February 2nd, 2072.

  Kim Geuneul stayed up all night.

  At first, he was just numb. As time passed, his mind began to clear, and only then did the scene of the accident vividly resurface. And the realization hit: Saebyeol and Seolhee were no longer in this world.

  Emotionally, he fell apart. But strangely, there was also a sense of calm.

  In that stillness, several questions arose.

  "Why did the accident happen?"

  "Why was I the only witness and yet there’s no investigation?"

  "And… why was there no trace at the scene?"

  In this era, Neo-Seoul is a city embedded in a massive information network—

  Internet of Things, AI surveillance grids, smart roads.

  All events are recorded automatically, analyzed and stored in real-time.

  So for such a major accident to vanish without a trace was beyond comprehension.

  Then, at the hospital that day, Geuneul received a message:

  ---

  [QIAA Special Notice]

  Recipient: Kim Geuneul

  Issuing Authority: Quantum Information Analysis Agency, Neo-Seoul (QIAA)

  Security Clearance: LV-5

  The deaths of Kim Seolhee and Lee Saebyeol fall under the jurisdiction of the QIAA, per Articles 7 and 12 of the City-State Special Police Act. The case is classified as high-grade information and will not be recorded in public systems.

  As you are identified as the only related party, please note the following:

  1. Mourning and funeral services will be held at a confidential facility under QIAA jurisdiction. If you wish to attend, please contact the number below.

  2. If you do not attend, the deceased will be classified as having no known relatives, and the funeral will proceed under the Public Burial Law on February 3rd at a public crematory.

  3. Personal belongings found at the scene will be forfeited to the state treasury per Civil Law Article 1082-2 unless you make contact.

  This notice is automatically recorded by the system. Failure to respond may result in legal restrictions.

  — QIAA Department of Special Information Management

  ---

  QIAA.

  Geuneul had only heard the name.

  "Quantum Information Analysis Agency, Neo-Seoul."

  An organization stronger than the police in this city.

  It collected, analyzed, judged, and even executed action using quantum computing—effectively the governing body of the city.

  To handle information means deciding what questions to ask an AI.

  And that is the most fundamental power: to define policy, to shape social order.

  Information Collection → AI Analysis → AI Judgment and Execution.

  Within that system, QIAA functioned as the “nervous system of the modern state.”

  And yet, Geuneul had rarely heard anything about QIAA.

  Too quiet.

  No conspiracy theories, no whistleblowers, no public attention.

  Now he realized—

  “Something’s definitely going on here.”

  He entered the contact number from the message into his smartwatch.

  But before he could finish, autocomplete responded:

  — Seo Jihan.

  — The man who sent $1,000 while he was unconscious.

  — The man from the information agency he saw at the hospital.

  "...The message and the money were sent at the same time."

  "It’s the same person."

  Geuneul pressed the call button.

  — Beep... beep...

  After a few rings, a familiar voice answered.

  “You contacted me faster than I expected.”

  “Tell me what this is about.”

  “Come out. I sent coordinates to a nearby park. Let’s meet there.”

  “Say it now. Why do you keep talking in circles?”

  “There’s an item. It’s in bad shape, so I can’t show it over a device.

  Still—you’d want to see it for yourself, right?”

  “You could still tell me from here.”

  “Some things you have to see. Just come.”

  Jihan said no more.

  His tone was firm—uncompromising.

  Geuneul lowered his arm and began walking toward the park.

  Time suddenly slowed.

  The park wasn't far.

  But with each step, all surrounding sounds disappeared.

  The shadows of roadside trees, the silence of the streets, even the distant hum of the city—none of it reached Geuneul anymore.

  It was maddening.

  “Why—does this only happen to me?”

  Was he cursed from birth?

  Where had things gone wrong?

  But this despair—he’d gone through it countless times.

  He knew now.

  Despair doesn’t save you.

  And for the first time, he truly realized—

  All the children who grew up in orphanages like him, even Saebyeol and Seolhee—had been sacrificed to the absurdity of the world.

  “So many people live like this.”

