Every time the gate closed, the world grew a little smaller. The people waiting at the entrance of the Safe Zone knew this. For those who made it inside, life began again. For those left outside, time slowly and mercilessly came to an end. Behind the metal walls, there was hope—or at least, that’s what people chose to believe.

Lee Minho had been standing at this gate for years.

Since the first days of the outbreak. Back when the rules were still being written, when mistakes were believed to be fixable… he had made the wrong decision once. He had let the wrong person inside. After that night, everyone in the Safe Zone learned that the word human was far more fragile than they thought. Minho never made the same mistake again.

The young man standing in front of him now looked no different from the others. Han Jisung waited quietly behind the yellow line. His shoulders were slumped, his back slightly hunched, as if standing itself took effort. His clothes were worn; dried mud clung to the hems of his pants.

One sleeve of his jacket had been torn and roughly tied back, an old scar barely visible beneath the fabric. His face carried the hollow exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept properly in a long time.

When the scanning light activated, Jisung blinked instinctively. The red beam passed over his face—his forehead, his cheeks, his neck—before stopping. When the cold metal device touched his arm, his shoulders tensed slightly. Not too much.

Just enough to be human.

Blood was drawn. The screen loaded. Numbers flickered past.

Heart rate: irregular, but within normal limits. Blood values: acceptable. Neural response: ordinary.

The screen turned green.

Normally, that was when the gate opened. But Minho waited, as he always did. Jisung didn’t lift his head. His gaze stayed fixed on the insignia on Minho’s chest, not his face. He didn’t look at the weapon.

He didn’t look at the cameras. His hands didn’t clench. There was no tension of someone ready to run. He was just tired.

“What’s your name?”

The question came sharp and short. “Han Jisung,” the young man replied. His voice was low but steady—not trembling, but not strong either.

“I came from outside Seoul. I’ve been on the road for three days.”

His words were simple. No rehearsed details. No unnecessary explanations.

When Minho remained silent, Jisung didn’t rush to fill the space. He didn’t beg. He didn’t panic. It was as if he already accepted that the decision wasn’t his to make.

After a moment, he added, “I was alone. My group… didn’t make it past the first week.”

The sentence said a lot without explaining anything. After the outbreak, most survivors carried a version of that same story.

Jisung swallowed.

“I want to stay inside,” he said. “I’ll work. I’ll do whatever’s needed.”

Finally, he lifted his head slightly. He didn’t fully meet Minho’s eyes, but he didn’t avoid them either. There was fear there—controlled, restrained. Not panic.

Not hope. Just exhaustion.

“If I were someone who couldn’t pass the tests,” he said calmly, “I wouldn’t be standing here.”

He stopped talking. And waited.

The heavy gate of the Safe Zone remained closed.

Minho’s decision had not yet been made. And Jisung looked like someone who understood exactly what that meant.