The scene opened upon a terrifying, impossible vista.
We see a man standing alone, his back to the viewer. Around him, stretching to a horizon that did not exist, lay countless dead bodies, each one draped in a uniform shroud of white cloth. There were not ten, nor a hundred, nor even a thousand. The count expanded exponentially—ten thousand, then one hundred thousand bodies, an obscene ocean of silent death. It felt as if there was no discernible ground; the man simply stood centered on a vast, blank sheet of perpetual white, completely isolated in the boundless expanse of the catastrophic aftermath.
The terrifying vision dissolved, snapping the focus back to the claustrophobic reality of Jonas Lockwood's apartment. He was on a hurried, hushed call with Joy Hong.
"I am leaving for Busan," Jonas stated, the decision clearly a non-negotiable decree.
"Why the sudden move?" Joy's voice registered surprise on the other end.
Jonas offered a thin veneer of rationalization. "I have no job, Joy. And I have not visited my hometown in years. It is time I checked in on my mother and reassessed my situation." The true reason—a desperate need to escape the epicenter of the violence—remained unsaid.
"When are you departing?"
"I am leaving today," Jonas replied flatly. "I have little to pack; it will not take long."
Joy sounded concerned, the suddenness unsettling. "Jonas, this is precipitous. You should have afforded us time to meet before your departure."
"Do not worry," Jonas assured him, though the promise rang hollow. "I will return as soon as I secure new employment."
Joy accepted the inevitability with a resigned sigh. "Alright, then. Be safe."
Jonas terminated the call.
He double-locked his apartment door from the exterior, the metallic thunk of the bolt echoing in the empty corridor. Downstairs, he handed his keys to the building guard—a gesture of indefinite severance. Clutching only a single, small travel bag, he hailed a passing taxi and specified the destination: the main station.
Upon arrival, he moved with the decisive, agitated speed of a man pursued, securing a ticket for Busan. He did not look back. He did not pause. He simply moved toward the platform, a figure consumed by the necessity of immediate flight.
However, as Jonas crossed the vast concourse, a figure detached itself from the indifferent crowd. This man, whose face remained obscured by shadow and distance, began to follow Jonas, maintaining a discrete.