[2050 – Inside Jung Jae-yoon's Campaign War Room]
Jung Jae-yoon sat deep in his chair, fingers interlaced, eyes fixed on the desk in silence.
The room was dim.
The windows were covered with blackout film, and a single desk lamp cast a faint pool of light.
Before him, a tablet screen flickered, replaying short fragments on loop.
Ji-an's face.
Do-yoon's hands flying across a keyboard.
Si-a hugging a tablet as she stared out the window.
"If what you say is true… those kids are still moving, aren't they?"
Standing quietly at his side, Han-na adjusted her dark suit and gave a small nod.
"Yes. Traces of the system remain, and their activity patterns are still detectable.
The connection may have ended, but its impact… has not disappeared."
For a moment, silence pressed down—until a gust slammed hard against the window frame.
Even through the soundproof glass, the shifting air pressure could be felt.
Han-na's voice cut through softly.
"And… last week, at a regional news forum, it was reported that an online debate had erupted over posts linked to these kids."
Jung's brow tightened slightly.
"Verified?"
"Nothing confirmed. But on certain platforms, phrases like 'time manipulation' and 'fake future' are spreading like memes.
There are more skeptics than believers."
Jung's lips curved slowly into a cold, measured smile.
"Good. When things become a joke, sincerity gets buried.
That means it's time to end this with records."
He rose, sliding the tablet at the edge of the table with one finger.
"Let's draft a formal paper. An op-ed, maybe. 'The Dangers of Youth Cognitive Manipulation Systems.'
Too blunt?"
Outside, a flash of lightning split the clouds.
Seconds later, distant thunder rolled across the city.
Han-na nodded, her face unreadable.
"That frame is sufficient. The data is already compiled.
We've also documented the legal loopholes of the so-called 'responsive memory interface' technology."
Jung glanced toward the window.
Beyond the glass, a pale rain mixed with dust blurred the city under black clouds.
"People don't even know what disaster is real anymore,"
he murmured.
Then, more firmly:
"That's why we must pose as the ones who tidy it all up—handing them answers they think they want."
At that instant, the overhead light flickered briefly.
In the half-dark, only Han-na's tablet glowed coldly.
She scrolled with calm fingers.
At the bottom of the screen, a single line appeared:
"Jeong Ji-hyuk – multiple contacts with Aide Kim Su-yeon."
Han-na stared at it for a long moment.
Her gaze carried no emotion, but the silence was heavy.
Quietly, she closed the screen.
And as if nothing had happened, lifted her eyes forward again.
That data was not shared.
For now, she had decided, it didn't need to be.
[2050, Evening – Yu Si-a's Home]
A single incandescent bulb barely lit the cramped living room.
A faded sofa, a half-covered laundry basket, and a muted TV screen with flickering subtitles filled the quiet space.
Si-a sat at the dining table, notebook open, pen in hand, but the words on the page refused to sink in.
Outside, night had already fallen, and inside, the sound of her mother finishing the dinner dishes echoed softly.
"Si-a."
From the kitchen, her mother called out, drying her wet hands on a towel.
"I need to finish up the dishes—can you help Su-a brush her teeth?"
"…Okay."
Si-a rose slowly from her chair.
With a creak, the bedroom door opened, and her younger sister shuffled out.
She was thirteen, but her clear, guileless eyes still shone like those of a five-year-old.
"Come here, Su-a."
Si-a squeezed toothpaste onto a brush and guided her sister to the sink.
Su-a clung to her arm, turning her head away in protest.
"I don't want to, Si-a… not tonight…"
"Then how about we play our brushing game?
I used your favorite toothpaste—green apple flavor."
Si-a smiled gently, though the shadows beneath her eyes couldn't be hidden.
When Su-a finally bit down on the brush, Si-a let out a quiet breath and watched.
"Good job. When we're done, I'll read you a storybook."
"Mm… Si-a, you'll sleep next to me tonight, right?"
"I'm sorry. I've got homework again.
But I'll give you a big hug instead."
After settling her sister back in bed, Si-a returned to the dining table.
The clock read 10:38 p.m.
On her laptop, an unfinished online lecture was paused mid-frame, and beneath it, an article blinked on the screen:
"Climate Inequality and Future Generations."
From the kitchen came the sound of her mother closing the rice cooker with a weary sigh.
Her voice drifted out, casual but heavy.
"Dad's working late again. Said he'll be home late all week."
Si-a didn't answer.
She only gripped her pen tighter, staring at the open notebook before pressing her forehead into her palm and taking a slow breath.
'I just want to do my own things like everyone else… Why does it feel so suffocating?'
Just then, her phone buzzed.
Incoming call: Aide Kim Su-yeon.
Startled, Si-a picked it up and pressed the receiver to her ear.
"Yes… this is Si-a."
