A deep furrow of concern settled on Director Shin’s face as he sat on the office sofa. It was the most serious expression he’d worn in recent memory—like a disaster had struck.
—You got the call?
“Thanks to Ji-ho, it didn’t turn into a catastrophe. I guess we should be grateful… or maybe not.”
Director Shin Hyung-cheol had dropped everything, even a round of golf with key figures from the Supernatural Management Bureau, and rushed back the moment he heard about the threat of Yoo Ji-ho going berserk.
Na Hye-yoon, who had just finished administering emergency treatment to Yoo Ji-ho, gave the director a brief report on his condition.
“There weren’t any warning signs?”
—Sure, the readings were bad, but nothing out of the ordinary—just a little above his usual levels. It’s honestly baffling. The fact that he held out this long is a miracle. We’ve spent years around him, so maybe we just got numb to it, but technically speaking, he’s always been a walking time bomb. I bet Ji-ho himself was caught off guard.
“How the hell does someone go from looking totally fine to that in an instant? What if someone had seen him like that?”
They’d known it, sure—but hearing it laid out made it hit harder. That his condition was even worse than it seemed. On both ends of the line, sighs passed back and forth in frustration.
As a fellow Esper—not just a supervisor—Director Shin couldn’t fully comprehend Yoo Ji-ho’s state of mind. Across the entire country, he was the only Esper the Center had to actively persuade and pressure into receiving Guiding. Most Espers sought it out on their own—like it was their lifeline.
At first, Yoo Ji-ho’s refusal had seemed like an oddity. But as the years passed, the Yeouido Center began to grow complacent.
“As you can see, I can kill monsters just fine without any of that crap. So don’t force it. Guiding is something I get once in a while—when I want it. Got that?”
His resistance to Guiding was unwavering and absolute at every turn, and his unmatched combat ability backed that stance to perfection. Yoo Ji-ho completed every mission flawlessly—even in abysmal condition.
After watching him for years, it was easy to fall into thinking: Maybe he’s right. As long as he does his job well, does it matter? It wasn’t until Dr. Na started raising alarms about his wave patterns a few months ago that people began treating it as a serious issue.
Even now, with the danger clear, Yoo Ji-ho still looked the picture of composure—and that image made it too easy to forget just how unstable he really was.
“…Maybe we should call it mental fortitude.”
What had once been dismissed as sheer stubbornness now seemed like something to respect. After all, trying to withstand his condition without regular Guiding wasn’t something you could do without extreme mental discipline. Looking back, maybe all of Ji-ho’s maddening defiance came from sheer strength of will.
—Anyway, I’ve already sent over the Esper who came with him. He should be arriving at your office soon.
“Got it. We’ll talk later.”
—Oh, and I’ve temporarily cut Baek Hye-seong’s access to the data. Figured it’d be best to keep him out of this. He’s not officially one of us yet, and if we throw him into this mess now, he’ll be quitting before he even gets his nameplate.
“Of course. Good call. Well done, Dr. Na.”
—Yes, sir.
With that dry reply, the internal call ended. Director Shin rubbed his forehead, as if the weight of it all was giving him a migraine.
They had finally assigned Yoo Ji-ho a dedicated Guide. He had hoped—just for a little while—that meant they could breathe easier.
Is Ji-ho really hitting his limit now?
He had said those words once before, lightly, in passing. But now, they came back to him with more weight. The nature of the situation was forcing him to consider the worst-case scenario.
Knock knock.
Just then, a soft knock came from the Director’s Office door. That must be the Esper Dr. Na had sent. The office secretary stepped in first, and behind her, the Esper stood rigid with a salute, head held high.
“Hello, sir! Director! Esper Kim! Han! Seong! B3 Team, Gyeonggi Branch, reporting!”
“Oh, right, right. Come in, take a seat.”
“Yes, sir!”
The young Esper was visibly stiff with nervousness. After seating him, Director Shin put on a warm, fatherly smile and spoke gently.
“So, how’d the mission go today?”
“T-Thanks to Yoo Ji-ho, sir, everything was resolved smoothly!”
“Good. That’s good. You did well.”
With a hearty laugh, Director Shin reached out and gave the young Esper a few encouraging pats on the knee. Then his tone shifted slightly.
