Seoul, November 11 — 11:10 p.m.
The city pulsed beneath a frozen drizzle, neon reflections rippling over puddles that mirrored the restless sky. Commuters hurried through the underpass, unaware that their shadows were starting to move on their own. Somewhere beyond the honking and chatter, an invisible clock began to count down.
11:10:45.
Sixteen seconds until the gate thinned.
Ryu Jaehan stood alone on the rooftop of an abandoned convenience store overlooking Jongno-3 Street. His coat flapped in the wind; a half-burnt talisman clung to his wrist like a bleeding leaf. He closed his eyes and exhaled once, drawing the taste of iron and dust into his lungs.
> Breathe, seal, focus.
The neural seal in his temple hummed to life, syncing to the SSD comm-line.
"Field Unit Seven online," a voice crackled through the static. "Confirm resonance status."
Jaehan pressed a finger to the mic. "Frequency … negative 0.12. The veil's trembling."
"Copy. You have seven minutes once the window opens. No heroics, Jaehan."
He almost laughed. No heroics. The words always came before someone screamed.
---
11:11 p.m.
The world blinked.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, color drained from everything. Then the night bled red.
Streetlights erupted in halos, car alarms shrieked, and the wind became a chorus of whispers. Jaehan's breath turned white even though the air was warm. The 7-Minute Window had begun.
Through the visor of his spirit scanner, faint threads of light streaked between buildings — wandering souls trying to remember who they were. But one was different: a jagged crimson flare pulsed in an alley below, erratic and loud, like a heartbeat made of screams.
Jaehan vaulted the ledge and landed in the alley. His boots splashed through puddles glowing with ghostlight.
The cursed soul was there — a small boy, maybe ten, standing barefoot beside a vending machine. His face was half-formed, with eyes flickering between human brown and void black.
"Help me," the boy whispered. His voice echoed twice — once in the air, once in Jaehan's skull.
Jaehan knelt, drawing a talisman from his pocket.
"It's okay. I'm here to take you home."
The boy smiled, too wide.
"Home… burned down."
The vending machine exploded outward, cans of soda flying like shrapnel. A wraith claw burst through, black smoke twisting into the shape of a giant hand. Jaehan rolled aside as the ground cracked.
> Level B manifestation, he thought. Hate residue — strong, but not ancient.
He slapped three talismans into the air; they unfolded into glowing runes that spun around the wraith's torso. Blue fire erupted, binding it mid-lunge.
"By the breath of Heaven and the silence of the dead," Jaehan muttered. His left palm burned as sigils crawled up his arm. The blade at his side — Munheon — hissed awake, runes lighting along its edge.
The wraith screamed, distorting the alley. Every window shattered. Jaehan surged forward, slicing through the mist; the blade sang, consuming fragments of corrupted soul as it passed.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then came the echo — a whisper that didn't belong to the boy.
> "You still carry her scent, exorcist."
Jaehan froze. The voice wasn't the wraith's. It was ancient, layered, patient. The air bent around it.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
> "Do you remember the fire five years ago? The girl who prayed for you to look back?"
Jaehan's pulse spiked. The scanner on his wrist flickered — UNKNOWN SIGNATURE / CLASS: UNDEFINED.
The alley darkened to pure black.
Out of the smoke stepped a figure wearing what appeared to be armor made of shadow and bone, its form fractured. A single red sigil glowed where its heart should have been.
> "They call me Numen," the entity said. "The one who sealed the first gate. You've unsealed it again."
Jaehan raised Munheon. "Impossible. Numen's a myth."
> "Then why can you hear me, Ryu Jaehan?"
A ripple of power hit him like wind. The seals on his arm shattered; his scanner went dead. The crimson sigil on Numen's chest pulsed once — the boy's soul screamed and disintegrated.
"Stop!" Jaehan lunged, blade first, but the world warped. Numen's form dispersed into ash and light.
> "Seven minutes are never enough," it whispered. "Next time, bring your sister."
Then it was gone.
11:18 p.m. — Window Closed
Rain returned. Neon lights blinked back to normal. The alley was empty except for Jaehan, kneeling in water that smelled faintly of ozone and incense. He stared at his reflection — his eyes glowed faintly blue, and the veins beneath his skin traced sigils that hadn't been there before.
The comm-line hissed.
"Jaehan? Time's up. Report."
He clicked the mic but said nothing.
The boy's last echo still rang in his head: Home… burned down.
Behind him, the vending machine whirred back to life, dispensing a single can that rolled to his foot. Its pull-tab read 11:11 in stamped digits.
He pocketed it.
"Mission failed," he finally said. "But the gate… it spoke my name."
Static. Then silence.