The cosmic train's last screech bled into silence, swallowed by the stale air of Seoul's underground.
The station stretched before me like a mausoleum—long, tiled tunnels painted with shadows and flickering light.
Too empty. Too still.
A shiver crawled up my spine.
Then movement—two shapes further down the platform.
A couple. I recognized them; they'd ridden the same train I had. Their eyes met mine, both of us assessing, measuring. And then… nothing.
No greeting, no conversation. Just a nod. That hollow, weary nod you share when the world's burned down and words aren't worth the effort.
I kept walking.
By the time I reached the cracked surface, the city hit me like a punch to the gut. Seoul was supposed to be bright, loud, suffocating with life.
Now? It was gray husks of skyscrapers, shattered glass glinting on the pavement, the stench of rot weaving through the air.
