The first-ever occurrence of a Gate had ended with no real findings. Truthfully, the conclusion had been more or less inevitable. No matter how many questions the Secretary-General asked, Cha-hyeon’s answers were limited to “I don’t remember,” or “Didn’t I tell you I woke up in the hospital?”
In the end, not a single clue was uncovered regarding the two-hour blank in Sung Cha-hyeon’s memory. The Secretary-General, burdened with a head full of unanswered questions and no satisfying revelations, sighed in frustration.
“A Gate that mutated from Grade C to Grade S and then reverted back to its original classification. But no memory of the time it was S-grade. And then there’s Sung Cha-hyeon, who’s completely forgotten everything about Se-min. Received a dungeon-clear reward, but doesn’t even know what it was. That’s a bomb, this is a bomb—bombs everywhere, and I can’t even tell which one’s the worst! Ha!”
Se-min, who had followed along to see her off, felt his shoulders involuntarily hunch. A reflex at this point. After all, Cha-hyeon always managed to piss off the Secretary-General. No—wait, had he done it again today…?
“Exactly. It’s also a headache figuring out how much of this we can even disclose to the public. We can’t just sweep it under the rug, not after issuing standby orders to Espers across the capital region. And we don’t even have enough material for a proper briefing, which is already turning into a pain.”
Deputy Chief Jeong, scratching his head, agreed. When an incident of this magnitude occurred, it was customary to release an official statement within 24 hours. For him, the clock was ticking.
“Ha… For now, let’s go with 1 PM tomorrow. This kind of case would require a clear interview anyway, so bring in Sung Cha-hyeon and put it out together. Oh, and before that, have the hospital button their lips one more time. No good will come of people finding out Cha-hyeon has amnesia. It’ll just give critics more ammo. I doubt they’ll believe he only forgot things related to Se-min anyway.”
Her irritation quickly gave way to composure, as expected of someone in her position. The Secretary-General efficiently began tying off loose ends.
“Understood. Tomorrow at 13:00. We’ll hold the official announcement in the main hall. I’ll inform the reporters and Esper Sung Cha-hyeon. I’ll also speak with the hospital staff.”
“I’ll tell Hyung myself.”
“Would you? Thanks.”
Despite the uncertainty, those who had worked closely together for a long time quickly aligned themselves. Once the framework was in place, the Secretary-General let out a long sigh, finally allowing room for other concerns to surface. Her tone lightened as she chattered on.
“…Honestly, memory loss? What is this, a soap opera? The weirdest things happen, really. And how does that kid Cha-hyeon, even after losing his memory, forget only the things related to Se-min…”
Her large strides suddenly slowed, and then came to a complete stop. A look of puzzled realization crept across her face.
“……”
Deputy Chief Jeong, who had also stopped without thinking, looked mildly confused. Se-min stood still too, expressionless.
“…This just occurred to me.”
She slowly turned toward Se-min. Her gaze, unusually curious, scanned the young Guide—still visibly soft-featured—as if inspecting something that had been overlooked. Se-min instinctively bit down on his lower lip.
“Sung Cha-hyeon forgot everything related to Se-min, right? Memories, shared experiences, personal ties, the whole lot?”
“That’s what we thought, yeah?”
Deputy Chief Jeong responded with an uneasy nod. Still keeping her eyes on Se-min, the Secretary-General tilted her head slightly and continued, her voice carefully enunciated as though retracing a hypothesis she’d just uncovered.
“But we recognized each other the moment we met, didn’t we? That means we weren’t erased from his memory.”
A slight crack formed between Se-min’s tightly shut lips. Unlike the Deputy Chief—whose face plainly said ‘Isn’t that obvious?’—Se-min seemed to understand immediately where she was going with this.
“…Even though I know both of you?”
In other words, even though both the Secretary-General and Deputy Chief Jeong were connected to Se-min, Sung Cha-hyeon had not forgotten them.
“Ah… ahh?”
Finally grasping it, Deputy Chief Jeong let out a bewildered exclamation. He pointed at Se-min with his index finger, then, realizing it was rude, bent the joint downward, speaking animatedly.
“You’re right! We know Guide Se-min, and Esper Sung Cha-hyeon remembers us! So there’s some kind of selective criteria?”
“This is just speculation… but maybe the criterion for memory retention depends on where Sung Cha-hyeon places his focus.”
The Secretary-General, folding her arms slowly, continued in a clear voice, her logic unfolding steadily.
“We, members of the Esper Association, were introduced to the awakened Sung Cha-hyeon first, right? Guide Ji Se-min, on the other hand, used to be his live-in ‘younger sibling,’ so they naturally knew each other. Then they began to meet more often after Se-min awakened as a Guide. But the Mom Café that Cha-hyeon joined—Ergh, damn it…”
Muttering a soft curse, she closed her eyes tightly for a moment. Se-min, on the verge of wanting to crawl into a hole, was saved only by the fact that she resumed speaking before the silence dragged on too long.
“We understand that he used the Mom Café to gather neighborhood information. But he doesn’t remember why he joined the café or his nickname there, right? Let’s say, hypothetically, the reason he joined was ‘because of Se-min’ and the nickname was ‘related to Se-min.’ Wouldn’t that explain why those details are missing?”
“Oh… ohh? Then could it be that the reason he doesn’t remember the posts that mentioned Guide Ji Se-min is because they were interpreted as ‘information about Se-min’?”
