Chapter 2
“I can’t say for certain. I go where headquarters orders me.”
At the same time, the light on Dohyuk’s mechanical choker—which had been blinking—changed to a stable green. Ever the professional, Soyeon carefully checked the choker’s light even after the guiding session had ended, then let out a gentle breath between her lips and smiled. She must have been satisfied with Dohyuk’s current state.
The mechanical choker—completely black except for the indicator light, without any decoration—was military equipment that all government-affiliated Espers and high-ranking A-class or above Espers were required to wear, a product of the Esper Special Management Policy.
The choker displayed green, yellow, and red signals according to danger levels, and as seen moments ago, it would blink when the risk level was about to advance to the next stage.
Made by reprocessing dungeon byproducts, it had tremendous durability and would explode if an Esper attempted to destroy it by force—literally a shackle for managing Espers.
Humans with power but lacking physical strength always seemed to devise ways like this to control others’ abilities.
The primary function of the choker-shaped control device was Esper restraint. The moment the light turned red, an Esper tranquilizer needle installed in the choker would automatically deploy.
It would be lucky if things stopped at the tranquilizer. Occasionally, Espers whose rampages were particularly severe would face the next level of response. If the red light started blinking, they’d be classified as uncontrollable, monster-level threats, and orders would be issued for capture through unethical means—or in severe cases, elimination. Initially, human rights organizations had fiercely opposed this, but that was all ancient history now. The “human” in human rights referred to ordinary people who made up the majority. Ability users were gradually being separated from the word “human” for the sake of public safety.
This prison without bars had become so familiar it now felt natural. In fact, Dohyuk had only awakened as an Esper after the Esper Special Management Policy was announced, so he’d never been separated from this choker since his life as an ability user began. Unless dungeon byproduct processing technology advanced enough to mass-produce microchips and develop alternatives, he’d have to wear this ambiguous collar until the day he died. Dohyuk merely thought about this with detachment.
“Are you feeling alright?”
At Soyeon’s question, Dohyuk—satisfied with his much-improved condition—ran his hand over the arm where hers had been touching.
“Yes, much better.”
His leather-gloved hand moved over his skin. It was a small habit after receiving guiding. Thanks to the session, his mind—which became agitated and overstimulated whenever he used his abilities—was slowly settling down. The headache that had constantly plagued him was gone, and his vision, which had been somewhat hazy as if he were floating, was now refreshingly clear.
Dohyuk wanted to savor this moment for as long as possible, so he slowly inhaled and exhaled.
“Government-affiliated Espers seem so busy.”
He smiled, pulling back his lips at her additional comment as she quietly observed him. Was it because of how his lower face opened up spaciously whenever he smiled? With just a slight upturn of his lips, his cool impression—created by his monolids and sharp eyes—softened like spring sunshine melting snow. It was remarkable how someone who had such an intimidating presence when silent could transform so completely with a single expression.
Dohyuk also knew his smiling face was far more approachable than his expressionless one, so he made a conscious effort to keep a smile on his face.
“Government-affiliated Esper. These days everyone uses the shortened version.”
“Shortened?”
“Slave.”
Soyeon let out a small laugh at his deadpan response. Her gently curved eyes twisted playfully as she winked at Dohyuk.
“So does that mean you need government permission even to date, Dohyuk-ssi?”
Perhaps due to the sudden shift to informal address, her personal remark sounded quite natural. Dohyuk, still smiling, shrugged his shoulders. His broad shoulders straightened back into their usual posture.
About three weeks ago, wasn’t it? This was a gentle nudge about how he hadn’t contacted her once despite receiving her business card.
Their eyes met. Her eyes curved smoothly once more. A smile designed to put the other person at ease. This was why perceptive people were dangerous. Dohyuk grew weaker the more gently and kindly someone approached him.
Maybe it was because Soyeon was a Guide. According to his Esper colleagues, you tended to yield to a Guide with a high matching rate—it could be that sort of feeling. After all, Soyeon had handled most of Dohyuk’s guiding sessions, having recorded a relatively high 31% matching rate in the compatibility test conducted after his assignment to the Busan branch. Objectively, it wasn’t a particularly high matching rate, but the Guide who had matched best with Dohyuk at headquarters had only managed 33%, and Dohyuk was easily satisfied with that level.