  And there was only one conclusion.

  “This should never have happened in the first place.”

  “If we don’t want this to repeat, the world has to change.”

  QIAA.

  If the heart of the city is there,

  Then he had to go into that heart.

  No matter what it took, he had to fix the core of the problem.

  He couldn’t keep living like this.

  He was no longer a bystander.

  “I won’t stand by anymore.

  This is the world I live in. I’ll change it.”

  He muttered the words barely loud enough to hear.

  Geuneul looked up.

  A gray sky.

  Faint sunlight seeped through the clouds.

  Strangely, that light felt warm.

  He realized—he was still alive.

  He was breathing, his heart was beating, air was filling his lungs.

  “…I’m alive, at least.”

  The words weren’t meant for anyone.

  They were a final thought addressed to himself.

  ---

  At the park.

  A black aircraft (eVTOL, electric vertical takeoff and landing vehicle) was waiting.

  A white stripe on the side marked it as a public agency vehicle.

  The driver’s side window rolled down and a strange woman called out.

  “Mr. Kim Geuneul? Please get in. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Her voice was bright, but her face showed some tension.

  It was the kind of smile government workers wear.

  Geuneul hesitated briefly, then boarded.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  In the driver’s seat sat a young woman in a suit.

  Short brown hair. A compact, athletic frame. Only 150cm tall, but her gaze and voice were firm.

  Geuneul quietly looked at her.

  What struck him first was her confidence—more noticeable than her height or build.

  “I’ll be taking you to QIAA headquarters!”

  Geuneul said nothing, and the aircraft lifted off.

  —She was quick to read people.

  “What’s so special about this guy that I have to come pick him up myself?”

  Rumors were already spreading among the team that Team Leader Seo Jihan had specially scouted Geuneul.

  At first, she hadn’t believed it.

  A powerful agency like QIAA being ignored, and her being ordered to personally retrieve the recruit—it didn’t make sense.

  Still, if this guy really *was* something special?

  It wouldn’t hurt to be on good terms with him.

  So she wanted to make a good first impression—bright and friendly.

  “I’m Seo Rina. From Arcanus. I work under Senior Jihan.”

  “…”

  “Is this your first time with QIAA? Most people are a bit tense at first…”

  “There’s no reason to be tense.”

  “Oh… okay…”

  Rina was flustered inside.

  “The mood is so heavy. Did I say something wrong?”

  “If you don’t mind me asking… What brought you to be scouted, Mr. Kim Geuneul?”

  “I don’t know. I’m curious about that myself.”

  “…Ah, I see…”

  She was the one who asked, but the conversation hit a wall immediately.

  Rina swallowed dryly.

  “What is with this guy… Why is he getting special treatment…?”

  Before she could recover the atmosphere, the aircraft arrived at its destination.

  ---

  QIAA Headquarters.

  In the northern outskirts, near the DMZ, nestled in a forest.

  The building was small. Modest. Quiet.

  No one would believe this place was the heart of the city’s operations.

  Geuneul swallowed.

  “Whatever happens here wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Rina glanced at him and smirked slightly.

  “Cute. I had that same expression when I first came here.”

  “We’ve arrived!”

  The aircraft landed silently on the vertiport.

  A man in a black suit approached.

  It was Seo Jihan.

  “I told you to use auto-pilot.”

  “Then all my flight training would go to waste.”

  “You use training even in live ops—that’s the problem.”

  Their exchange was casual, practiced. But Geuneul showed no emotion.

  “You’re here.”

  “I’m here to collect the belongings.”

  “How’s your condition?”

  “Unnecessary question.”

  “…Alright.”

  Jihan shifted his gaze.

  “We’ve prepared a memorial room here for Ms. Seolhee and Miss Saebyeol. The mourning and funeral will be handled internally.”

  “Why internally?”

  “Seolhee used to be on our team. She retired due to injury.

  Our people are laid to rest our way. That’s the protocol.”

  “…That message said they’d be treated as having no known relatives—”

  “That must’ve been a mistake. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

  Geuneul stared directly at Jihan.

