The quiet hum of Jumadeung’s eternal twilight buzzed faintly beyond the high windows. Inside his office, Park Joong-gil sat alone — back straight, posture sharp — the dim light catching in the smooth amber of the whisky glass resting in his hand. Files were neatly stacked across his desk, names of souls awaiting judgment, lives catalogued with cold precision.

As the leader of the Escort Team, it was his responsibility to guide the dead to their rightful afterlife. Not mercy. Not comfort. Order.

He didn’t smile, not even now. The faint burn of whisky was the only warmth he allowed himself. Outside, the endless machinery of Jumadeung churned on. The afterlife was always in motion, and so was he. Relentless. Tireless. Alone.

Another file. Another name. Another weight on his shoulders.