The most prominent figure, S-rank Esper Lee Hayan, had long since crossed over to America. When he broke ties with the Center Director and left the country, the fortress the Director had so carefully built began to crumble from its very foundation.
Among the S-rank Espers, Lee Hayan had the largest following. His strength and his character were considered overwhelmingly superior to anyone else’s.
Tae Yishin had only spoken with him a handful of times. But even then, Lee Hayan’s solemn, righteous nature had been enough to make him feel suffocated just standing near him.
And yet, it was the Center Director who had driven that man—who had devoted himself wholly to Korea—into abandoning it. Lee Hayan never publicly explained his reasons, but once he left, the rumors spread quietly through his former followers, leaving little doubt as to why.
Still… Tae Yishin hadn’t expected the Director to be so brazen as to demand that he manipulate people’s minds on his behalf. “Rules for thee, not for me” fit him perfectly. Forcing down the boiling frustration in his chest, Tae Yishin let out a slow breath.
The Director wanted to use him to patch up the cracks in his collapsing fortress. None of the Espers on his side had Mental Control abilities. A decent man would’ve tried to win back the hearts of those who opposed him. But the Director had chosen the easiest, most destructive path.
“So what will it be? If you refuse, I’ll make sure Guide Kim Nabin never works with you again.”
Tae Yishin squeezed his eyes shut. The Director already knew—knew that he had no real choice.
Otherwise, that sly man would never have dared make such a dangerous offer, one that could destroy him if leaked. If Tae Yishin carried out the Director’s orders, he’d be climbing onto the same sinking ship.
Even if he later claimed he was only following orders, the crimes would still be his own. And the Director was exactly the sort of man who, when the time came, would cut him loose and shove all the blame onto him just to save himself.
A trap with no way out.
Accepting or rejecting didn’t matter. The moment Tae Yishin heard the proposal, it was as if he’d already stepped into the mire.
“And just so we’re clear—if word of this conversation leaks, I can’t guarantee the safety of Guide Ryu Somin.”
As soon as the words fell, the table between them disintegrated into ash, scattering like dust. The sharp force leaking from Tae Yishin had shredded it to pieces.
Even as his fury made the air itself tremble, the Director’s face didn’t so much as twitch. Only the two Espers stationed outside glanced in nervously, unable to hide their unease.
Dust swirled through the room. Tae Yishin’s glare burned into the Director, his power straining violently against the leash, desperate to lash out.
Ryu Somin might have been an S-rank Guide admired by all, but his situation was dire. Unlike Nabin—whose compatibility with S-rank Espers was abnormally high—Somin’s Match Rates were bizarrely low.
Within the Guiding Department, people mocked him as “a pretty fruit rotten inside.” An S-rank Guide who couldn’t even properly guide a single B-rank Esper—his title was nothing but a cruel joke.
A low Match Rate didn’t make guiding impossible. Most Guides in the Center worked with high-compatibility Espers, but when needed, they still guided those with lower rates.
The problem was Somin couldn’t withstand the backlash. The lower the Match Rate, the stronger the physical strain on the Guide. Most could endure it and heal with a Healing Potion. But Somin’s body was as fragile as glass.
And still, plenty wanted him. Which meant there were those who didn’t care if he broke down, treating him like a guiding machine—and others who eyed his face and licked their lips at the thought of “extras” beyond guiding.
By rights, as an S-rank Guide, Somin should’ve been assigned to multiple Espers. The Director wasn’t the kind of man to let sentiment get in the way. He would likely ignore the low rates and force him into work.
The only reason Somin had been spared oppressive guiding so far was thanks to the S-rank Espers—Tae Yishin among them—shielding him.
If Somin so much as suffered a scratch, whoever caused it would find themselves facing three S-rank Espers as enemies.
No one had been reckless enough to provoke that kind of wrath.
But if the Director decided to take the risk, things would change. For all their power, S-rank Espers were lone wolves without allies.
The Director, on the other hand, commanded influence so vast it wasn’t an exaggeration to say he moved the nation itself.
No matter how strong Tae Yishin and the others were, there were limits. And the delicate balance that had held until now was beginning to crack.
In the end, Tae Yishin was left with only one choice.
It wasn’t one he wanted—he was being forced into it—and that made it all the more bitter. But there was no alternative.
When the dust finally settled, a faint, painted smile curved across Tae Yishin’s lips, a mirror image of the Director’s. It was as good as saying he accepted.
“A wise decision. From today, I’ll send you the people you need to watch. Straight from prison. I’ll be counting on you.”
As the Director’s figure vanished, Tae Yishin swallowed back the sigh clawing at his throat.
From then on, his days blurred into grim repetition. At dawn, when he opened his eyes, a bound man would be laid before him—like a poisoned apple shoved under his chin.
“Uh… ugh…”
With a gag stuffed in their mouths, the words were impossible to make out. But the bloodshot eyes alone were enough to guess.
“It’s not like I want to do this.”
There was no comfort in it for Tae Yishin either. The moment he’d used his ability on Nabin, he had truly lost himself, moving purely on instinct. He wasn’t a monster—no one would believe it, but tearing apart someone’s mind wasn’t something he enjoyed.
Beep—
The more he used his ability, the faster his Outbreak Risk Index spiked. Sometimes he used the guiding machine, but all it did was slow the climb.
Maybe because he’d unconsciously grown used to Nabin’s guiding, the mechanical version felt unbearably vile.
…I didn’t think I’d miss it this much.
To him, Nabin had always just been there—like an object within reach. Like a well-made doll that always sat in that mansion, waiting. All he had to do was go to that small room at the appointed time, and he could sink into that fragile body.
But once cut off, as time passed, the unfamiliar ache of longing grew sharper. Only then did he begin to understand why Han Jigang and Gong Min had lost themselves to Nabin.
Had he never tasted it, perhaps he wouldn’t have known. But once he had, once he knew how sweet Nabin’s guiding was, going back to before was impossible.
Nabin might well be the most dangerously addictive drug in the world.
That was why, the moment he walked free from prison, Tae Yishin went not to Ryu Somin, but straight to Nabin. The longing built up during those days apart had stripped away every shred of reason.
As he approached the room where Nabin should be, his heart pounded wildly, threatening to burst. His hand trembled as he pushed open the door—only to find not Nabin, but Gong Min.
Disliking that Nabin had been kept in Han Jigang’s room, Gong Min had moved him back to his own. As Jigang had predicted, Tae Yishin came straight there. And there was Gong Min, seated at the bedside, brushing his fingers gently across the face of the unconscious Nabin.
Just as Jigang foresaw, Tae Yishin had come straight away. Raw, unrefined energy bled from him—proof of whatever had happened in prison. His Outbreak Index, displayed on the bracelet, was teetering dangerously higher than before.
Gong Min stepped in front of the door, blocking his way. The storm raging in Tae Yishin’s sea-colored eyes was fierce, so unlike his usual carefully controlled self.
“Gong Min. Didn’t you hear me? Move.”
“Not now. Come back when you’ve got your head straight.”
“…Hyung.”
The broad, unyielding back barring the door flinched. At that single word, Hyung, Gong Min’s eyes, too, wavered like a ship battered by a storm.
It had been years since Tae Yishin had called him that. Not once since they were children had he used it. That alone was proof of how shaken he was, how unstable his mind had become.
