After Hyosan, everything scattered — but not evenly.

The refugee camp only lasted long enough to separate the living from the dead, to write names onto clipboards and seal them into records that felt final even when they weren’t. People left in waves after that. Some went home. Some transferred schools. Some stayed close, unable to leave the city behind.

Nam-ra didn’t disappear. She lived the way she had since the outbreak — off-grid, on the edges, never fully part of the world she was still protecting. Everyone knew she was alive. They kept contact when they could. They didn’t ask questions she wouldn’t answer. Su-hyeok stayed for her.

He helped with patrols and reconstruction, learned which streets were still watched and which were quietly abandoned. Over time, he learned another truth the records didn’t show.

Lee Cheong-san wasn’t dead.

After the explosions at the construction site, his name had been listed as missing, presumed dead. It was easier that way. Safer. Halfbies weren’t something the authorities wanted documented twice.

Cheong-san never corrected them. He lived the same way Nam-ra did — hidden, restricted, careful. He moved only when necessary, stayed out of sight, stayed quiet. He didn’t reach out to anyone.

Except once.

Nam-ra told him what she could.

Su-hyeok stayed near Hyosan. On-jo transferred schools. Dae-su and the others scattered. And her — she left early. A top university, Nam-ra said. Academic track. Far away. Cheong-san listened and said nothing.

No one told her he was alive. She believed what everyone else believed. That Lee Cheong-san didn’t make it out of Hyosan.

Years later, her university sent out a notice — volunteer reconstruction work required for graduation. Disaster-area support. Long-term rebuilding projects. Hyosan was listed. Still monitored. Still unfinished.

She hesitated.

It was Su-hyeok who reached out — brief, careful, asking how she’d been. He said they needed help near the old residential blocks. Said some areas were finally being cleared. Said she didn’t have to come if it was too much.

She came anyway.

She told herself it was for school. For credits. For closure.

The work assignment placed her near her old apartment building — or what was left of it. Windows boarded, stairwells stripped, personal belongings pulled from rubble and catalogued into boxes.

A cracked picture frame. A bent keychain. Things that didn’t matter until they suddenly did.

The memories came back heavier than she expected.

By the time the sun started to dip, she felt hollowed out — too full and too empty at the same time. When the others headed back using the main route, she didn’t follow. She took the shortcut.

The restricted path cut through fenced-off zones and half-cleared construction areas — places no one used anymore. She barely noticed the warning signs. She just needed to get away from the noise in her head.

Cheong-san saw her before she saw him.

He’d been watching since the day she returned — from rooftops, from across streets, from places she wouldn’t think to look. He never meant to be seen. He told himself it was enough just knowing she was safe.

But this close to her old building, this late — something in his chest tightened.

She noticed the movement. Stopped. So did he. There was nowhere to disappear to.

Cheong-san turned slowly, heart hammering, like he already knew how this would end.

She froze.

Her mind refused to catch up with her eyes. He looked wrong — older, more guarded, his presence too solid to be a trick of grief. Her breath caught painfully in her throat.

He was supposed to be gone. She went back for him. She called his name until her voice gave out.

Nam-ra had told her to stop. To say goodbye.

He just stood there, hands curled slightly at his sides, watching her the way he had been for days — only now, there was no distance left to hide behind. His eyes searched her face, careful, like he was bracing for something he deserved.

“…You came back,” he said quietly.

The air between them thin, heavy with an unfinished confession, an unwanted goodbye.