The first step forward was not one person's—it was all of them.
The crowd at Jongno intersection surged, hundreds of feet striking the pavement in perfect rhythm, the sound like a drumline echoing through the city. No shoves, no panic, no chaos. It was unity, terrifying and unnatural, as though invisible strings had pulled every limb into the same march.
"Anchor. Breathe. Anchor. Breathe."
The voices rose in unison, thunder rolling through human throats. The chant was not loud by volume, but by weight. Each syllable pressed into their bones, into the air itself. It was not sound—it was pressure, vibration, resonance.
Lin's body convulsed in Min-joon's arms. His breath hitched, ragged, each inhale synced with the chant no matter how tightly Min-joon clutched him, no matter how desperately he whispered in his ear.
"Don't listen, Lin. Listen to me, only me."
But the boy's lips parted anyway, and the chant leaked out of him, soft at first, then louder. "Anchor… breathe…"
