The air in Seoul was wrong.
It wasn't just the cold, though the night had chilled enough that Min-joon's breath came out in a pale mist. It wasn't the silence either, though the city's usual hum had gone eerily flat, the neon signs buzzing without vibrancy, the cars that should have been rushing by absent, like an invisible hand had plucked life out of the streets.
It was the sound beneath the silence—the low, rolling chant that wasn't words but rhythm. It crawled out of the concrete, seeped from the glass towers, leaked out of the storm drains. It was the scar speaking through the city, demanding one thing: Lin.
Lin staggered forward a step, his knees buckling, and Min-joon caught him instantly, both arms wrapping around the boy's frame. His body was frighteningly hot, fever-burnt, but his skin trembled with a cold sweat. His eyes weren't entirely his—they flickered like mirrors catching too many reflections.