A subtle, yet significant distinction. It wasn’t that he forgot everything related to Ji Se-min—but that he forgot the memories where Ji Se-min was the focal point…
“…Still, Secretary-General. No matter how you slice it, the fact remains that Esper Sung Cha-hyeon has forgotten most of his memories related to Guide Se-min.”
Deputy Chief Jeong’s previously excited tone cooled, tinged with disappointment.
He was right. It was a subtle, yet important difference—but not one that brought them much comfort at the moment.
Yet rather than appearing disheartened, the Secretary-General merely curved her lips into a faint smile.
“Yes, exactly. But if we define the condition for Sung Cha-hyeon’s memory loss as ‘situations centered around Ji Se-min,’ then there’s something we can deduce.”
Although she referred to it as speculation, there was no mistaking the certainty in her steely eyes as they fixed on Se-min.
“What if the Gate-clear reward that Sung Cha-hyeon can’t remember… was somehow related to Se-min?”
***
It was, undeniably, a compelling hypothesis.
At present, Cha-hyeon had forgotten all memories in which Ji Se-min had played a central role, and there was no reward visibly listed in his status window. The reason for this absence remained unknown, but if the reward itself had been linked to Se-min—and thus erased from his memory—then…?
The thrill of getting one step closer to solving the mystery was short-lived. They quickly ran into the harsh wall of reality.
The most fundamental issue was that they had absolutely no idea what kind of reward related to Se-min could possibly exist. It was impossible to imagine how a person could be a form of reward, and even the few hypothetical scenarios they managed to construct were ultimately meaningless without Cha-hyeon recovering his memory.
And so they were right back at square one. Realizing further debate would get them nowhere, the Secretary-General stood up and called it.
“We’re already swamped. Let’s stop here for now. Se-min, head back safely.”
After saying her goodbyes, she got into the back seat of the black sedan. Just before climbing into the passenger side, Deputy Chief Jeong turned to Se-min, his expression a little deflated as he offered a parting word.
“Guide Se-min, thanks for coming all the way out here. It’s almost mealtime—want to grab something to eat? Hospital food sucks. Especially the stuff here, it’s practically notorious.”
“Ah… I appreciate the offer, but I’m still worried about Hyung.”
Deputy Chief Jeong stared at him with an expression that might as well have had the words plastered across his face: ‘Worried? About Sung Cha-hyeon? Why?’ He was, without a doubt, the kind of man who wore his emotions openly.
But with a quick cough, he soon donned his professional mask.
“Right, of course. You must be really worried. I didn’t think of that. Let’s plan for a meal another time then… Stay strong, Guide Se-min. Don’t let it get to you too much.”
“…Huh?”
Se-min blinked, surprised by the unexpected words. Jeong offered a sheepish smile.
“We were shocked, sure… but nowhere near how you must’ve felt. You two were pretty close, weren’t you? First, the Gate suddenly spikes to S-grade. The clear probability is seven percent, they said. Then overnight, he forgets you entirely. That must’ve been… I mean, seeing Esper Sung Cha-hyeon like that…”
His rapid-fire words began to trail off. Silence followed for a brief moment before he cleared his throat and forced a grin. It was plain to see he had swallowed something he hadn’t meant to say.
“…Well, anyway! He’ll get his memory back soon, so hang in there, okay?”
It was obvious that wasn’t how he’d intended to end the conversation. But Deputy Chief Jeong gave Se-min a couple of pats on the shoulder and climbed into the passenger seat.
Soon, the black sedan exited the VIP parking lot. Even after the car disappeared, Se-min remained where he was, staring at the direction it had gone for quite some time.
“…Ugh, cold.”
His muttered words echoed softly in the quiet lot. Shivering, he turned and began to walk again. His steps were faint, as though drained of strength.
“Don’t let it get to you too much.”
The Gate had suddenly mutated to S-grade, and he thought his hyung might die. Then overnight, he forgot him entirely. Of course he’d be shocked.
Deputy Chief Jeong’s words of comfort lingered far longer than expected. They made Se-min feel like he’d accidentally said more than he meant to.
But… surely Hyung was hurting even more than him. Just clearing an S-grade Gate alone would’ve wrecked his body—and on top of that, he lost his memory. Yeah… Cha-hyeon-hyung must be way more confused than I am…
Se-min sniffled, his nose running from the cold. After a few times wiping at it, he figured it’d be better to just blow it properly and headed into the restroom.
Using the coarse tissue to blow his nose left the area around it red and raw. With his swollen eyelids still betraying signs of earlier tears, anyone passing by might easily assume he’d secretly been crying again.
“I’m tired of having to explain I wasn’t crying…”
Se-min muttered, sounding a little annoyed. His Hyung had a habit of being overprotective and would definitely drill him with questions. He’d already thought of a dozen things Cha-hyeon might ask. Clicking his tongue with a soft tsk, Se-min shook his head and returned to his original destination.
Standing in front of Cha-hyeon’s hospital room, Se-min quietly inhaled and exhaled before gently knocking on the door.
“Hyung. It’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”
There was no response from inside, but instead of asking again, Se-min simply turned the knob. Some part of him, remembering what had happened before, half-expected the door not to open—but it slid open easily.
And then Se-min realized why there had been no answer.
“…Hyung?”
The hospital room was completely empty.
