[2050, Ji-hyeok's Family Home]
That night, Ji-hyeok stood in front of his father's house,
dragging a single suitcase behind him.
It had been a long time since he'd returned. No—truthfully,
it was a place he had never wanted to return to.
The door was already open.
His father had ordered him to give up his small studio and move back here.
Ordered was the more accurate word.
The reason was obvious.
"People might think poorly of you, coming and going from that place.
Rumors like that could reflect badly on the campaign."
That was always how his father, Jeong Jae-yoon, operated.
Everything was judged by image, every conflict smoothed over by facial control.
To him, even the climate crisis and his family's discord were nothing more than "narratives to be managed."
Ji-hyeok quietly slipped off his shoes and glanced around the living room.
Familiar, yet distant. A place heavy with the smell of disinfectant.
Beyond the lit living room, muffled voices spilled out.
He moved closer and peered through the narrow gap of the door.
A meeting.
Candidate Jeong Jae-yoon, several aides, and a woman Ji-hyeok did not recognize.
Lee Hanna.
She flipped through a tablet and spoke evenly:
"The climate crisis is heavy, yes. But the age when sincerity moved people is already over.
What we manufacture now is fatigue—emotional overload.
Not persuasion, but design that makes people turn away."
Another aide added quickly:
"We'll preempt the youth climate forum as well.
If we frame them as 'naïve idealists,' public sentiment will turn against them."
Ji-hyeok clenched his fists.
His hands trembled, his eyes wide in disbelief.
And then—
"Ji-hyeok?"
His father's voice cut across the room.
The meeting halted. All eyes turned toward him.
Jae-yoon neither smiled nor flinched. He simply looked at his son, calm and silent.
Ji-hyeok's voice came low but clear, as if pressed out through clenched teeth:
"So this… this is the 'reality' you spoke of?
Mocking people's desperation?
Turning sincerity into inconvenience?
That's your definition of justice?"
Jeong Jae-yoon remained silent.
It was Lee Hanna who answered instead.
"It would be wonderful if earnest young people like you could change the world.
But the world doesn't want that. It's uncomfortable.
It's bothersome.
And most of all—it doesn't pay."
Ji-hyeok's words died in his throat.
There are realities that cannot be defeated by words.
But there are also realities one must refuse to accept.
For a moment, he looked at his father one last time.
Jae-yoon turned his head away.
And in that instant, the distance between father and son became irrevocable.
Ji-hyeok picked up his suitcase without a word and walked back toward the entrance.
Even the sound of the door closing was quiet.
In that silence, Lee Hanna's eyes lingered on him for a long while.
She said nothing.
And even before the door had fully shut, her gaze began to drift elsewhere—toward the past.
Several years earlier, in a meeting room at a southern metropolitan subway transfer station.
Under harsh fluorescent lights, stacks of blueprints and budget tables filled the table.
Hanna had sat quietly beside her superior, turning pages.
The meeting was long, and fruitless.
At some point, she pointed absently at a figure in the middle of the layout.
"Here… isn't the spacing a little too narrow, if you go by actual site standards?"
It was a passing remark, almost an afterthought.
The room barely reacted—except for one person.
Jeong Jae-yoon.
At the end of the meeting, he had looked at her in a different way.
As if to say, she doesn't speak up much, but she notices things.
A few days later, without preamble, he had approached her.
"Have you considered moving up to Seoul?"
At first, she had been caught off guard. But she soon understood.
What he meant was not let's work together, but rather:
You strike me as someone who won't trouble me with uncomfortable truths.
He never said it aloud. But she had understood.
"To stand near the line, but never cross it"—that was why Jeong Jae-yoon had chosen her.
And back then, she had not asked why.
She had simply nodded quietly.
And so, she remained by his side.
[2050, Ji-hyeok's Empty Studio Room]
The trace of late summer was slowly fading.
Outside the window, a blanket of gray clouds hung low.
Even with the windows shut, the air carried a faint chill.
Ji-hyeok closed the door behind him and stepped quietly into the still room.
His duffel bag dropped onto the floor and stayed there.