On the other end, Su-yeon's voice was calm, steady, and warm.
"Si-a, would you consider speaking at the upcoming Youth Climate Forum?
I feel like your voice is exactly what we need right now."
Si-a lifted her head slowly, speechless.
On the table, beneath the glow of the lamp, a line she had scribbled earlier caught her eye:
The climate crisis is a survival crisis.
Her voice came out quietly.
"…I'll think about it. But… it might be too much for me."
Su-yeon's reply was short, but firm.
"It's okay. You've already done so much.
I just hope you don't forget that yourself."
When the call ended, silence settled back over the room.
For a long moment, Si-a stared blankly at her phone. Then she reopened her notebook.
Beside it lay a piece of scrap paper, covered in a child's doodle.
Su-a had drawn three wobbly figures beneath a curved sky.
In the center, written in clumsy letters, were the words: "Big Sister Si-a."
Si-a laid her hand gently over the drawing, then slowly lifted it away.
Her fingers still felt heavy, but that night, her eyes shone a little clearer.
[2050, Café Near the School]
The café had already closed for the night.
On the first floor, only a faint trace of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air.
Up the narrow wooden stairs, the second floor carried a different scent—quiet determination.
Behind drawn curtains, the city lights blurred faintly across the windowpane.
At a table in the center, a small group gathered:
Ji-an, Si-a, Do-yoon, Ji-hyuk, Su-yeon, Se-a, Jae-hoon, and Han Joo-young.
Their gazes met in silence.
On the wall-mounted chalkboard, bold words stood out:
"Joint Public Statement"
"Invite Global Youth Climate Activists"
"Reveal Existing Cases of Change"
A calm tension filled the room.
Do-yoon turned his laptop screen toward the group and began.
"This… could be the trace of the future we've changed.
Since the connection, the pace of policy shifts and social response has been different—statistically significant."
Ji-hyuk nodded quietly.
"But… will any of this be officially recognized?"
He touched the documents spread across the table.
"We've never once proven the existence of LUKA publicly.
The system is shut down. All we have left are the testimonies of those who used it."
Se-a pressed her lips together before speaking.
"And that could turn into a weapon.
If words like 'future manipulation' or 'memory resonance' start spreading, everything we say could be dismissed as conspiracy talk."
Silence fell.
Ji-an closed her eyes for a moment before speaking.
"…That's why we don't need proof—we need to show our hearts.
What matters most is what we saw, what we felt.
Whether it's the 'real' future or not, what this era needs is the will to coexist."
Si-a gave a small nod.
"When we talk about the climate crisis as information, people forget.
But if they hear the stories of how we've lived through it… that might be different."
Do-yoon shut his laptop.
"Then… at the forum, let's leave LUKA unspoken.
We'll keep what we saw and heard as our personal memories.
On stage, we'll speak only of why our generation needs to raise its voice."
Ji-hyuk exhaled slowly, adding the final note.
"Not all truths need to be told. Words spoken with sincerity reach farther anyway."
Su-yeon nodded and wrote a new line beneath the chalkboard headings:
"Sincerity—for Future Generations and the Earth."
Her handwriting was steady, carrying the weight of a long journey to this point.
Among strategies and statistics, that single line stood out as the clearest direction of all.
Beneath the title of the forum announcement, a line was drawn—
not as a boundary, but as a path to walk together.
Even as night deepened outside,
the café remained warm under the soft glow of a desk lamp.
Su-yeon turned her tablet toward Ji-an, Si-a, and Ji-hyuk.
The screen read:
"Plan for the 2050 Youth Climate Forum"
Beneath the bold title, each session outline and invited speaker's name was neatly listed.
"As I said earlier," Su-yeon pointed to the screen, her voice calm,
"your voices need to be heard louder than ever.
Right now, conspiracy and hate speech spread far too easily.
People will listen more to you—youth of this era—than to the words of adults."
The youths exchanged glances.
No words were spoken, but their eyes carried the same weight of doubt.
Ji-an broke the silence first.
"Do you think… we can really do this?"
Her voice was not fearful, but like a final quiet check.
Su-yeon nodded.
"You already know what small courage and choices can change.
You've lived it yourselves."
Her words were neither pressure nor persuasion, but solid trust.
Ji-hyuk drew in a short breath.
There was still hesitation in his eyes, but something new was budding within that doubt.
Su-yeon continued gently.
"We don't need to decide tonight who will stand as the main speaker.
Prepare together—but let the choice be yours.
Whoever feels the strongest urge to speak, or the one who feels they cannot stay silent."
She finished with quiet firmness.
"Think about it until tomorrow. Make your own decision."
Ji-an nodded.
Si-a exhaled softly and gave a faint smile.
Ji-hyuk said nothing, staring out the window.
The night outside was already deep,
but for them, the dawn ahead was only just beginning.