All medical records are confidential by nature, but psychiatric records, in particular, require an extra level of discretion—especially without the patient’s explicit consent. That’s because they often delve into deeply personal matters the individual would rather keep private.
But for Espers, things work a little differently. If someone with unstable mental health were to spiral, the resulting disaster—loss of life, property damage—could be catastrophic. So among medical staff, it wasn’t unusual to share those details without the Esper’s permission. The higher the Esper’s rank, the more often it happened.
In more severe cases, it was only natural for the Guide in the Bonded Pair to receive a full, unfiltered report of the Esper’s condition—down to the last detail. That was part of their responsibility.
Originally, Park Woo-jun hadn’t undergone any deep evaluations. He was mild-mannered by nature, and aside from a few side effects from the Amplifier, there hadn’t been any major red flags. Most of his treatment had focused on therapy—helping him process past trauma. As a result, not even his Guide, Lee Han-seo, had been given much detail.
But now that the pot simmering quietly on the stove had finally been discovered, they couldn’t just act like nothing was wrong. Just because it hadn’t boiled over yet didn’t mean it wasn’t a danger. Letting it spill just to avoid getting burned—burning the whole house down in the process—wasn’t an option.
“…Ah. Yes, I understand.”
The season had turned cool, but the afternoon sun still burned fiercely. Lee Han-seo didn’t bother shielding his face. He sat on the bench beside the vending machine, eyes shadowed with concern, focused on the call. He was being briefed on the results of Park Woo-jun’s morning consultation and exam.
Woo-jun was probably chewing his nails by now, anxiously waiting for him to return. Without even glancing at the label, Han-seo had pulled a random drink from the machine and now flicked the can’s tab with his fingernail, nodding as he listened—even though the person on the other end couldn’t see him.
Until the Headquarters medical team gave the go-ahead, Woo-jun had been pulled from all training. At the same time, the flood of Guiding requests that had been swarming Han-seo suddenly stopped. If only that had magically cured Woo-jun—but of course, it hadn’t. The anxiety still gripped him tightly.
It wasn’t until Han-seo began watching closely that he truly realized the depth of it all. Woo-jun couldn’t sleep without medication. Just seeing Han-seo walk past another Esper made his nerves spike like drawn blades. His anxiety circled him like sand in water, slowly closing in—until it hardened like cement and crushed the air from his lungs.
But this wasn’t a Guiding issue. There was little Han-seo could do. And it still didn’t sit right with him that he wasn’t the lifeline Woo-jun needed right now. Maybe it never would. How could anyone get used to that?
One thing in Woo-jun’s test results had caught them off guard: his anger levels were just as high as his anxiety. Bottling up emotions was common enough, but Woo-jun never released any of it. He just swallowed it down. Even when he was upset, he’d force a bland smile instead of saying how he really felt. It was like slowly shaving pieces off his own soul.
But what really shocked them—what left Han-seo speechless—was what happened when Woo-jun thought about him. His stress and tension levels spiked even higher. At first, Han-seo thought he’d misheard. He pressed the doctor over and over, trying to make sense of it. Even after getting the medical team to run precise brainwave scans, he still couldn’t believe it.
But the results were clear: when Han-seo wasn’t around, Woo-jun grew anxious. Yet when he was near, that closeness caused his stress levels to shoot through the roof. Just showing him a picture of Han-seo or bringing up his name had the same effect.
In the end, Han-seo had no choice but to accept it. Among the towering pillars of stress crushing Park Woo-jun from the inside, he might very well be the biggest.
According to the doctor, Woo-jun’s pre-existing separation anxiety and generalized anxiety had worsened to the point of full-blown panic attacks. Still, there was some comfort to be found. In Western countries, research into psychotropic medication for Espers was more advanced, and public perception had evolved, too.
When news broke that Woo-jun had been pulled from training, their colleagues approached the visibly deflated Han-seo and offered quiet, nonchalant reassurances. They told him they’d been through it, too, and that it was nothing unusual. From the way they talked, you’d think Woo-jun had caught a cold, not a breakdown.
