[2050 – Morning, On the Way to School]
The next morning.
Jian snatched the laptop from the table beside her bed, clutching it as if it might slip away.
A thin, hazy light seeped between her eyelids as she forced them open and powered the screen on.
"AI link… Please, just work this time."
But it was exactly as she'd feared.
'Session pending — No response from recipient'
'Excessive reconnection attempts may be restricted'
Jian set the laptop down quietly and buried her face in her knees.
Anxious regret coiled tightly around her chest.
"Are they… okay?
I should've… just taken it slower back then…"
She turned her head toward the window.
Across the street, the massive electronic billboard mounted to a building's facade was flooded with a glaring red warning screen.
"Complete shutdown across Line ○○ – Public frustration and anger rising"
"Structural flaws found in smart circuit system"
"Nocturnal torrential rain – Weather Bureau criticized for late warnings"
From the kitchen came a familiar voice.
"Jian, I'm heading out first. Let's go together before I open the café!"
Jian cracked the door open and peeked her head out.
"Huh? I can take the bus by myself today…"
Her mother was already slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"The buses haven't been running on time lately. Remember yesterday?
You said you waited forever.
Better to get there early than risk being late—come with me in the car."
Jian hesitated.
'…Yesterday?
Did I ever… wait for a bus?'
The way her mother said it—so casually, as if it had always been true—made something deep in her brain twinge, like a wire being tugged out of place.
She followed her mother in silence and slid into the passenger seat of the EV.
From the car's radio, the overnight disaster reports droned on without pause.
"Twelve city bus routes canceled due to torrential rain"
"Sections of Subway Line 3 flooded – Service suspended"
"Over 70 potholes reported – Severe rush-hour gridlock"
The soundscape outside the window was thick—honking horns layered over the low growl of idling engines, all trapped in the same suffocating gridlock.
The air shimmered above the asphalt, the heat pressing in through the glass like a living thing.
From the back seat, Jian lowered her gaze to her watch.
The display pulsed in a slow, indifferent rhythm:
"Current body temperature: 37.8°C / Heat stress alert – Cooling recommended."
'Maybe it was us.
Maybe we really did change this.But was it for the better… or worse?'
By the time they reached the café, the morning had already swollen into a heavy,
unmoving heat that clung to skin and breath alike. Jian's mother was already at the door,
fumbling for the keys.
"You've got a few minutes before class—stay inside where it's cool," she said quickly. "I'll get you some ice water."
Jian nodded, but the laptop in her arms might as well have been a block of iron.
Every step toward the café felt like a choice—open the screen now or let the silence stretch.
Her hands stayed still.
'Did I do the right thing?
Or did I just… tear someone's life apart?'
The thought followed her down the street toward school, weaving itself into the thick air.
At the gate, Shia came running, her face drawn tight.
"Jian—are you okay? Did you see the news? It's a mess out there…"
Jian gave a small nod, but her eyes were still clouded, the heat behind them untouched by the morning light.
"I only wanted to help," she said quietly. "To make the future… even a little better."
The words unraveled as they left her lips.
Shia slipped an arm around her shoulders.
"…I'm scared too. What if we didn't help at all? What if we broke something?"
They stood there, caught between the noise of the street and the weight of their own silence.
Some choices didn't have answers—only consequences.
And this one had already begun to unfold.
[National Assembly, 2050]
The aide stood quietly at the far end of the corridor, just outside the conference room.
In her hands, the smartpad displayed a hard-to-find summary of former Director Lee Hanna's proposal—though she was no longer the head of the Smart Transportation Research Center the aide once knew.
With a flick of her finger, she began tracing the flow of public opinion data again.
#ClimateTech_Failure
#ClimateManipulationTheory
#SeoulTransportAuthority_Incompetence
At the center of it all was Representative Jung Jae-yoon's account.
The civic groups he tagged, the reporters linked to his articles—it was all part of a coordinated effort.
Only two days remained before the vote on the so-called Underground Public Transit Carbon-Neutral Transition Act.
It felt like standing before a stage where failure had already been scripted—and every actor had memorized their lines.
Public opinion was moving in one, precise direction.
'He's doing it again—using the same old "climate hoax" tactics.'
Her gaze stayed cold as she looked down at the tablet.
It was clear: Jeong Jae-yoon was seizing on the failure of the bill to amplify public distrust,
preparing to reemerge in the upcoming by-election by attacking climate policy head-on.
The conference room door opened, and staff began filing in.
She tightened her grip on the tablet.
Her fingers trembled faintly, but her eyes only grew sharper.
'I know. I know who's been waiting for this failure—and why.
And I won't let it pass this time.'
She drew in a deep breath, then pushed the door open.
The heavy air inside the room wrapped around her like a weight.
Without hesitation, she walked in—steady, unshaken, and resolute.
[2029 – Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport, Climate Records Analysis Division]
A barren office.
Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, only the smell of paper and the occasional clatter of an aging keyboard broke the stillness.
Han-na sat before her monitor, fingers moving steadily over the keys.
