But today, this middle-aged counselor didn’t seem inclined to be Choi Tae-hoon’s kind helper.
He tilted his head at Tae-hoon’s words and sank into thought for a long while before finally speaking, almost as if muttering to himself.
“How fascinating. Truly fascinating.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Choi Tae-hoon-ssi. Tae-hoon-ssi, you are exactly the most ideal Guide I’ve ever envisioned.”
Tae-hoon’s eyes widened at the counselor’s sudden, extravagant praise. The man’s expression was so serious that it didn’t look like a careless joke or empty flattery.
Embarrassed, Tae-hoon lightly scratched his cheek as he answered.
“Well… even so, I’ve never properly matched with anyone before.”
“Except for Ji Gwan-young.”
The counselor’s voice seemed to quicken slightly as he emphasized a fact that everyone already knew. Having missed the timing to react, Tae-hoon simply blinked blankly. It was the counselor whose mouth had gone dry from that lukewarm response. His eyes gleamed as he continued.
“Choi Tae-hoon-ssi awakened as a Guide before you were even old enough to properly distinguish right from wrong.”
“Haha… well, yes. I was five.”
“You grew up in a family environment so upright and loving it was almost beautiful. You received love endlessly, and gave it in return…”
“……”
“And without a single crooked part in you, you came this far thinking only of what was right and good at all times. The complete opposite of ‘Ji Gwan-young.’”
There wasn’t a single sharp edge in his tone—it was all smooth and rounded—yet strangely, there was a hidden barb beneath it. Tae-hoon let out an awkward laugh before unconsciously knitting his brows slightly.
For a moment, he wondered if this chilling sensation was what Kim Kwonseok had meant when he said the man felt “strange.”
Because of that unsettling feeling, Tae-hoon missed the odd tone in which the counselor had spoken his Esper’s name at the end of that sentence.
The counselor was no longer calling the Esper “Ji Gwan-young-ssi.”
“Isn’t it incredibly interesting? You never matched with any of those random nobodies, yet you became a Pair with the Esper said to possess the strongest ability in history—and at the highest compatibility score imaginable.”
“……”
“Isn’t that proof, in itself, that you possess the qualifications of a true Guide?”
The qualifications of a Guide.
For someone who had spent twenty-three years failing every match with every Esper since awakening as a Guide at the age of five—a Guide in name only—it was a phrase far too grandiose.
Tae-hoon smiled faintly, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar combination of words.
“I don’t know. I’m not really…”
Whether the counselor understood Tae-hoon’s reaction or not—or rather, whether he understood it perfectly and simply chose to ignore it—he only smiled brightly.
The man’s rapid speech, paired with the innocent expression of a child who’d found a genuinely entertaining toy, felt strangely unfamiliar.
“To be honest, I believed you would never overcome the rebound-rejection caused by Ji Gwan-young. Even if you managed to survive the rebound itself, I predicted that Ji Gwan-young’s rejection would continue indefinitely.”
“……”
“But hahaha, my goodness… to think you’d completely seize hold of that man like this! Now I’m truly curious.”
At the counselor’s continued words, Tae-hoon felt the faint smile hanging on his lips stiffen.
“Will you and that Esper be able to become a Pair without losing to this little numbers game?”
The words struck precisely at the thing Tae-hoon considered his greatest complex. It sounded less like thoughtful, considerate counseling and more like the cold judgment of a researcher standing before an experiment.
A small sigh escaped tightly from Tae-hoon’s lips.
The counselor watched him with calm eyes, as though even this reaction had already been one of the anticipated outcomes.
Instead of answering immediately, Tae-hoon stayed silent for several seconds. Then, breaking the chilling stillness, he spoke carefully and clearly.
“…Counselor, to be honest, I don’t really understand what you’re trying to say right now.”
A low chuckle slipped from the counselor’s mouth.
Feeling as though he had become a student confronted with an impossible question, Tae-hoon avoided that piercing gaze and turned his eyes toward one corner of the ceiling instead.
The counseling session ended with that strange sense of discomfort lingering in the air. Tae-hoon rose from his seat almost as if fleeing and added the customary farewell.
“I’ll see you next time.”
The counselor even stood up personally to open the door for him.
Tae-hoon’s steps quickened as he hurried out of the counseling room. When the heavy semi-automatic sliding door opened and the man seated directly in the center of his view came into sight, a strange sense of relief honestly washed over him.
Ji Gwan-young had been slightly lowering his head while talking on the phone. The moment Tae-hoon entered his sight, he ended the call so abruptly it bordered on rude and stood up.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. You must’ve been bored.”
“No. I was fine.”
Without realizing it, Tae-hoon immediately grabbed onto the hand of his Pair as their eyes met.
For Tae-hoon, who was especially careful about physical contact inside The Center, this was extremely unusual.
Ji Gwan-young briefly looked surprised, but instead of avoiding the touch, he gripped Tae-hoon’s hand even tighter.
He had noticed that his lover’s heartbeat was strangely fast.
This was definitely some kind of stress response.
“Did something happen?”
“Ah—no. Nothing happened.”
Choi Tae-hoon was terrible at lying.
Ji Gwan-young slightly furrowed his brows at the obvious attempt to change the subject, but he didn’t press him immediately. Once they returned to the official residence, he could simply sit this neat-faced man down and ask him directly.
Besides, there was something else he’d become curious about.
“By the way, Choi Tae-hoon. I think that counselor’s an Esper. Do Espers receive counseling too?”
“An Esper? No. He’s a Guide.”
Ji Gwan-young recalled the middle-aged man again—the one he’d only casually glanced at instead of properly scanning because he hadn’t considered him enough of a threat to warrant caution.
…A Guide?
Gwan-young’s brow furrowed.