He didn't bother to turn on the fluorescent light.
The curtains remained drawn as he leaned his back against the wall.
From outside, the hum of passing cars reached him in muffled echoes—
even that sound felt sealed off, as though the room itself had swallowed it.
Ji-hyeok pressed a hand against his forehead, then slid it down to cover his eyes.
His fingertips trembled faintly.
"The justice I wanted to believe in… was always the furthest thing from my father."
The words sank silently into the darkness of the room, without resonance.
Even the air seemed to wait—
quiet, still, as if holding its breath for autumn.
[Meeting with the Party Leader]
The long corridor carried the last breath of summer, stretched thin.
Beyond the windows, trees still swayed with heavy green leaves,
but the wind that threaded through them carried a sharper edge.
The air, caught between lingering heat and the bite of early autumn, wore an unsettled face.
Inside the hallway, the air was dry—
no fan, no air conditioner, only a vague discomfort that clung like dust.
Su-yeon paused at the door of the conference room, drew in a breath,
and opened it carefully.
Inside, the party leader sat at the table, turning through the draft of a bill page by page.
"Secretary Kim Su-yeon,"
he said, lifting his head as he set the papers aside.
"This one… may be too high a wall for you to finish on your own.
But still—"
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"The idea is too valuable to waste."
Su-yeon swallowed quietly.
The leader went on:
"There's a candidate preparing to run in a new district.
A man who's grown with the support of citizens.
Why not start again there?"
A sheet of paper slid across the table toward her.
She hesitated, then reached out and took it.
The name that met her eyes: Choi Jae-hoon.
A memory flickered—
just a few days ago, she had been scheduled to meet him,
but the meeting was canceled at the last moment when something unexpected came up.
Outside, another gust of wind rustled through the branches—
like the first warning before winter.
Yet at her fingertips, the paper still carried the faint warmth of late summer.
[2050, Election Campaign Office]
Late afternoon.
A quiet breath of early autumn brushed against the walls of the building.
On the outskirts of Seoul, the heat of the day was finally loosening its grip,
and a coolness tinged with the grain of autumn was slowly settling over the city.
Su-yeon stood at the entrance of the campaign office.
The long summer had vanished without even leaving a shadow,
and the shift of seasons—subtle yet undeniable—pressed gently into her skin.
When she opened the door, a wave of warm indoor air greeted her.
Yet the tension filling the space was so thick it made breathing difficult.
It was the air of an election campaign—
a place she had not entered for a long time.
Led by the staff in charge, she stepped into the conference room and took her seat.
Moments later, a man walked in.
A neat suit.
Steps that carried little polish, but a sincerity that was unmistakable.
"It's an honor to meet you."
Choi Jae-hoon bowed briefly and spoke clearly.
"I apologize for canceling our last appointment so suddenly.
My name is Choi Jae-hoon.
I decided to run because I couldn't just stand by and watch this era pass.
I look forward to working with you."
His words were simple, yet they carried a steady weight.
Su-yeon gave a quiet nod.
Her face remained composed, but somewhere deep in her chest,
a long-forgotten tremor stirred awake.
You've been starting something… long before this moment.
She kept the thought to herself, masking it with a careful smile.
After the formal introductions, the two moved from the crowded main hallto a smaller meeting room, away from the clamor.
Outside the window, the autumn sky was slowly descending into night.
Placing the tablet in her hand onto the table,
Su-yeon spoke gently, yet with clarity.
"Candidate Choi."
Her voice was cautious, but steady.
"A few days ago, I happened to learn something about your past.
I heard… that once, you had a conversation with a student from the future.
And I, too, have had the same experience."
For a heartbeat, silence.
A breeze slipped in from the window, rustling the curtains softly.
The crisp autumn air lingered between them,
filling the room with a silence more honest than words.
But Choi Jae-hoon did not falter.
He neither doubted nor recoiled.
Instead, he gave a slow, steady nod.
"I see."
His voice was low, firm.
"Then perhaps… we are looking toward the same horizon."
Su-yeon's lips curved into a quiet smile.
And so, their first conversation began.