“Yes, my master hasn’t released me yet.”
But Dohyuk drew a clear line with her, maintaining his usual good-natured smile. Her large eyes—which easily caught the meaning behind his kind voice—blinked with regret.
She accepted the rejection without being discouraged. Her cheerful demeanor was enough to capture anyone’s heart, but Dohyuk was genuinely swamped.
After six months in Busan, he’d received orders to return to Seoul.
Dohyuk vividly imagined his future starting tomorrow—having to conserve even his breath while dealing with the move and everything else. Being busy was familiar, but exhaustion was inevitable. He honestly didn’t understand what headquarters was thinking.
He quietly lamented as he shook hands with Soyeon in a neat farewell. Polite exchanges of “Thank you for everything until now” and “Not at all” flowed and ended smoothly.
Soyeon’s body heat couldn’t reach Dohyuk’s hand wrapped in the leather glove.
***
Although he’d thought his life would wither under rigid rules, it seemed he’d experienced various things while living alone away from headquarters.
Dohyuk—who was gradually trying to separate work and life—first contracted a suitable officetel in Seoul after receiving his assignment.
Although his price tag was lower than mercenary Espers because he was government-affiliated, Dohyuk was still a solid A-class Esper. With his enviable income and iron rice bowl job security, he could easily obtain a nice officetel near Jongak Station. Since life was unpredictable, he utilized the special ability users’ jeonse loan system rather than buying outright. It was one of the modest welfare policies that government-affiliated ability users could enjoy.
Moving and cleaning took less than half a day. This was because Dohyuk had no hobby of collecting things—his belongings consisted only of daily necessities. Although he’d readily signed the contract thinking that with a living room, three bedrooms, and even a dressing room, the officetel wouldn’t feel cramped, Dohyuk’s possessions were more modest than expected. The place looked empty, as if someone had moved out rather than just moved in. Perhaps it was the result of living in dormitories while bouncing between various regions. He was far too skilled at paring down his belongings. Looking around his officetel—which seemed even emptier despite having unpacked everything—Dohyuk sighed.
He’d always considered his unobstructed decisiveness that flowed like water to be a strength, but now he somewhat regretted it. Why had his past self insisted on Jongak Station as if there were no other options?
Of course, Jongak Station had plenty going for it.
It was close to public transportation, and Gwanghwamun was nearby too…
“…and the Korean Ability Management Headquarters is right here.”
The headquarters was so close to this officetel that even an ordinary person walking at a leisurely pace would take less than 20 minutes. It was a distance Dohyuk could cover in under 2 minutes if he wanted to.
Dohyuk clicked his tongue as he gauged the distance between headquarters and the officetel. Even though he constantly complained about exhaustion and wanted to separate headquarters from his life, in the end, unconsciously, he might be clinging to it without letting go of anything.
It wasn’t easy to detach a piece of your life. Knowing this, his mouth still tasted bitter every time he physically realized he was bound to headquarters.
In fact, Dohyuk’s earliest memory began at headquarters.
More precisely, at a facility under headquarters’ management.
Closing his eyes and thinking of that well-maintained facility, kind faces appeared as if summoned. A gentle voice seemed to tickle his ears. Hands that would massage his shoulders and clasp the nape of his neck. When he was younger, he’d desperately craved the warmth held in those hands.
His lowered eyelids slowly rose. It had been enough in childhood—that difficulty distinguishing between kindness mixed with affection and kindness laced with hypocrisy.
What pulled Dohyuk back to reality from being buried in thoughts that arose unbidden was the vibration of his cell phone. He answered the call, having already guessed who it was before looking at the screen.
[Hello?]
“Oh, Seungmin.”
Seungmin, who had been Dohyuk’s peer at the Esper Training Center, was one of the few friends Dohyuk had, given how he tended to avoid deep connections with others. Although Seungmin had knowingly and unknowingly looked after Dohyuk without tiring of his indifferent responses, Dohyuk had never been able to repay him. When he’d left for the provinces, he’d unilaterally cut off contact. Even knowing Seungmin would feel considerable betrayal, he couldn’t help it. He’d thought he would never return to Seoul headquarters. He’d believed that disappearing as if he’d never existed was the kindest thing he could do for those left behind.
