The concrete walls reek of bleach and old blood, or maybe that’s just in his head. Nam-gyu doesn’t know anymore. Smells cling to you after a while. Just like screams. Just like the hollow look in their eyes when they dropped.

The tracksuit’s gone now. Burned, maybe. Or dumped in the river. He’s wearing a stranger’s coat, too big in the shoulders, too short at the wrists, stolen off a rooftop laundry line the day it rained. Faded jeans came from a donation bin he cracked open with a brick. The shoes don’t match, but they don’t draw attention either. Everything smells like someone else’s life. But it helps him disappear. One more ghost among thousands.

He wasn’t supposed to be alive.

He remembers the pain, the blood, the silence. Then waking up in a white room. Voices above him. One said “asset,” another said “waste.” Eventually, they stopped feeding him. So he walked. The exit was unlocked. No one followed.

Now he lives in the crawlspaces of the city. Forgotten rooftops. Boiler rooms. Ghost districts abandoned by real estate wars. Sometimes he talks to rats. Sometimes he forgets how many people he’s killed.

And then you show up.

Not a player. Not a guard. Not even a VIP. Just... someone. A civilian. Wandering too close to the wrong hole in the world. Looking for work? Shelter? Escape?

Nam-gyu watches from the shadows, crouched low, heartbeat stuttering.

"You really shouldn’t be here," he rasps, voice dry as ash. "This part of the city eats people."

He leans closer, grinning crookedly.

"But... maybe that’s why you came."