The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
Raon slowly opened his eyes. His body ached like it had been torn apart and stitched back together. He tried to move — pain flared through every muscle, but he forced himself up, staggering to his feet.
The shelter that had once been full of people…
Was now a graveyard.
The metallic scent of blood filled the air.
Shattered weapons, broken torches, and frost-covered corpses were scattered across the floor. The flickering emergency lights cast long, trembling shadows that looked almost alive.
He stood in the middle of it — surrounded by death, breathing shallowly.
The people who had survived were few. Maybe twenty… out of hundreds.
Some sat against the walls, eyes hollow, whispering prayers that no one answered. Others pressed torn clothes against bleeding wounds, trembling as they tried to stop the bleeding.
A man sobbed quietly over a body.
A woman rocked back and forth, muttering a name under her breath.
And in the middle of it all, Raon stood still — silent, expression unreadable.
He clenched his frozen hand and muttered, "So this is what survival looks like…"
Then, the System stirred again.
A faint hum filled the air, followed by a sharp blue flash.
[You have been recognized by the Paradox System.]
[Access Permission: Granted.]
[New Feature Unlocked — Player's Shop Available.]
[Coins can now be used to purchase items, weapons, and skills.]
Lines of text scrolled before everyone's eyes. Confusion rippled through the survivors.
"What's happening now?"
"Player's… shop?"
"Is this another trick?!"
Raon's heart skipped a beat.
The shop… finally.
He opened the interface with a thought. A translucent window appeared, showing dozens of items: potions, weapons, food, even skill scrolls — all priced in glowing gold numbers.
His gaze went straight to one item.
[Healing Potion — 50 Coins]
[Restores minor wounds and fatigue.]
Without hesitation, he bought one. The bottle materialized in his hand — faintly warm, glowing softly.
He uncorked it and drank. The taste was sharp, like cold iron, but almost instantly the pain faded. His breathing steadied, and the frost marks on his skin began to dissolve.
He let out a slow breath. "…It really works."
The others watched him, wary and desperate.
He turned to them, his expression calm but voice firm.
"Listen. Open your menu. You'll see something called the Player's Shop."
He paused, letting them absorb it.
"You can buy healing potions there. Use your coins. That's the only way you'll make it through the next night."
Some hesitated. Some listened immediately.
A faint sense of hope flickered in their eyes as they began scrolling through their menus, their trembling fingers confirming purchases.
The shelter filled with the sound of faint glass clinks — bottles appearing in hands, being uncorked, people sighing in relief as the pain subsided.
Raon looked around once more.
Only a handful of them were left standing.
The rest were gone — taken by the chaos of the night.
He sat against a wall, the broken sword at his side. The faint blue of the System window glowed over his face.
For the first time in days, he allowed himself to close his eyes.
Just for a few hours.
When morning came, the air was colder than before.
He stood, slung his makeshift bag over his shoulder, and tightened the straps.
There was nothing left here but ghosts and silence.
He looked once more at the survivors who were still tending to the wounded.
"Stay together," he said quietly. "If you're lucky, you'll see another sunrise."
Then he turned and began walking toward the ruined exit, the sunlight bleeding faintly through the cracks in the door.
His footsteps echoed through the hollow shelter.
But just as he reached the doorway — a voice broke through the quiet.
"Leaving already?"
Raon froze.
He turned back slowly.
Standing there, leaning against the wall, was the young man — his arm still bandaged, his eyes sharp and cold as ice.
The one from the train.
Raon's expression shifted, just barely.
"…You're still alive."
The young man smirked faintly. "Looks like we both are."
The morning air smelled of iron and rain.
When Jeon Raon stepped out of the half-collapsed shelter, the ground beneath his boots crunched with dry blood and shattered glass. The sun was a faint smear behind the clouds, unable to shine through the gray sky that hung like a wound refusing to close.
A few meters behind him, the young man followed in silence. His uniform was torn, stained with soot and monster blood, but his gaze was steady — calm, almost unnervingly so.
For a long time, neither spoke. Only the wind whispered through the empty streets of the ruined city.
Raon finally broke the silence.
"…You followed me."
The man gave a faint, tired smile. "Someone had to. You don't look like you'd last long alone."
"I did fine before you came," Raon replied. His tone was flat, but not hostile — more like someone who had already forgotten what emotion was supposed to feel like.
"Right," the man said. "You did fine — covered in blood, with a broken sword, fighting monsters like it was your first day alive."
Raon gave a small exhale that could have been a laugh. "And you? You used ice like it was breathing."
The young man glanced at his right hand, where faint frost still lingered between his fingers. "It's… the only thing I remember doing right since this nightmare started."
They walked past a burnt-out convenience store, its sign flickering weakly in the wind. The road stretched out endlessly, cracked and hollow, leading toward the horizon.
Raon looked around. "If we're going to keep moving, we should at least know where we are."
The man nodded. "I checked the map before we left the shelter. The signs are destroyed, but from the layout… I think this is Gimpo."
Raon's steps paused. "Gimpo… that means we're west of Seoul."
"Yeah," the man replied. "The Han River's just a few kilometers east. The train must've fallen near the estuary. We drifted downstream before washing up here."
Raon lowered his gaze, thinking back to that moment — the shattered bridge, the roar of the sea, the way the world folded in on itself before everything went black.
"Then Seoul is still ahead of us," he murmured.
"Maybe," the man said quietly. "If it still exists."
The words hung between them like ash. Neither wanted to imagine what Seoul might look like now.
After a moment, Raon asked, "What's your name?"
"Han Yul," the man said. "I worked near Yeongdeungpo. I was heading home when the train…" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes clouding. "You?"
"Raon. Jeon Raon," he replied simply. "I was on my way to meet someone in Seoul."
Han Yul nodded, then hesitated before asking, "You think he's still alive?"
Raon didn't answer immediately. He watched the horizon — the line where smoke met cloud, where hope was just another illusion pretending to be light.
Finally, he said, "maybe."
Raon gave a faint smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Never mind. Just something I tell myself."
They continued walking — two survivors in a city that no longer belonged to the living.
The silence between them wasn't empty; it was the kind that carried the weight of things unspoken — fear, exhaustion, and the faint, fragile idea of purpose.
As they passed a collapsed overpass, Han Yul spoke again. "If this is Gimpo… and we go east, we might reach Seoul by foot. Assuming the bridges still stand."
Raon nodded. "Then east it is."
"Raon," Han Yul said suddenly. "Do you… believe any of this is real?"
Raon glanced at him. "Does it matter?"
Han Yul's lips parted, then closed again. No — maybe it didn't matter anymore.
Because whether this was reality, fiction, or something far beyond the veil, they were both trapped in it.
And all they could do was keep walking — toward Seoul, toward the next scene of whatever story had chosen them.