“So the Vice Captain is here?”
Min Sanghan looked at me and repeated the question. It had only been a few days since Yeo Wonjin was officially appointed as Captain, yet he was still referred to as the Vice Captain. I couldn’t understand why. Min Sanghan shrugged at me, who was just standing there silently.
“Well, of course I should see him. Can’t let him come all this way for nothing.”
“Yes.”
“I was just about to head out, so I probably won’t get to see him myself.”
Despite claiming he was on his way out, he didn’t seem dressed or prepared for it. Still, I nodded.
“Understood.”
“Right. Take care, Suho.”
I received the access password for the Blood Collection Department through Min Sanghan’s secretary and made my way to the lobby. Yeo Wonjin, who had been speaking with his attendants, greeted me.
“Ah. Researcher.”
“Let’s go.”
Arriving at the Blood Collection Department with Yeo Wonjin, I turned on the lights that had been switched off. Leaving the attendants in the waiting area, he walked in alone, striding boldly as he looked around the interior.
While a simple examination was underway and we waited for the results, I prepared the blood pack and tubing. Lying on the collection bed, Yeo Wonjin fixed his gaze on me. He looked like he had something he wanted to say. As I approached with the disinfectants and stood beside him, I paused.
“Do you have something you’d like to say…?”
“Thank you, for before.”
Yeo Wonjin spoke in a slightly lowered voice.
“Thanks to your comfort, I think I was able to hold on a little.”
The sorrowful air around him deepened with his lowered lashes. The shadows that had been hidden behind his usual smiling demeanor were slowly surfacing.
It hadn’t been that long since he lost his mother. Though he had seemed unfazed, as if he had already come to terms with the loss, of course that wasn’t the case. I silently turned my gaze to the gauze.
“If my mother had seen me now… she probably would have been so disappointed in me.”
“……”
“She always told me to never lose my composure…”
“She was family.”
Grasping Yeo Wonjin’s arm and stretching it out, I disinfected the area where I would insert the cannula.
“Anyone would have broken down in that moment.”
What about me? I passed out. Was rushed to the hospital… It wasn’t just that I broke down—I showed a pitifully weak, utterly pathetic side of myself.
“That’s how I was. I couldn’t even imagine things getting better.”
“…!”
Yeo Wonjin’s eyes widened slightly. He clearly hadn’t expected me to talk about myself.
“In that moment, everything felt like a dream. And I just kept wishing it really was a dream.”
“…Researcher.”
“So if I’m being honest… when I look at you, Captain, I feel regret. Regret for how my own weakness made things harder for the people around me.”
Even now, when I remember how Min Yugeon struggled through those miserable times alongside me because of me, I feel like punching myself in the face. That sweet idiot who looked after me without ever showing a hint of weariness would probably hate that I even think like this.
Compared to who I was back then, Yeo Wonjin’s mental strength is astonishing. Losing the only family he had and still managing to act like everything’s fine in front of others—how is that even possible? I found myself admiring the way he kept it all under control… yet at the same time, it felt unfair.
Yeo Wonjin, who had been quietly listening, pressed his lips together.
“So right now, you’re trying to tell me…”
Before long, a slightly trembling voice emerged.
“…that I’m doing well? That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”
When I looked up, his strikingly handsome face was close, and his eyes looked slightly red. As I nodded, letting him know I understood, Yeo Wonjin furrowed his brows and gave a wry smile.
“You’re not just kind to me, are you?”
“…Sorry?”
“If you keep accepting me like this, I might fall for you.”
Trying to lighten the mood with a joke, he looked at me, and I stared back at him with a dry, unamused expression.
***
The spaceship carrying the survivors—an extreme minority of humanity, not even considering the entire world but just a single nation—ironically gave off a utopian atmosphere. It was because the mindset of those who had first boarded the ship and keenly understood what it meant to be survivors had influenced the next generation to a certain extent.
The survivors, having prepared the ship in case of a global catastrophe, followed the Captain’s words unconditionally when they were rescued from the monsters. Some even went so far as to deify the Captain. Thanks to that, nearly every system the Captain implemented, big or small, took root within the ship without resistance or backlash.
The Captain—once the head of a major conglomerate, now leader of the remaining people—built the ship’s social structure through endless contemplation on how to preserve peace aboard.
