A smirk tugged at Cha-hyeon’s lips as he let out a quiet scoff, amused by Se-min’s desperate attempt to pretend he hadn’t seen anything. Generously, he closed out the post.
“But the strange thing is, nothing comes to mind about Se-min at all…”
Long shadows fell beneath his lowered lashes. For the first time, Cha-hyeon mumbled like someone genuinely puzzled.
“I’m sure I must’ve seen something at least once.”
Countless posts came up with just a single search for “Sung Cha-hyeon.” And in many of those, “Ji Se-min” appeared right alongside him.
It was likely he had read at least one story involving Ji Se-min. Yet nothing rang a bell. It was as if a part of his brain had been scrubbed completely clean—an unnatural, gaping void.
As expected. He’d suspected as much, but it wasn’t just that Cha-hyeon couldn’t remember Ji Se-min as a person. Everything connected to Ji Se-min—information obtained through him, incidents that stemmed from him, relationships formed, memories shared—had all been wiped clean.
There might be even more gaps in his memory than he’d assumed.
“I don’t even know where the limits of my memory loss begin or end.”
The curiosity in his tone faded quickly, replaced by a detached murmur as though this were someone else’s problem. It was Se-min who grew more alarmed at those words, his face stiffening.
“What… what do you mean?”
“Mm. I think I forgot not just you, Se-min, but also everything connected to you.”
His gaze brushed past with an air of indifference. Unlike the unbothered Cha-hyeon, Se-min felt like he’d just taken a blow to the back of the head.
“What? Hyung, w-wait a sec.”
He’d managed to accept that Cha-hyeon had forgotten him. It still hurt—of course it hurt. He was worried, sad, even scared that the memories might never return… but it wasn’t like Cha-hyeon had chosen to forget.
The fact that not a single memory of him remained left a tinge of bitterness, but his concern for Cha-hyeon far outweighed his own sorrow. After all, he was alive. His hyung had made it back alive.
But if even the memories related to him were gone… just how much of Cha-hyeon’s mind had been wiped clean? Had he forgotten everything that had even the slightest tie to Se-min?
Cha-hyeon’s excessive calm only made Se-min more anxious. And now that he realized the blank spots in his memory were related to him, a heavy sense of guilt weighed down on him. As if he bore some responsibility for what had happened.
…If only he’d guided more thoroughly, maybe his hyung could’ve cleared the dungeon gate faster, and he wouldn’t have lost his memory in the first place.
“Don’t be so sure. Think hard—don’t you remember even a tiny detail? Anything at all…”
His desperate question made Cha-hyeon’s brow lift slightly. His expression said it all: Why bother with something so pointless? From that alone, Se-min understood instinctively.
The answer wasn’t going to change.
And yet, he had to ask.
“Not even the faintest hint…?”
He didn’t know why. Maybe he still clung to hope that asking again might change something. Or maybe he just needed to hear it directly—like ripping off a bandage. Or maybe he was so desperate, he’d grab even a rotten rope if it meant something to hold onto.
Whatever his reasons, Cha-hyeon’s condition remained unchanged.
“Nope.”
It felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach. Se-min stared at him blankly, then muttered in a barely audible voice.
“…I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
The question sounded genuinely curious. Se-min lowered his head a little further.
“Just… for a lot of reasons.”
For a brief second, Cha-hyeon’s brow twitched. He clearly didn’t understand Se-min’s feelings, but before he could voice any further questions, a soft knock interrupted them.
Knock knock… knock.
“Excuse me? Is… is this a bad time to come in?”
The hesitant knock matched the wavering voice that followed. Se-min, who had been hanging his head in gloom, quickly looked up.
“…Ah, yes! Just a moment!”
He recognized the voice immediately and hurried to open the door. Cha-hyeon had recognized it, too. He leaned forward slightly, seemingly curious about how Se-min would react.
“The manager…”
Se-min’s voice tried to sound bright, forcing cheer into his tone—but when the doorknob wouldn’t budge, it wavered with confusion. Click. The handle rattled like a locked door. He tried turning it a few more times out of habit before suddenly stopping, realization dawning in his eyes.
Their gazes met. Cha-hyeon’s lips curled into a mischievous smirk. His clearly defined fingers leisurely pressed the glowing red button, showing off like it was some kind of joke.
Se-min’s mouth dropped open. It took him a second to snap out of it. He turned around with an expression tangled in confusion, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.
This time, the door opened smoothly.
***
“Were you in the middle of Guiding?”
“Isn’t it rude to interrupt someone you know?”
The private room, spacious like a hotel suite, suddenly felt a bit cramped. Of course, two more people shouldn’t have made it feel smaller—but the atmosphere they brought with them filled the space like a tangible presence.
It made sense—after all, the person visiting the hospital room was none other than the Secretary-General of the Esper Association. Before Sung Cha-hyeon appeared on the scene, she had been South Korea’s top S-rank Esper. After stepping back from the field, she took charge of the Association itself, essentially becoming the face of Korean Espers.
For someone like the Secretary-General—and her secretary, Deputy Chief Jeong—who managed their schedules down to the second, to visit on such short notice, the reason was obvious. It had to be because of the dungeon where Cha-hyeon lost his memory.
“The two of you are probably just doing radial Guiding anyway, right? What’s there to be embarrassed about?”
