A report had come in that the train system had halted. After completing the repairs and returning to the center, Min Yugeon stretched out his stiff body, loosening his tense muscles. One of his coworkers approached and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Heard the train broke down. What was the cause?”
“The fuel line was acting up.”
It had been a temporary blockage in the fuel supply, but since it was a malfunction that had never occurred before, the ship’s residents were understandably anxious. Thankfully, it hadn’t happened during peak commuting hours. If it had, with higher traffic, it could’ve caused serious chaos.
“It’s the first time this happened and you already got it fixed that fast… Seriously, you’re incredible, Min Yugeon.”
The coworker gave him a thumbs-up. Other colleagues, who had been watching with interest from their stations, nodded in agreement. As the most skilled engineer at the center, Min Yugeon often handled even unfamiliar issues like this with ease.
“Your face too, huh? If you keep hogging all the credit, the rest of us look bad.”
“Preach, preach.”
“Come on, you’re flattering me too much.”
Yugeon squinted his eyes and made a show of fake humility, fiddling modestly with his hands held neatly together. His coworkers chuckled at the act.
“But, you know… this just popped into my head.”
Someone suddenly spoke up with a serious tone.
“How long do you all think this ship will last?”
“…Huh?”
“I mean, no matter how much we maintain it, this place is still just one massive machine.”
A veteran engineer, who had been working in the field for years, stared into the void with a conflicted expression.
“We never know what kind of variable could pop up next, like today… and it could very well be a critical issue next time. Some of the parts we’re still using—out of the tens of millions on this ship—are already aged and can’t even be replaced because we can’t get any more of them.”
His voice held a weighty unease and disillusionment, born from accumulated knowledge and experience. The air turned cold with his sudden remark, and everyone fell silent.
“Even with the fuel—does anyone here know exactly how much is in the storage tanks? Or where and how it’s being supplied?”
“…”
“…”
“I heard there’s a specific team in charge of managing the storage.”
The veteran turned to the one who quietly answered and nodded, as if to say he knew that too.
“But why is it only entrusted to a small number of unknown engineers, and kept secret from the rest of us? Even when we request access to the storage area, it’s always denied.”
“Well…”
“Sunbae.”
Min Yugeon tilted his head slightly, arms crossed.
“As far as I know, the fuel is being retrieved from the surface by the Reconnaissance Unit.”
The veteran seemed ready to argue but shut his mouth when Min Yugeon continued.
“Of course, I don’t believe the fuel supply is infinite. But whether it’s fuel shortage or some other issue that puts the ship at risk, the Captain would obviously inform everyone and take proper action.”
If a situation arose where the ship could no longer remain in the sky, the Captain would likely choose to land. Probably in one of the zones scouted by the Reconnaissance Unit where monster presence was comparatively lower. Even if there were attacks from the surface, no one would just stand by and let the ship crash and everyone die. That would never be the decision.
“And while I’m not denying that the higher-ups are concealing the status of the storage tanks…”
Yugeon softened his tone. The veteran paused.
“We can’t just assume they’re hiding it only because the fuel levels are critically low, can we? If the exact quantity were revealed, people would start calculating how long it might last. And regardless of the answer, they’d panic.”
The very awareness of it could throw the ship into mass hysteria. Even if the current generation had plenty of fuel, it wasn’t something anyone could simply shrug off.
Min Yugeon had begun to suspect that the upper ranks were keeping the storage status confidential to avoid accelerating the residents’ fear of an inevitable end.
The others, aside from the veteran, now started to nod in agreement, realizing the reasoning behind it.
“Now that you mention it, that makes sense.”
“…Might be best not to overthink this.”
An engineer standing near Yugeon shrugged.
“Right. No point in stressing out over all the what-ifs. That’s just life, right? You never know how or when it’ll end, so you just do your best while you’re alive.”
“Exactly. Those research institute folks—especially that Seo Suho researcher—just look at them. They’re putting their lives on the line. Our job is to protect this place until they can complete their project.”
At the familiar name, Min Yugeon turned his head slightly.
“Seo Suho… the researcher?”