He had clearly seen the faint smile hanging at the counselor’s lips just before the door closed. The strange sense of discomfort that had surged through him at that moment was still vivid.
Ji Gwan-young opened his mouth to say something to his Guide.
That was when it happened.
The Pair simultaneously grimaced slightly at the sudden blaring warning siren.
Even for Choi Tae-hoon, whose hearing was only at a normal human level, the noise was loud enough to rattle his skull. It sounded less like a warning and more like a threat.
In truth, the sound had been intentionally designed as a discordant noise to stimulate the hyper-developed nervous systems of Espers.
“So this is…”
Tae-hoon frowned as he struggled to recall the information repeatedly drilled into him during training sessions.
The Center had several types of warning alarms.
This wasn’t the ordinary emergency alarm used for fires or flooding. He remembered being told that this sound had specifically been designed to sharpen an Esper’s focus.
Tae-hoon spoke uncertainly.
“A warning for possible Esper rampage?”
“They really come up with all kinds of nonsense.”
No sooner had Tae-hoon guessed and Ji Gwan-young muttered sarcastically than an artificial mechanical voice echoed through the hallway.
[Attention all Guides and Middles within The Center. A hazardous element has been detected in Esper Training Facility A, Section A-1. In preparation for any unforeseen circumstances, all Guides and Middles are advised to refrain from entering the area alone and to accompany an Esper when—]
For Ji Gwan-young, who constantly cursed The Center’s garbage-tier security, this was practically perfect supporting evidence.
Tae-hoon let out a small sigh, already able to picture an even more exhausting future than the recent days they’d spent stuck together like needle and thread. Still, the warning from the announcement kept bothering him.
Esper Training Facility A Section.
That was where Kim Kwonseok worked.
Ji Gwan-young read the concern in his Guide’s eyes and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking.
“What? Want to go check?”
“No. It’s a dangerous area.”
“They said Guides and Middles should refrain from entering the area alone. As long as you don’t go alone, there’s no problem.”
In other words, if he went together with him, what issue could there possibly be?
Tae-hoon laughed helplessly at the shameless confidence of that statement and shook his head.
Sticking close behind his Esper, Choi Tae-hoon cautiously began heading toward the source of all the commotion.
The closer they got to the training grounds, the larger the crowd and louder the murmuring became. Maybe it was because of the violently blaring alarm, but a strange tension made his throat go dry.
A massive barricade had already long since been erected around Section A.
Ji Gwan-young swept an indifferent gaze across the chaotic scene of people running around frantically. Just as expected, he could feel the energy of some Esper inside surging violently.
Meanwhile, Tae-hoon strained his ears toward the conversation among several gathered researchers while searching for Kim Kwonseok with his eyes.
Where is he? It’s dangerous…
Tae-hoon frowned slightly as he tried to peer beyond the transparent barricade.
Given Kim Kwonseok’s personality—someone who looked relaxed but was incredibly meticulous when it came to work—it was obvious he wouldn’t leave the area he was responsible for maintaining.
“What happened?”
“It’s a suicide case. A Guide suddenly… before anyone could stop him…”
“My god, what in the… Is it an externally certified Guide?”
“No. The thing is—”
The researchers couldn’t finish speaking.
A deafening crash exploded through the area as a gigantic chunk of marble shot outward, smashing through the wall and violently slamming into the barricade outside.
Tae-hoon froze stiff at the terrifying sound.
In contrast, his Pair Esper Ji Gwan-young merely wore an uninterested expression as he casually restored the slightly twisted barricade back into place.
But before long, even Ji Gwan-young frowned slightly and turned his gaze inward.
A horrifying scream tore through the air.
It felt right to call it horrifying because no other word could properly describe the sound—a sharp cry so agonizing it seemed to wrench the heart apart.
“N-no, no…! No!”
A ripping sound like tearing wind mixed with the warning sirens.
Beyond the transparent barricade, the shattered walls of the training ground fully exposed the scene inside.
Tae-hoon’s gaze drifted blankly toward the source of the desperate cries.
“Oppa, nooo! Ah—ahhh, n-no, no!”
Ji Gwan-young identified the person at the center of it all. And the moment he did, he muttered an uncharacteristic curse under his breath.
Quickly stepping in front of his Guide to block his view, Ji Gwan-young blamed himself for bringing Choi Tae-hoon here in the first place.
“…Choi Tae-hoon, turn your head away!”
A massive pool of blood had formed in the center of the training ground.
Tae-hoon’s eyes slowly traveled upward from the center of that red stain.
At the end of his gaze hung a man whose body had turned pale like carefully crafted wax.
Choi Tae-hoon knew exactly who it was.
In an instant, all strength drained from Tae-hoon’s legs.
Ji Gwan-young pulled his lover into his arms as though trying to cover those vacant, shattered eyes.
“Please, please wake up, okay? Oppa, please… no! Nooo, don’t do this, oppa, no…!”
Kim Kwonseok was dead.
***
Director Kwon Dahee still occasionally dreamed of the nightmares of the past.
That dark dream always began on the day, over twenty years ago, when she first visited Teacher’s experimental grounds.
Teacher’s laboratory existed in the deepest underground section of The Center, hidden in a place no one knew about.
‘Kwon Dahee, if it’s you, you’ll understand what this means.’
At the time, she had only just entered The Center as a rookie researcher. Watching the senior researcher lead her onward with a serious expression, Kwon Dahee had been convinced she had finally grasped the rope that would let her climb to the so-called “higher places.”
But The Center’s secret was far beyond anything she could have ever imagined.
The Center created people, erased them, and created them again.
It all appeared so dry and routine—as though they were merely cultivating bacteria.
And standing at the center of that horror…was “Teacher.”
