“No, don’t come… sob, I’m scared…”
In the video, the man, fully grown, cried like a lost child. His sobbing was pitiful, his trembling voice almost unbearable to hear. Watching the short clip, Park Woo-jun had to suppress the boiling rage that surged within him with every passing second.
Just as Lee Han-seo had predicted with effortless confidence, everything unfolded as expected. With the Amplifier equipped, Woo-jun saved everyone with the ease of a superhero in an action movie. He didn’t even fall into a Blackout and returned safely from the dungeon.
Before filing the official report, they gave a brief verbal summary, returned to their lodgings, cleaned up with warm showers, and filled their stomachs with delivery food. Lying side by side on the bed, they fell asleep peacefully, their heads close together.
That was the last clear memory he had.
Naturally, he assumed he’d wake up the next morning. But when he finally opened his eyes, the date on his phone screen showed several days had already passed. Normally, he could have used the excuse of a Blackout. This time, though, he couldn’t even say that.
“Sleepyhead, my Woo-jun. You’ve been out for days. You have no idea how worried I was.”
“…Han-seo.”
“You must be starving. What should we eat?”
With practiced ease, Han-seo hid his emotions and gently stroked Woo-jun’s cheek as he came to. If Woo-jun had loved him even a little less—or known him a little less—he might’ve fallen for that casual tone and natural smile.
If Han-seo wanted to pretend everything was fine, Woo-jun wasn’t going to ruin the act. He simply smiled back and said, “Let’s order pizza.”
They acted like nothing had happened. With unspoken coordination, they kept up the illusion of peace without a single crack. The pizza was delicious, the cheese stretching enticingly with each bite. And when they went for a walk at dusk, the streets were empty, the solitude perfectly soothing.
After spending a restful day exactly the way Han-seo wanted, Woo-jun quietly slipped out of bed just before dawn. Han-seo, who had taken forever to fall asleep despite being in familiar arms, had finally dozed off. Woo-jun held a small camcorder in one hand as he crossed the bedroom threshold.
If Han-seo’s gift was holding on to hope like a sunflower always facing the light, then Woo-jun’s was preparing for the worst even in the best of times.
On the day they returned from the dungeon, while Han-seo was drying his hair, Woo-jun had set up the camera in the cabinet directly facing the bed. It was a cheap, last-minute purchase and could only record until sunrise—but that was enough.
The side effects of the Amplifier only began after its effects wore off. The tingling in his fingertips told him it wouldn’t take even an hour for the symptoms to kick in.
He’d never experienced just the Amplifier’s side effects without a blackout, so he didn’t know what would happen. Still, as he waited in the bedroom for Han-seo to return, Woo-jun prayed to no one in particular—just let tomorrow come quietly. Let it pass without hurting Han-seo again.
But this… this was what he got in return.
“Mommy… where are you…? Mommy, Daddy…!”
Even with earbuds in, Woo-jun locked the dressing room door tightly before playing the video, just in case any sound escaped. He looked pitiful, hunched over and curled up like that—but he didn’t feel a shred of sympathy for the stranger on the screen. If he could, he would’ve strangled that creature on sight. All he felt was a violent surge of disgust and rage.
In the footage, Han-seo kept approaching him, desperate and persistent despite being pushed away over and over. Every time Woo-jun shook him off and broke into sobs, his round head flinched. Woo-jun didn’t even need to see his face to know exactly what expression he was wearing.
He already knew what had happened—he’d read every word in the report Ryu Ho-yeon gave him. But reading it on paper and seeing it with his own eyes were worlds apart.
Even if he already knew, he had to witness it for himself. He needed to see what he became. Needed to see what kind of scars that left on Han-seo. Only then could he figure out how to fix it—or stop it. Only then could he move forward.
This time made it painfully clear. As long as he was an Esper, going in and out of high-level dungeons, and as long as Han-seo was his Bonded Pair Guide—there was no avoiding the Amplifier forever.
Whether he liked it or not, time marched on. Eventually, dawn began to break.
There was no time to waste wallowing in guilt. Woo-jun deleted every piece of data from the camcorder and smashed the storage drive for good measure. Only after cleaning everything up did he return to the bedroom.
“Mmm… huh? Where’d you go?”
“Did I wake you? Sorry. I was just a little thirsty. Go back to sleep—it’s still early.”
“Mmmkay. You too… sleep…”
Barely coherent, Han-seo drifted back off after a few gentle pats on the back. Holding that warm, softly breathing body close, Woo-jun couldn’t stop thinking about the footage that now lived only in his memory.
The confidential research report stated that when an Esper’s abilities temporarily shut down, any Imprinted emotional bonds or attachment levels also reverted close to zero. It also speculated that the drastic drop in cognitive function—Blackout—might play an unclear role in that regression.
