Seoul's skyline glimmered under a veil of false peace.
From atop Namsan Tower, it looked like any other quiet evening. Neon soaked the streets below, rivers of taillights winding through Gangnam like blood veins in a glowing city-body. But the truth—what pulsed underneath all this beauty—was colder than truth had a right to be.
In a small living room near Mapo District, a television flickered. Static danced at the edges of the screen before giving way to a stern-faced anchorwoman.
The screen glowed like a shrine in the child's living room.
