to navigate the crisis and come out on the other side.
“There are rumors that the government was already aware of the leak of the illegally modified fentanyl that caused this outbreak — and stayed silent.”
“…….”
“Is that rumor true?”
Until that question landed.