Yeo Wonjin was proud that such a person was his mother. Though his father had left so early he could no longer even recall his face, his mother had showered him with love so abundantly that the absence was never felt. In terms of education, she had been stricter than anyone, and he always found her admirable and worthy of respect.
“Always be humble, calm. And see the bigger picture. Do you understand, Wonjin?”
“Yes!”
The Captain, concerned that the reverence shown to her might make her son arrogant, constantly reminded him of this. Yeo Wonjin, sharp and perceptive, understood what worried his mother and took those words to heart with sincerity.
With a bright smile, he had once dreamed of following in her footsteps and becoming Captain himself. But as he grew older, he came to realize that the adult world wasn’t as harmonious as it appeared. Among the executives who assisted the Captain, there were those who, drunk on their own authority and comfortable lifestyles, became indolent. They would openly badmouth the Captain for calling them out and issuing warnings.
“I-I’m sorry! I did it out of anger! Please, please spare me!”
Yeo Wonjin had watched impassively as one such executive, who had mocked the Captain in front of him, broke down in tears. The man had not only defamed the Captain but committed an act considered a grave offense aboard the ship, and he was sentenced to be exiled—cast out into space.
Not even a speck of pity arose in him. One rotten fish could foul the entire pond. A man like that could offer nothing of value to the ship.
From his mother’s side, Yeo Wonjin learned the reality of people’s ugliness, one by one. He learned how to encourage the good and punish the bad to protect the safety of the ship. Fortunately, he had more than enough decisiveness to carry it out. Perhaps even more than his mother.
“The Military Beast Project… Mother, do you really think this is possible?”
By the time he was comfortably hiding his true thoughts behind a polished smile and the title of Vice Captain, Yeo Wonjin had seen the project documents his mother had approved and asked frankly. There was no knowing the odds of success or even the general timeline, and yet the support had been unwavering. He couldn’t understand why. Even the progress reports submitted over the past several years had been underwhelming.
“You know what our ultimate task is.”
The Captain had answered calmly.
“…”
“Nothing lasts forever. Especially machines… that’s an undeniable truth. You know this too, don’t you, having been to the storage bay?”
Faced with her resolute words, Yeo Wonjin fell silent, recalling the day he had measured the remaining fuel aboard the ship.
The Captain patted him on the shoulder.
“Until the day the ship loses power, we have to prepare for the future as much as we possibly can. That’s our job, Vice Captain.”
The end of the ship was inevitable. And yet there was no way to exterminate the monsters, and the Reconnaissance Unit still hadn’t found a place to land. That’s why—even if the outcome was unknown—they had no choice but to adopt the theoretically promising Military Beast Project.
If monsters could be tamed and used to eliminate those on the surface, it would reduce fatalities among the Reconnaissance Unit, save weapon resources, and perhaps even lead to securing safe zones, not just exploring them.
After hearing his mother’s reasoning, Yeo Wonjin silently nodded. He realized he still had far to go.
But not long after, the project fell apart. A monster had escaped, destroying the home of a researcher couple in the process. As the Captain rushed to the scene of the accident, Yeo Wonjin, who had been handling scheduled duties elsewhere, returned late that night to a mother with a hardened expression.
“I feel sorry for that child.”
The Captain, moved enough to pour herself a drink, was deeply affected by the lone survivor. Yeo Wonjin sat before her, watching as she seemed weighed down with guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to offer empty words of comfort like “It wasn’t your fault” or “It was an accident,” because doing so would go against her belief that there was no incident aboard the ship for which the Captain could avoid responsibility.
Seo Suho. That was the first time Yeo Wonjin learned of him. A young man who had lost his family in the escape of the very monster he had been raising—and yet had survived thanks to that same monster’s protection. His tragic story, occurring just before graduation, was more than enough to capture attention across the ship.
Pity and curiosity. The interest Yeo Wonjin felt was no different from that of the other residents—simple and superficial.
But at some point, that changed.
Was it when he heard Seo Suho had entered the research facility? Or was it… when he sent a request to resume the Military Beast Project, a goal his parents had never realized?
Receiving updates on Seo Suho under the pretense of monitoring noteworthy individuals as Vice Captain, Yeo Wonjin eventually realized—he was far more interested than he should have been.