“So. What did you see?”
“…Sir?”
“Tell me exactly what you told Dr. Na.”
“Uh… So, Yoo Ji-ho was on the verge of going berserk, and I, uh…”
“No—he wasn’t on the verge.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Yoo Ji-ho wasn’t on the verge of anything.”
The weight in the air thickened. Kim Han-seong swallowed hard. Director Shin leaned forward, resting both arms on his knees as he stared directly into the young Esper’s eyes.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Even now, Yoo Ji-ho’s condition remained classified as a national secret.
***
Hye-seong was fidgeting anxiously in front of Yoo Ji-ho’s house.
Every morning, he checked Yoo Ji-ho’s wave-pattern chart, and today’s readings were terrible. So today—today for sure—he had decided he absolutely had to push for Guiding. But then a Gate alarm had gone off out of nowhere, followed immediately by Yoo Ji-ho’s deployment.
He wasn’t just someone who worried about Gate damage anymore. He was responsible for the safety of the Esper assigned to him. That was why, the moment he heard the Gate had closed, he’d abandoned his half-finished meal and rushed over here.
The whole time he waited outside Yoo Ji-ho’s residence—despite knowing it was rude to show up unannounced—his nerves only tightened.
Is this really okay…? Even if Guiding is urgent, isn’t this crossing a line?
Yoo Ji-ho had never once told him it was okay to wait here.
His heart thudded aggressively. And this was Yoo Ji-ho’s private residence—just being here made it impossible for Hye-seong to stay calm.
What if he gets angry? Really angry?
For someone as meticulous as Yoo Ji-ho, this was exactly the kind of boundary he’d enforce. And kind people—truly kind ones—were always the scariest when they finally lost their temper.
Yoo Ji-ho already suffered endlessly from people invading his privacy. And after a battle, he’d be even more sensitive and exhausted… for him to show up right then…
But on the other hand, if he was exhausted and sensitive after combat—that meant he needed Guiding even more. To make matters worse, the moment he tried to check the wave chart again, access was blocked. All he got was a notice saying temporary access was restricted.
Unable to view the data, he wanted even more to check his condition in person. If Yoo Ji-ho rejected him, he could just leave. But at least he’d have tried.
Even if he ended up being disliked for it.
It’ll be fine. It’ll be okay.
He was scared, but he forced himself to believe it as he crouched against the wall beside Yoo Ji-ho’s front door. He tried to steady his too-fast heartbeat.
But Yoo Ji-ho didn’t return—not even after 10 p.m. At some point, Hye-seong found himself biting his lip hard as he tried accessing the wave chart again.
The same message appeared: access blocked.
“This is bad… really bad. He has to get Guiding today.”
He sat small and dejected, leaning against the wall beside the door—when he suddenly heard footsteps approaching.
He jerked his head up, and sure enough, a figure was coming toward him. Yoo Ji-ho was finally home.
Huh?
But something was wrong. Even from a distance, he could tell something about the way Yoo Ji-ho staggered toward the building was off. Just as Hye-seong moved, alarmed, trying to step closer, Yoo Ji-ho let out a pained groan and clamped his hands over his ears.
“……!”
And before Hye-seong could react, Yoo Ji-ho brushed past him, swiftly, as if he hadn’t even seen him. He’d met him—yet watching him go inside like that… Something was clearly not right.
Frozen, blinking in confusion, Hye-seong eventually leaned forward and peeked through the slightly ajar door.
“…Yoo Ji-ho?”
In the large, quiet house, his voice had all the presence of a single ant wandering through a desert. So much for the courage he’d had to muster just to speak.
Oh no… intruding like this really isn’t okay…
With an expression that looked as though he might cry, Hye-seong bit down on his lip. But the memory of the pain on Yoo Ji-ho’s face—how tortured he had looked—wouldn’t let him turn away.
“Ugh… ngh…!”
Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut, reached out as if touching something monstrous, and grabbed the doorknob. Then he swung the door open.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Yoo Ji-ho collapsed against the wall.
“Huh? Yoo Ji-ho!”
He ran forward without thinking and dropped to his knees beside him, gently shaking his shoulder.
“Ah!”
But he snatched his hand back immediately. The heat radiating from Yoo Ji-ho’s skin was scorching.