Once again, the first file on her desk was another budget cut review.
Without a flicker of emotion, she opened the document and signed the approval box.
Technical soundness, public safety—none of it mattered anymore.
In the end, what this society really wanted was,
"A system that doesn't collapse—at least not all at once."
From the next desk, a senior colleague muttered a bitter joke.
"These days, the most 'competent' thing you can do is make sure it falls apart slowly."
Han-na showed no reaction.
She didn't smile.
She didn't argue.
Outside the window, the rows of solar panels still caught the light—
but to her, they might as well have been faded billboards, scenery stripped of meaning.
Once, she had envisioned a smart circulation grid,
technology meant to protect, even in small ways, the lives of ordinary citizens.
All of it had since been erased, reduced to a line in the budget marked "inefficient item."
She hadn't tried to set it right.
She knew now:
justice doesn't function unless it's designed to.
And the blueprints are always drawn first on the desks of those in power.
Disappointment no longer came.
Even anger felt like a luxury.
All that remained was the calm,
expressionless mask of someone who believed in nothing at all.
[Back in 2050]
After the meeting, the aide stayed alone in the office.
Her fingers flicked across the smartpad, but a chill had already settled deep inside her.
'Something's… different. I know it.'
Beyond the window, solar panels stretched across a rooftop.
Altered data, unfamiliar policy histories— all of it sat there as if it had always belonged,as if nothing had ever changed.
She stared out at the cityscape, her jaw tightening.
"…Someone moved."
This wasn't just a shift in the present.
It was a disturbance that had cut against the grain of time itself.
And in this city, only a handful of people could sense such traces.
She set the smartpad down with a firm thud.
Drew in a long breath.
And then, she knew for certain.
'This change wasn't chance.
Someone had reached in, without a doubt.'
"I'll find them."
The words left her lips softly, yet with the weight of a vow.
Images and suspicions began to surface in her mind.
The man who had given her a casual smile beside the copy machine—
until recently, just a repair technician.
And yet, only days ago, she'd met him again… this time as Choi Jae-hoon, representative of a solar energy cooperative.
The other was Lee Hanna, once slated to work with her on a new transportation policy.
Now, she had vanished without a trace.
If there was a thread to pull, it began with those two.
Change was working quietly, but with deliberate precision, to reweave reality.
She would not let go of that frayed edge.
"Where the breach began, and how—it will be found. I'll see this through to the end."
[2050, School Rooftop]
The sun pressed down on the rooftop long before noon.
Heat shimmered between steel beams and solar panels, and the air, though still, was stifling to breathe.
In the sliver of shade between two panels, three students huddled together.
Jihyuk said nothing.
Leaning against the wall, his unfocused gaze drifted toward the horizon.
The strange alert window he had seen the night before refused to leave his mind.
It had been too surreal to believe it was real—
and yet, too vivid to dismiss as anything but.
"I couldn't do anything," he murmured, rubbing his forehead.
"I saw the connection happen, but… ever since last night, it's like I can't breathe."
No one answered.
Sia kept her head down, dragging her fingertips slowly across the rooftop floor.
She had spent the entire night trying to comfort the other two,
yet now she found herself falling silent.
In the still air, her expression seemed to sink deeper into itself.
Jian quietly pulled out her tablet.
With no real expectation, she powered it on.
The familiar system interface lit up—
But there was no reply.
A single line of text blinked in red.
[Session target status: Data stream unstable / Session corrupted]
[Recovery attempt failed – Access denied]
Jian's fingers froze.
Her breathing quickened, and she pressed her lips tightly together.
"…This…"
She forced the words out.
"This is really our fault."
Her voice was quiet, but the guilt and loss it carried weighed heavier than anything else.
Jihyuk turned his head to look at her.
Jian was clutching the tablet to her chest, her shoulders trembling.
"I only started this thinking it might help… I meant every word…"
She buried her forehead against her knees and murmured, almost to herself:
"Why does it just keep getting worse…?"
Jihyuk took a step toward her—then stopped.
His hand hovered in the air for a moment before falling quietly to his side.
Right now, no words would bring any comfort.
Sia watched the two of them, then closed her eyes.
She couldn't decide what to say— or whether anything should be said at all.
The feelings she had struggled to hold together the night beforewere beginning to crack, just a little.
And so the three of them sat there on the rooftop, silent and powerless.
None of them cried—
but none of them were okay.
After a long pause, Jian lifted the tablet again.
Her fingertip opened the SNS window.
Above the empty text field, calm yet trembling fingers began to type.
"I need help.
Past-link AI bug. System malfunction.I'm trying to find a way to undo this.Please, I mean it—looking for someone who will help. "
Short lines stacked one by one on the screen.
Jian pulled her hand back and pressed "Send."
The notification tone was small, fading into the air without weight.
And nothing happened.
That day's sun was painfully bright.
On the rooftop, the sunlight glared off the panels, falling indifferently over the three of them.
Only the tangled weight of memory, guilt, and helplessness remained in the shade—sliding down like sweat.