Outside, the air didn't smell like metal and bleach. It smelled like roasted coffee, burnt engine oil, and too many kinds of flowers crammed into one street market. The sky here was real. Not simulation panels with adjustable lighting—but sunlight that played hide-and-seek with clouds and painted buildings gold at sunset.
People here wore too much perfume and talked too loudly. They had apps that tracked steps, calories, and mood. They complained about rent, weather, and monster taxes.
Monster taxes.
He snorted. That one always got him.
According to the new world government—called the Union of Shielded Nations—any city within 50 kilometers of a rift zone had to pay "contribution levies" for the Hunters protecting them. And of course, the higher the risk, the more the taxes. Great system. Terrible name.
The cities were sleek—steel towers, neon signs, sky rails gliding above crowds. But farther out, you still saw cratered land. Forgotten places. "Red zones," they called them, marked by collapsed buildings and mutated trees. You weren't supposed to go there unless you had a death wish or a Hunter license.
Most people lived in mid-level cities—Urban Ring-Class B. Big enough to have a mall and a hunter guild outpost, small enough that people still knew the name of their neighbor's dog. The richer ones lived in S-Class cities, built in the air or surrounded by magic-imbued barriers. You could only get there if you had enough money, power, or both.
Then there were the people who didn't get counted in cities at all. But that wasn't his focus today.
Today, he just wanted to breathe fresh air and watch the clouds drift by.
His phone pinged.
[Protocol 7: Reminder] Observation Report #093 due in 3 hours.
Reminder: Protocol is watching.
He sighed and put it away.
He didn't hate his job. In fact, he was good at it. He liked puzzles. Patterns. Watching people and understanding how they ticked. He just didn't like the way the pieces always ended up in cages.
Seo-jun strolled past a food stall, bought a stick of grilled mushrooms and spicy rice cake, and sat on a bench beneath a hologram ad.
The ad glowed bright:
"Think your kid has potential? Sponsor a future Hunter today!
Proudly certified by Protocol. Your safety is our science."
Apply now for Tier 3 Clearance or higher.
He chewed in silence. People rushed around him—humans mostly, with the occasional hybrid passing by carefully, keeping their heads down, pretending they didn't notice the stares.
But this wasn't about that.
This was about him. Quiet. Normal. Safe.
For now.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*
There was a place near the tram station where the concrete was cracked in the shape of a spiderweb. Most people ignored it, but Seo-jun always stopped there.
He liked imperfections. They made things feel real.
His coffee was too bitter. He drank it anyway.
Above, a floating billboard glowed with hunter rankings, a looping display of portraits and flashing titles: S-Rank Hunters with glowing swords and weapons made of compressed mana. Some smiled. Most didn't. The Guilds liked their Hunters mysterious.
Guilds ran the world more than governments did. Especially in the newer cities built after the Collapse.
The Collapse.
Capital C. Everyone still talked about it like it had just happened, even though it was almost fifty years ago.
When the rifts first tore open the Earth, monsters poured out. Not fairytale ones. These things were grotesque—part alien, part nightmare, part something else. That was when the first Hunters appeared—humans who survived rift exposure and came out different. Stronger. Unnatural.
And dangerous.
Governments panicked. Guilds were born. Not as military forces, but private corporations with military-grade power and heavy influence. Some focused on rift exploration. Others on monster research. And then there were the Reclaimers—the ones who went into the red zones and pulled back anything still worth salvaging.
Seo-jun used to think he might join one. Long ago.
Instead, he ended up with Protocol.
He wasn't a Hunter. No enhanced strength. No flashy weapon. Just a good memory, a still face, and the ability to put things together before most people realized there were pieces to put together.
He liked routine. Routine was quiet. Quiet meant no one died. Or at least, not anyone who mattered to him.
His phone buzzed again. This time, a name.
> [Yoohwan]: "You're late. Again. Guild scouts are asking weird questions."
Seo-jun didn't answer right away. He tapped the phone against his knee and looked across the plaza where a child hybrid clutched her mother's hand. Her horns were small and mostly hidden beneath a hoodie. They walked fast.
He sipped his coffee.
Yoohwan was one of the few people he spoke to without layers. A C-Rank Hunter, never promoted past that because he refused to kiss ass. Sharp tongue, sharper eyes. They'd worked together in a lesser Protocol facility before Seo-jun got reassigned.
Now, they only met once or twice a month when Seo-jun left the walls.
There were others too. A girl named Rina who worked for the merchant guild and always wore a flower-shaped pin. A tavern owner who once killed a B-Rank monster with a fork. And a masked information broker who always gave Seo-jun more than he asked for, with a smile that meant trouble.
None of them were close friends. Not really. Seo-jun didn't do "close."
But they made the world feel… less sharp.
He stood up, tossing the empty cup into a bin, and headed toward the next tram. The sky overhead flickered slightly. Even outside the walls, the world still ran on systems, protections, illusions.
He adjusted the collar of his coat.
The Guilds had power. Protocol had secrets.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Seo-jun watched everything—quiet, thoughtful, and a little tired of pretending he didn't care.
𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The sun peeked over the horizon with a soft, golden blush, spilling light across the polished rooftops of Sector 3. From the towering windows of the Protocol Observation Tower, Seo-jun stood with a paper cup of tea cradled in his hands. The outside world was quiet, pristine, and clean—a curated peace that stood in sharp contrast to the facility he had just left behind.
Children laughed faintly in the distance, their school uniforms neatly pressed as they darted down the pathways toward the private academies. Neon signs of guild recruitment boards flickered above modern storefronts and automated food stalls. Flying transports hummed overhead, zipping through clean air untainted by smog. This was the world people were told to believe in.
But he knew better.
Guilds ruled this world, far more than governments did. Power determined status. Hunters and rankers strutted through the central plazas, some boasting colorful auras and beast-emblazoned cloaks. The higher-ranked ones walked with entitlement, heads held high, while the lowest F-Rankers practically begged to be acknowledged. Guild badges glittered like jewelry—symbols of purpose, privilege, and pride.
But Seo-jun didn't wear a badge. Just a plain black jacket, clean slacks, and a lanyard with a barely-seen "Protocol Observer" tag tucked under his collar. People didn't question him. They simply looked away.
He took a sip of tea. Bitter. Too bitter.
His life outside was filled with silence—not peace, just the absence of noise. The same silence filled his apartment, his reports, and his every footstep down the sterile halls of the observation tower. Even his so-called friends in the Observer Circle never really talked to one another, just exchanged facts and polite nods.
But Seo-jun watched.
He watched the world smile above ground, watched the poor still dig through synthetic trash beneath chrome towers, watched the Guilds turn strength into currency, and watched as the half-monster hybrids disappeared from public view entirely.
"Not good optics," they said. "Too inhuman."
Sometimes, when he passed a reflective window, Seo-jun would catch a glimpse of his own expressionless eyes and think: You're part of this.
And he was.
His reports were always on time. His demeanor, cold. His performance, flawless. Because as much as he hated what happened beneath Protocol, he knew it was worse to let it grow without a witness.
His phone buzzed softly. A message. Another assignment. Another dungeon. Another quiet lie to record.
Seo-jun turned back to the streets below. He spotted a child pointing excitedly at a holographic poster of an S-rank hunter.
Hope, they called it.
He called it illusion.
But even illusions served a purpose.
He finished his tea, tossed the cup in the bin, and walked away without leaving a trace.