  His eyes were filled with suspicion. He said nothing, but his expression made it clear—

  “You planned this from the start.”

  Jihan didn’t look away.

  He met Geuneul’s gaze calmly.

  “Come. There’s something I need to show you.”

  Geuneul said nothing and walked quietly.

  Rina tried to read the atmosphere behind them…

  But she couldn’t grasp anything—so she silently followed.

  The three of them descended from the rooftop vertiport into the building and took the elevator.

  Jihan pressed a button, and the elevator moved smoothly downward.

  Buttons labeled up to 5 floors above ground and 10 below.

  Jihan selected B1.

  “So it’s deep underground, huh,” Geuneul thought silently.

  “Of course the building wouldn’t be small.”

  After a brief hum and soft vibration, the elevator stopped.

  As the doors opened, Jihan said:

  “We’re here.”

  Before them stretched a narrow corridor—just wide enough for two people to walk side by side.

  It was quiet. Spotlessly clean.

  Smooth, cold walls. A floor that made no sound underfoot.

  Geuneul looked around.

  “Feels like a new building. Like a dormitory. Too neat, no trace of human presence yet.”

  On the left wall hung a gold nameplate:

  [Team Arcanus | ?????]

  To the right, a locked automatic door stood closed.

  Faint sounds of people could be heard—quiet voices preparing something.

  Jihan pulled a blue-lanyard ID from his pocket and handed it over.

  “Take it. It’s yours.”

  Geuneul took the ID without expression.

  Quantum Information Analysis Agency | QIAA

  Kim Geuneul

  Below his name: biometric ID and a photo.

  “I never agreed to join.”

  Jihan shrugged as if expecting that.

  “Then I can’t let you in.”

  It was a flippant remark, but clearly pre-arranged.

  Geuneul hesitated briefly, then put the ID around his neck.

  “Same result either way,” he thought.

  Jihan leaned toward the door.

  The iris scanner reacted, and the door opened.

  Warm white light spilled out as the door opened.

  Voices, laughter, the sound of flipping pages filled the space.

  Beyond the hallway was a broader area.

  This was the workspace of Team Arcanus.

  Transparent partitions lined the walls, each desk organized with computers, documents, and personal items.

  A central walkway ran through the room, and around it stood eight young people—about Rina’s age—in small groups.

  As Geuneul stepped in, all eyes turned to him.

  Unfamiliar gazes—but not hostile.

  A mix of curiosity and interest.

  Before he could greet them, Rina stepped forward.

  “This is Kim Geuneul. I brought him here. He doesn’t talk much.”

  Geuneul offered a small smile.

  A bit awkward, but not inaccurate.

  One slender young man with curly hair stepped out of the group.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Han Jiwoo. I think we’re in similar situations.”

  Jihan raised his hand, cutting the introductions short.

  “Alright, save the small talk for later. Today’s an important day.”

  The team’s expressions quietly shifted.

  Like an unspoken agreement—they all understood what he meant.

  Jihan walked toward the far end of the team room.

  Three doors stood there, spaced apart.

  He placed his hand on the center one.

  The door opened with a fingerprint scan.

  As they passed through the door, the lighting dimmed slightly.

  The air was more refined, and footsteps became even softer.

  To the left was a glass display case.

  Most compartments were empty, but two were carefully filled.

  This was the team’s memorial space.

  The first held a blue-tinted lisianthus flower.

  In the photo, the deceased smiled gently. In front of the picture stood a transparent vial with a name etched into it.

  Inside was refined liquid, left behind after bio-decomposition.

  The second held a white carnation.

  Its purity reflected the dignity the person had carried in life.

  The smile in the photo was vivid, and a handwritten note sat delicately before the vial.

  Geuneul stared.

  This space defied description.

  Solemn, but not heavy.

  Not cold, yet not light.

  It felt like something deeply rooted, quietly continuing.

  Beyond the memorial stood another space, quietly open.

  There was no door—but it clearly marked a threshold.