“Yeah.”
“Putting his life on the line?”
“Huh? Oh, right.”
The speaker glanced around and lowered their voice.
“You remember that demo the research lab held for the Military Beast Project the other day? It wasn’t the final demonstration, but the one where they got a monster to attack another monster. He was the one who made that happen.”
“Yeah, I know.”
No one here knew that Min Yugeon was both a longtime friend and roommate of Seo Suho. Though Yugeon was sociable, he never talked about his private life.
“Actually, I know someone on the facility team over there. They saw the demo up close—apparently, Seo Suho went into the monster containment zone alone and ended up in a full-on chase. Nearly got eaten by one of the large-scale beasts.”
Min Yugeon’s expression turned to stone.
It didn’t seem out of place since everyone else was already reacting with shock.
“Isn’t that a bit exaggerated?”
“Nope. They were going to release the demo footage for residents to view through their watches, but apparently the content was too brutal, so they scrapped the plan.”
“Damn…”
“From the photos, it looks like he was geared up properly, but if a monster swallows you whole, what’s any of that even worth?”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“That’s brutal. Seriously brutal.”
Most of them winced, their faces stiff with unease. Comments followed—some saying it was incredible that someone who looked more suited to wield a pen could pull that off, others admitting there was no way they could do the same. Admiration and exaggerated jokes filled the air.
“Got a call.”
“I should get going too.”
When not actively repairing, engineers typically made rounds for inspections across the ship. A group like this gathering in the center was rare. Having enjoyed this short moment of camaraderie, the engineers checked the time, faces a little brighter. As people with schedules to follow said their goodbyes and dispersed, the veteran approached Min Yugeon, who remained standing.
“Min Yugeon.”
“…”
“Yugeon-ah?”
“…Ah.”
As if snapping out of a trance, Min Yugeon looked at the older man.
“Yes, sunbae.”
“What were you thinking about so hard?”
“Just… something on my mind. Did you need something from me?”
“Ah, nothing major.”
The veteran awkwardly scratched the back of his head.
“What you said earlier… you’re right. I was too stuck in my own head. Sorry for souring the mood with all that pointless talk.”
“No need to apologize. Your concerns are valid. I was only offering my perspective.”
“Thanks for saying that. I meant to apologize to the others too, but I missed the moment.”
Yugeon replied with a silent, slight lift of his lips. Then, gently brushing off the veteran’s attempt to continue the conversation, he turned and walked toward the break room.
Entering the empty, silent room, he leaned back in a chair. His unamused eyes gazed up at the ceiling.
From the day Seo Suho returned from that demonstration until now, he had seemed perfectly fine. If he had been injured, there was no way he would’ve done interviews or joined the team dinner afterward. The dark red stains on Suho’s protective suit in the watch notification photo likely weren’t his own blood.
Just from the photo, it was clear he had been through hell. The sight of him had sent Yugeon’s heart sinking—but the fact that he came back unharmed had brought some comfort. That’s why, back then, he hadn’t let his anxiety show in front of Seo Suho.
But learning now that the situation had been far more dangerous than he’d imagined struck him hard. He couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had clubbed him in the back of the head.
“……”
He felt pathetic for not realizing it sooner. When had Seo Suho ever complained? Even when he was in a foul mood or unwell, he never showed it. Always wore that same indifferent face and endured everything on his own—and sometimes ended up collapsing from it.
That was exactly why, a long time ago, Yugeon had made it a habit to pay extra attention to him. And yet he had missed it this time, too. No delayed reactions to questions, no going to bed earlier than usual, no paler-than-usual lips. Seo Suho had come back looking calm and composed, like someone who had simply finished giving a presentation.
The urge to contact Suho surged up inside him. Yugeon gripped his watch-covered wrist tightly. But what could he even say now?
One thing was certain: he had no right to question or interfere in Suho’s work. Others might, but he couldn’t. He was the one person who had to respect Suho’s choices—no matter what.
Because Seo Suho was the one who’d made it possible for him to keep breathing.
And he wanted to be that kind of person for Seo Suho in return.