According to the report, the Esper’s failure to retrieve recent long-term memories and their childlike behavior were likely tied to the Blackout.
But now, Woo-jun knew for certain—the Blackout wasn’t the real issue. The Amplifier’s side effects might act as a trigger, but they weren’t the root cause of his breakdown.
It wasn’t just about losing the reflexive emotions tied to the Imprint. That alone could never make a sane Park Woo-jun turn his back on Lee Han-seo.
Their official Imprint hadn’t even happened until weeks after they became Bonded Pairs. Which meant one thing—long before the Imprint, long before the bond, Park Woo-jun had already loved Lee Han-seo. And he had loved him deeply.
Han-seo, who grew up surrounded by warmth and affection, had probably heard the story dozens of times but never quite realized its weight. But when Woo-jun heard that pitiful cry—“Mommy…”—coming from his own mouth in the video, something inside him finally clicked.
I’m sorry. For being such a pathetic excuse for a partner. For only realizing it now.
He pressed a quiet kiss to Han-seo’s forehead, whispering the apology in his heart. The truth had always been the same: at the root of everything was his own weakness. The part of him too afraid to stand up and face it.
Morning sunlight had crept in, casting golden light across the foot of the bed. Maybe it was because he’d fallen asleep so late, but Han-seo didn’t stir for a long while.
Woo-jun didn’t wake him. He simply held him close and stared quietly at the face he never got tired of looking at—one he wished he could protect from everything in the world.
It was nearly noon by the time Han-seo finally blinked awake. His lashes trembled faintly before curling upward as his eyes opened fully.
“…Did you sleep well?”
“Woo-jun.”
Woo-jun swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to smile brightly as he asked again if he’d slept well. Just like Han-seo used to—talking to him for years as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had ever happened.
Whether he wanted to protect, or be protected—none of it mattered if he couldn’t first let go of this wretched weakness.
***
[…Yes, a similar case was reported last month by the North American Center. Judging by international trends, if intelligent monsters are starting to appear here as well, we can expect the numbers to rise. We may even need to restructure how we rank dungeon classifications.]
The man on the screen, holding a mic, spoke with measured gravity. He was the liaison for dungeon ecology at the South Korean embassy in Canada.
Under formal diplomatic agreements, every embassy stationed abroad had at least one representative from the Esper Affairs Center’s International Exchange Bureau. It was a safeguard—to ensure swift communication and seamless cooperation between countries when disaster struck.
The slime-type creature’s abnormal behavior in Dungeon 17 had already raised domestic alarms. After reporting it to the International Esper Alliance, calls from foreign envoys came flooding in, as if they’d been waiting for it. Today alone, Woo-jun had already spoken to representatives from the U.S., Sweden, and Germany. This was his fourth call.
[Would it be possible to request additional support from headquarters?]
“Support in what form? If you mean supplies, I was under the impression you had plenty.”
[No, I mean personnel. Even just one Esper—an A-Class, or even a B-Class, if possible.]
“Officer,” Woo-jun said calmly but firmly, his voice laced with quiet finality. He understood their desperation. But Espers—and Guides—were not to be dispatched overseas for long-term missions.
Dungeon gates were opening faster than ever. And now, intelligent monsters were beginning to emerge.
The writing was on the wall. No matter how hard they tried to contain it, the world was slowly unraveling. A time would come—soon—when even one combatant would be too precious to spare.
Sending someone overseas, no matter their rank, would make them instant recruitment targets. Other nations would pounce with offers no ordinary person could refuse—outrageous incentives meant to turn loyalty on its head.
[It’s just… the situation here is critical. The Canadian government is pulling all Espers stationed at the embassy as of tomorrow. But dungeons don’t care about politics. They don’t choose where to open. Canada’s not a small country like Korea. If a gate opens here, even with early warning, it takes five hours minimum to get a team on-site. Chief Park, please… I wouldn’t be begging if it wasn’t serious. Our Korean residents here are terrified…]
Korea’s small landmass and dense population made it uniquely effective at managing dungeon incidents. In countries with vast territories, delays were inevitable. Sometimes monsters spilled out of the gates before help could even arrive. It was no longer rare.
[I heard your family’s living here too, Chief Park. If you could just send one Esper, we’d make them top priority in any emergency.]
Oh, right. That was true, wasn’t it?
He’d gone so long without any contact that he’d completely forgotten. Nearly a decade of estrangement—he didn’t even remember where they were. And if he dropped dead tomorrow, he doubted they’d bat an eye. Just like he no longer cared what happened to them.
Woo-jun shook his head, cold and final.
“No. Espers will not be deployed overseas. That hasn’t changed. And if this is the only reason you’re calling, don’t bother next time.”
[Chief Park—wait, please, just a moment—]
“I’m hanging up now.”