  Inside was a small, wood-paneled room.

  Walls, floor, and ceiling bore even wood grain.

  The temperature was cool, but the atmosphere warm.

  It felt like a living room—no, more like the innermost heart of a home.

  In the center sat an altar.

  Two framed photographs rested upon it.

  One was the family photo Geuneul had seen at Saebyeol’s home.

  Saebyeol, Seolhee, their warm smiling faces.

  The other…

  Seolhee, during her QIAA days.

  Wearing a suit, beaming directly at the camera.

  Other people stood behind her. Bright light filtered in.

  Geuneul gazed at the photo for a long time.

  Moments from a life he didn’t know.

  A side of Seolhee he’d never seen.

  His lips dried.

  It felt as though even his breath was quietly ceasing.

  He hadn’t said a word yet—

  But his eyes alone had already exchanged countless feelings in this space.

  Geuneul stood silently before the altar.

  His gaze followed Seolhee’s face in the photograph—smiling, wearing an unfamiliar suit.

  And next to her, Saebyeol. That night at the dinner table, smiling at him, saying, “You smile more these days.”

  Scattered memories floated up like fragments.

  Seolhee making him take out the trash, saying he felt like part of the family.

  Peeling tangerines.

  They had given him daily life.

  At the edge of the world, even if briefly, they had let him breathe like a person.

  “And what… did I ever give them?”

  His lips cracked.

  A hot mass began to rise from deep within his chest.

  He tried to take a deep breath, but the air was too clear, too cold.

  This space was too warm to push the feeling away.

  “Do I even deserve to be here…?”

  A life with no name, no family, no belonging.

  A man who tried so hard not to be remembered by anyone—

  Now stood here for the dead.

  “Did they really think of me as family…?

  Or was I just a passerby in their lives…”

  But from deep within his heart, a small whisper arose.

  — The fact that Geuneul was here now, meant they had accepted him.

  — That he was “someone who existed this way.”

  That fact alone was almost too heavy to bear.

  Why had he survived?

  Why did this keep happening?

  The shell of his life—held together until now—began to crack quietly here.

  He clenched his lips, but couldn’t hold it in.

  A single tear rolled down his cheek.

  He lifted his head, but the photo still smiled back at him.

  That smile—broke him.

  And finally—

  Kim Geuneul began to cry.

  His suppressed breath burst out. His shoulders trembled with sobs.

  He clenched his fists, but the shaking didn’t stop.

  He collapsed right there.

  Biting his lip, unable to say a word… he cried. Quietly, deeply.

  From behind, Rina and the other team members quietly watched.

  No one spoke. Only their eyes moved, glistening.

  “…He’s human. So much more human than I thought.”

  For the first time, she realized—

  Geuneul wasn’t just a special recruit or a mystery.

  Everyone in the room stood silently.

  And in that moment, that silence—

  Was the truest thing.

  —

  Afterward, Jihan handed Geuneul two glass vials containing refined liquid.

  Small and transparent, each bore a name engraved with care: Saebyeol and Seolhee.

  Geuneul personally completed their memorials.

  He placed the vials, arranged flowers before the photos.

  Purple campanula.

  Later, he would learn its meaning:

  — Warm love and gratitude.

  He turned the words over in his mind.

  It was the only thing he could give them now.

  Before leaving the memorial, he looked back one last time.

  Photos, flowers, names carved in glass.

  “I don’t know where my life is heading.

  But I’ll make sure this kind of tragedy doesn’t repeat.

  So that no one has to live a hard life and vanish for no reason.”

  He let his gaze linger a little longer.

  Then bowed his head briefly and walked away.

  —

  Geuneul and the others returned to the main office space.

  The atmosphere was nothing like when he had first arrived.

  The light, the air, the gazes—all had changed.

  A space where life and death sat side by side.

  Where joy and sorrow, past and future mingled.

  In that air, Geuneul felt it.

  Something was beginning.

  He couldn’t explain it in words yet—

  But this place wasn’t just an intelligence agency.

  It was a place where something could be changed.