The Secretary-General answered casually. Cha-hyeon shrugged and shot a subtle glance at Se-min. His claim had just been proven right again, which made Se-min feel vaguely awkward as he tried to change the subject.
“Should I go buy some coffee or drinks?”
“Ah, I’ll have an iced Ame—”
“Sit down. Don’t be shameless enough to actually take orders like that.”
Se-min, who had half-risen from his seat like he was about to bolt, sat back down sheepishly. Deputy Chief Jeong, who’d started placing an order without thinking, also looked embarrassed and pressed his lips together.
“If you’ve got something to say, make it quick and go. I’m tired.”
Tired didn’t quite seem like the right word. Annoyed might’ve been more accurate. Cha-hyeon’s indifferent tone nudged them along.
“We got the report that you’ve lost your memory, but from the way you’re talking, you sure don’t sound like someone who has.”
The Secretary-General muttered under her breath. There was a sharp edge to her words, and Se-min offered a strained smile. She shook her head, sat up straighter, and got to the point.
“Alright. Since you’re tired, let’s get straight to the matter, Esper Sung Cha-hyeon.”
She paused for breath, then continued in a more businesslike tone.
“We’re here to ask you about the C/S-rank dungeon gate you cleared solo. The incident has been designated as the ‘Bukhansan Special-Type Grade Mutation Dungeon Gate Case.’ We’d appreciate detailed answers.”
She nodded toward Deputy Chief Jeong. He had already switched on a voice recorder and pulled out a laptop, ready to transcribe. He gave a small nod in confirmation.
“All responses will be used strictly for research and data collection. Any personal content mentioned during this interview will remain confidential unless the severity of the matter requires disclosure, in which case we’ll coordinate with the individuals involved before releasing anything to the Esper/Guide Association leadership… Do you consent to the interview?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then first… please tell us about your current condition, Esper Sung Cha-hyeon.”
One of Cha-hyeon’s eyebrows rose. His expression said, You already know, so why ask? But he still answered cooperatively enough.
“After clearing the gate, the person named Ji Se-min seems to have been completely erased from my mind. Oh, and I just realized I’ve also forgotten all memories related to Se-min.”
“What do you mean by memories related to Ji Se-min?”
“Broadly speaking, anything connected to Se-min. More specifically… even the posts on the Esper/Guide anonymous forums where we were mentioned together—I don’t remember a single one.”
Cough! Deputy Chief Jeong, who had been furiously typing, suddenly choked. Cha-hyeon gave him a curious look as if to ask what was wrong. His face turning bright red, Deputy Chief Jeong stammered out his next question.
“W-wait, Esper Sung Cha-hyeon, y-you’re on the anonymous forums? Y-you registered?”
Se-min fully understood how he felt. Imagining your boss personally joining a site filled with backhanded gossip about him? It was like trying to blow the whistle only to find out the guy you told was the CEO’s son.
“Why not? Am I not allowed to sign up?”
“H-haha… of course you are. Any Awakened can join, sure, yes. It’s just… I’m a little surprised to hear that you, Esper Sung Cha-hyeon, actually use those forums. Haha…”
Deputy Chief Jeong’s visibly pale hands trembled as they hovered over the keyboard. Se-min wondered what the odds were that tonight’s forum would have a post titled something like ‘Fucked. Confirmed Sung Cha-hyeon lurks. RIP, Jeong.’
But the subject of all the gossip himself explained without a care in the world.
“I visit from time to time. Esper/Guide news spreads fastest there. Just like neighborhood gossip spreads fastest on the mom cafes.”
For a moment, everyone in the room froze.
Se-min found himself staring blankly at Cha-hyeon. Part of him wanted to ask if his hyung actually browsed mom cafes. Another part wondered if men could even join them. His brain was caught between the two questions, whirring in confusion.
Luckily, he was saved from having to choose, thanks to a question from Deputy Chief Jeong.
“M-mom cafes? Aren’t those for, uh, moms? Can men join? And… what kind of information would Esper Sung Cha-hyeon even get from a mom cafe?”
“The one in my neighborhood lets anyone join as long as you follow the nickname format. You just have to tack on something like ‘Papa’ or ‘Appa’ after a kid’s name and—”
His words began to trail off. A deep crease formed between Cha-hyeon’s brows as if he were retracing something in his mind.
Suddenly, he fell completely silent. A heavy stillness settled over the spacious room. Cha-hyeon’s Adam’s apple bobbed once, then again, and now his expression darkened with what looked like anger.
No matter how hard he tried… it was clear he really couldn’t remember.
For the first time, even the Secretary-General’s normally sharp lips faltered. Her expression twisted like she’d bitten into a sour plum.
“…No way.”
But unlike her, Se-min and Deputy Chief Jeong remained clueless. Caught off guard by the sudden change in atmosphere, they exchanged uneasy glances.
Jeong blinked dumbly for a moment, eyes rolling as he tried to make sense of the situation. Then, maybe thinking he should lighten the mood as the older one here, he chuckled and said nonchalantly,
“Haha, right. So you just have to put ‘Papa’ or ‘Appa’ at the end of a name, huh? Didn’t know that. But… Esper Cha-hyeon doesn’t even have a kid. So whose papa did you say you were? Like, Se-min’s dad or some—oh fuck! I’m sorry…!”
“……”
“……”
“You insane bastard… what the fuck….”
