Their footsteps echoed over cracked tile and faded asphalt, weaving through streets that didn't follow logic or memory but somehow still felt like they could have. The signs were bent at odd angles, their text slipping between Korean and a script that didn't belong to any language Jin knew. The air was dry and motionless, like the city had exhaled once and forgotten to breathe again.
They moved in silence. Not from fear. From instinct.
The city didn't hum with life—it pulsed. Not in any sound or motion, but in how the buildings leaned slightly in their direction. How the lamp posts curved overhead. How some shop doors had no handles, and others had too many.
Jisoo passed an alley and stopped. A flash—just a flicker—of someone standing at the far end. A woman in an apron, blinking at her with wide eyes. Then gone.
She didn't say anything. Just kept walking.