But it helped. That air of calm let Han-seo grit his teeth and stay sharp. There wasn’t time to waste being miserable.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll count on you again next week. Yes, take care.”
After politely ending the call, Han-seo stared down at the now-flat soda in his hand. Then, in one swift motion, he drank the whole thing.
Honestly? Saying he didn’t feel bitter would be a lie. Sure, Woo-jun had loved him deeply and selflessly. But the fact that he’d never once trusted Han-seo’s love in return—that stung.
If it had just been about himself, Han-seo wouldn’t have cared what people whispered or what the media said. Why would he have volunteered to enter a U-Class Dungeon or accepted deployment from the Alliance if he did? Let them say whatever they wanted. Sure, some of it was downright vile, and yeah, it got to him sometimes—but only briefly. If he really wanted to, all it would take was a word to the elders in his family to silence the press within a few days.
But Park Woo-jun was different. He was in his mid-twenties and already the Chief of Espers. He was the frontrunner to become the next Director of the Esper Affairs Center. And while the official title was “Director,” everyone knew it carried the weight of a minister-level position.
The previous Director, Kim Joon-young, had finished his term smoothly thanks to his political skill. But no one could expect Woo-jun to be just as shrewd.
That’s why Han-seo made up his mind: he needed to rack up undeniable achievements—something solid enough that no one could touch him. If they wanted to protect Woo-jun, that was the only way. And it would help silence the political parties desperately trying to pull Woo-jun into their camps. Whether he wanted it or not, the higher someone climbed, the more others would try to drag them down.
Even if Woo-jun said he didn’t want to advance any further, that would just give them more ammunition. They’d say he lacked responsibility. They’d keep whipping him until he moved the way they wanted.
Lee Han-seo had grown up witnessing scenes like this—often, and far too close for comfort. Ever since he was a child, he’d seen people he cared about being treated like garbage, forced to swallow their pride, dismissed, exploited. And no matter who it was, he swore he’d never let anyone treat Park Woo-jun that way. Not ever. He refused to just stand by and watch it happen again.
That’s why he worked so damn hard to expand his influence wherever he went. Of course, part of it was a sense of duty—doing everything he could to help save the world. But underneath that noble ambition was something simpler, more personal: the need to protect someone precious to him.
At this Headquarters, even the most ordinary employee—the ones he ran into every day—would be considered elite back in their home countries. And that wasn’t just the Espers. Even the low-level administrative staff, the ones buried in paperwork, were the best of the best.
Right now, Lee Han-seo was the strongest Guide in the world, without question. And because the people at Headquarters had seen firsthand how he used that overwhelming strength to care for other Espers, they welcomed him with open arms. Everyone was friendly, respectful. And Han-seo believed—no, knew—that every single one of those relationships would become part of Woo-jun’s support network. Whether Woo-jun wanted to lead or not, whether he aimed higher or stayed where he was, Han-seo wanted more people who’d stand behind him unconditionally. Just like he did.
As far as he was concerned, everything had been going according to plan. Right up until the day Park Woo-jun suddenly collapsed—his pain so deep, not even Guiding could reach it.
“Ugh, this is BULLSHIT! Do you even know how hard I’ve been working my ass off? Smiling and sucking it up for his sake? I did all of that so we could retire early and live happily ever after, damn it!! And he doesn’t even get it!! UGH! I’M SO PISSED!!”
The sharp clang of the empty soda can hitting the pavement was nothing compared to the way his voice cracked through the air, fists swinging wildly at nothing in particular. It was full-on rage, arms flailing in open air, voice pitched with frustration. Thankfully, there was no one nearby who spoke Korean—so his image as an S-Class Guide was, for now, still intact.
…Yeah. I should probably just leave.
Lee Hye-soo, likely the only one within earshot who could understand what he was yelling about, had been walking toward him after spotting a familiar silhouette in the distance. She’d even raised a hand to wave. But the moment she got close enough to see his expression—like he was about to breathe fire—she immediately turned around and walked briskly in the opposite direction without a word.
Sure, seeing someone so fired up was better than seeing them completely deflated. But still…
One thing was crystal clear: whether you were in Seoul or Berlin, you didn’t mess with a mad dog.
