“Well, obviously, but still…”
“I’m not changing the way I do things, so just deal with it. If I’ve gotta file reports, then stack them up and send the damage invoices to my name.”
“The money’s not the issue here! You don’t even have a team—could you at least pretend to spare a thought for your poor old director?”
“Then maybe you should give me a team again. That could be fun for a change.”
“What?”
Director Shin Hyung-cheol’s eyes went wide. Yoo Ji-ho, the first-ever S-rank Esper to appear on the Korean Peninsula, wasn’t assigned to any existing team. Instead, he was made the team leader of the only unit without members—Team S.
This half-assed arrangement hadn’t existed from the beginning. Yoo Ji-ho had originally been assigned to A1, the elite among A-rank teams. But if you remembered what happened after that…
“Absolutely not.”
Director Shin responded quickly and firmly.
In the end, the Ability Management and Security Department had no choice but to isolate Yoo Ji-ho. It was the only way to protect other valuable Espers—national assets in their own right.
To prepare for the possibility that more S-ranks might one day appear, they created a new team—Team S—above the A-teams. Then they stuck Yoo Ji-ho in there, alone.
Putting him under someone else again? Just imagining what could happen sent chills down your spine.
“Fine, I’ll let the rest slide. But what the hell is this about folding a smartphone in half and blowing it up? That’s what ended up online? Was that real?”
“The guy shoved a camera in my face mid-battle—what normal person wouldn’t snap?”
“……”
The moment those words hit, Shin felt a sharp pulse of stress slam into his gut. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried the Lamaze breathing exercises his assistant had recommended just days ago.
Then, with barely-restrained calm, he tried again.
“Ji-ho, come on. You can’t do that. Just… try to think of them as innocent civilians—”
“If they were innocent, I wouldn’t be pissed off. You’re losing your edge sitting behind a desk all day.”
Lounging on the sofa, Yoo Ji-ho looked him up and down, then scowled deeply.
“And seriously, isn’t it about time you retired? Are you still hanging onto the job just because of me?”
“What? You little—!”
Shin Hyung-cheol, who was nowhere near retirement and considered himself still in his prime, clutched the back of his neck with a groan.
Discovering Yoo Ji-ho had been the crowning achievement of Director Shin’s career.
But at the same time, Ji-ho was the root cause of every health problem he had.
The former A-rank Esper, who once boasted he’d never even caught a cold, was now living with chronic gastritis. Recently, he’d started losing hair, too.
But Yoo Ji-ho was far too valuable. Taking a deep breath, Shin tried again, this time gently.
“Ji-ho, please. Let’s try reciting the International Esper Code of Conduct together, okay?”
“Do I look like someone who memorizes that crap?”
“Okay, then just the shorter version—our own Esper Oath of the Korean Ability Management and Security Bureau—”
“I’m done. Don’t drag this out. My mood’s already absolute shit today.”
“What? Why? How bad? Is it worse than usual, or just your normal level of shit?”
Shin’s eyes widened in alarm. A worse-than-usual mood meant something serious was going on. And that likely meant one thing:
“It’s the guiding, right?”
At that, Yoo Ji-ho immediately grimaced, as if even hearing the word physically disgusted him.
Director Shin had recently received reports from the research division indicating Ji-ho’s guiding deficiency symptoms were worsening.
“That’s actually part of why I called you in today. Dr. Na keeps going on about how serious your condition is—”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Oh, please.”
“I know my body better than anyone.”
Honestly, online smear campaigns and drama had followed Yoo Ji-ho since the moment he awakened as an Esper, so this wasn’t even considered an emergency anymore.
The bigger issue was elsewhere. At least the gates were calm for now—maybe that was a good thing.
“We’ve let you manage on your own for long enough. Ji-ho, the world’s already getting noisy with all these personality rumors. Let’s take advantage of the downtime. Get some rest. Focus on recovery. Work on improving your guiding compatibility.”
“Improve?”
Over the past few years, the Yeouido Center had been facing a silent, ongoing crisis that nobody outside knew about. Director Shin’s tone dropped into something more serious.
“We can’t postpone this any longer. It’s time for contact guiding.”
“What kind of bullshit are you talking about?”
There it is. Just the reaction he expected.
Honestly, this was mild. Shin had expected full-on fury and profanity the moment the topic came up.
Putting on a calm smile, Director Shin tried to downplay it.
“I’m the director, you know. You really shouldn’t call what I say bullshit. It’s fine here, but make sure to watch your language in public.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Why the hell would I ever agree to that?”
Before Ji-ho could launch into a full tirade, Shin leaned forward and fixed him with a desperate gaze.
“We’re just worried, okay? You might find that it’s not so bad. We’re not asking for anything over the top. No forced cuddling or anything. Just hold hands. Close your eyes, hold a Guide’s hand. Simple stuff. Want to practice with me now? Come on, give me your hand.”
“Ah, fuck off!”
Ji-ho immediately slammed a fist down on Shin’s outstretched hand, like he was swatting away a pervert.
“Ghk…!”
Shin couldn’t even scream properly. He clutched his poor hand with a stricken expression.
Sure, he’d tried to touch Ji-ho first, but still—that was a punch from an S-rank Esper.
If Ji-ho had miscalculated even slightly, he could’ve shattered Shin’s hand bones.
And honestly… it kind of felt like they were shattered already.
“Ughh, I almost threw up,” Ji-ho muttered as he flopped back onto the couch, visibly relaxed.
Director Shin, driven to his breaking point, snapped and finally let go of his pride.
“You fucking bastard!”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m a feline-type, remember?”
Of course. Among Ji-ho’s many abilities was beastkin transformation. Shin often joked that it would’ve suited him better if it had been canine-based.
But Ji-ho almost never used that power. He’d avoided it so thoroughly that not only had no one seen it, most people didn’t even know he had it.
Shin had once asked him why.
And Ji-ho had replied, “Because it makes me feel like shit.”
It was a ridiculous answer, but it wasn’t unusual for Ji-ho. There were many things he refused to do simply because they made him feel like shit. Two of the biggest? Using his beastkin ability and undergoing contact guiding.
“Ji-ho, I know better than anyone how much you hate getting guided. And how much more you despise contact guiding.”
The beastkin thing didn’t really matter, since Ji-ho still fought perfectly well without it. But guiding? That was a whole different matter.
For Espers, guiding wasn’t optional. It was a lifeline.
And yet, Yoo Ji-ho had insisted on surviving with only minimal, non-contact guiding—barely enough to function.
It was only thanks to an entire department dedicated to monitoring his wave patterns that he’d managed to hold out this long. But based on yesterday’s report, even that limit was quickly approaching.
“All I’m asking is that you try it. Just once. I’ve respected your wishes up until now.”
“God, why now…”
Ji-ho sighed and rubbed his temples, looking completely drained.
Director Shin adopted a solemn expression.
“Yoo Ji-ho. Listen to me carefully.”
He was the only S-rank Esper in the country. He despised guiding. He’d been suffering from chronic guiding deficiency for years, and no one had ever noticed.
“There are Guides who live without Espers.
But there are no Espers who live without Guides.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“……”
Most Espers suffering from guiding deficiency became noticeably irritable. But Yoo Ji-ho? His personality had always been shit—so no one could tell the difference.
