Director Shin clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he looked at the Guide selected for today’s experiment.
That poor bastard… What did he ever do to deserve this?
He was watching through the black mirror—a one-way glass wall from his side—peering into the room beyond.
The man seated stiffly on the chair, visibly tense, was an A-rank Guide who had handled Yoo Ji-ho’s non-contact Guiding sessions for the past year.
Yoo Ji-ho, by default, had zero compatibility with any Guide. Scratch that—his compatibility wasn’t just low, it was practically abysmal. There wasn’t a single Guide who could complete a session within his tolerance window.
The man chosen for today’s experiment was merely the least incompatible of the lot—a relative term.
Still, Yoo Ji-ho had never voiced complaints or resentment toward his Guides. He didn’t blame them—he just despised the act of Guiding itself to an extreme degree.
But the Guides? They feared Yoo Ji-ho to the bone. What terrified them most wasn’t the man himself—it was the horrifying realization that everything they’d seen, everything they’d felt during these sessions… was being sealed away with the hush money landing in their bank accounts.
More accurately, they’re terrified of what comes next after the massive payouts.
Even Director Shin himself, despite his title, had no confidence in that answer. The subject in question was just that volatile—and just that important.
The first-ever S-rank Esper in South Korea. Yoo Ji-ho’s catastrophic Guiding efficiency, coupled with his revulsion toward physical contact, had become so intertwined that it was impossible to know which came first.
When Shin had first met him—right after Yoo Ji-ho awakened as an Esper—the kid had been nothing short of a ticking time bomb. Barely out of his teens, he’d stormed into the Center, flipping it upside down, screaming that he’d rather die than let some stranger lay a hand on him.
For Espers, Guiding was a matter of life and death. But for someone like Yoo Ji-ho—born with an innate disgust for a process others craved—there was no crueler fate.
“Tsk tsk.”
Just then, a door connected to the observation room opened. Yoo Ji-ho stepped in and, the moment he saw the black mirror, let out a sharp laugh. His eyes immediately locked onto Director Shin’s side of the glass as he muttered under his breath.
—“I’m not a fucking lab rat.”
His smooth voice carried clearly through the speakers, echoing with a cutting edge that reached Shin’s ears with perfect clarity.
“Kgh…!”
Momentarily lost in thought, Director Shin winced as a stabbing pain surged through his gut. Clutching his abdomen, he shouted,
“Dr. Na! Where the hell is Dr. Na?! Get that bastard to hold hands, NOW!”
There was no delaying it any longer. Today would mark the beginning of Yoo Ji-ho’s contact Guiding life. Shin’s eyes gleamed with a mix of dread and anticipation.
***
Yoo Ji-ho was in a foul mood—though, to be fair, that wasn’t unusual.
Actually, he’d been doing relatively okay up until he arrived at the lab. But the moment he stepped into the room and saw the mirrored wall, his mood plummeted.
No amount of mental preparation made this shit easier.
Tearing his gaze from the black mirror, he looked down at the Guide seated silently at the center of the room.
Ah—he remembered now. That guy. The same one he’d run into during the last few emergency sessions. Maybe even the one before that. Not entirely sure, but it felt like it.
Their eyes met, and the Guide flinched before offering a polite bow.
“Ah, good afternoon, sir.”
“Yeah.”
Normally, his sessions involved Yoo Ji-ho lying down and closing his eyes while Guides came in, connected a bunch of machines to him, finished the job, and left without a word. Eye contact wasn’t exactly common.
So yeah—this was very uncomfortable.
Still, he’d rather deal with familiar bullshit than new bullshit. Probably.
The Guide was seated at a square table. Yoo Ji-ho casually perched on the edge opposite him, watching closely.
“I’ll help with the setup.”
As the Guide settled in, two lab technicians followed Yoo Ji-ho into the room and got to work.
“C-could you raise your sleeve just a bit—?”
“Sure.”
With a subdued response, Yoo Ji-ho rolled up his sleeve. One by one, small monitoring patches were attached along the curve of his arm to track his wave patterns in real time—data that was being streamed live to the room behind the glass where Shin was watching.
He’d wondered why they didn’t just use a normal Guiding Room like everyone else and try physical contact in a standard setting. But the moment they summoned him to the lab, he should’ve known.
This was as private a space as they could manage. And still, Director Shin and the higher-ups made a whole fucking production every time it involved Yoo Ji-ho.
To be fair, it was thanks to those theatrics that he still had some semblance of privacy left.
“Setup complete.”
“Thanks.”
The researchers practically sprinted out, eager to be gone. Yoo Ji-ho was left alone with the Guide.
In the suffocating silence that followed, he stared down at the man in front of him without blinking.
“……”
“……”
He could practically hear the Guide’s eyes darting around nervously.
Every damn thing about this place was already grating on his nerves.
Sure, it was just the two of them in the room—but who knew how many eyes were watching from behind that damn wall?
And yet, no voices came through the speakers. Not Shin’s. Not the researchers’. No one.
As if they weren’t being observed. As if this wasn’t surveillance.
Do they think I’m stupid?
That kind of fake subtlety pissed him off even more.
Still, he had to admit—he’d been curious lately.
Maybe it was something that had started a few days ago. After arguing with Shin again, on his way home, a strange sensation had flickered across his awareness.
Just for a second, he’d thought, is this that feeling everyone keeps talking about?
He’d dismissed it immediately. No point trying to guess what something felt like when you’d never actually experienced it.
There was no way.
He hadn’t touched anyone that day. Not even for a second.
And it was such a faint, fleeting sensation—like a single droplet falling in the middle of a desert. So subtle that anyone without his hypersensitive perception would’ve missed it entirely.
Still… since then, a question he hadn’t asked since high school had started creeping back.
Was it really true, what Shin and the others always said? That if he just grabbed this bastard’s wrist—if he really touched someone—would this shitty feeling go away?
Eyes half-lidded, expression blank as if looking at an object rather than a person, Yoo Ji-ho finally opened his mouth.
“I’ll do the touching.”
“Y-yes, of course.”
But it was nothing more than fleeting curiosity. No hope. No excitement. Nothing about this situation felt pleasant.
He had never, not once, felt even the slightest joy or comfort from physical contact with another human being.
Raising the arm without any monitoring patches, Yoo Ji-ho slowly reached out.
He’d felt like shit before even stepping into the lab. The fact that his health condition had been broadcast to half the Center without his consent, that Shin was now forcing him into this farce—all of it was unbearable.
But worst of all?
The fact that he’d had to agree. That he’d had no choice but to say yes to Shin.
What enraged him the most was that even though he wasn’t some machine, even though he wasn’t a damn device, he still needed another person’s touch just to survive. That something so normal for Espers felt so profoundly degrading.
Even if this contact experiment worked, he’d just fake it from now on—pretend to comply and go back to non-contact sessions.
His efficiency was so low, no amount of touch would produce any miracle effects anyway.
“When… when do we begin…?”
“Just sit still.”
His reply came sharp, with undisguised annoyance.
“S-sorry…”
A sigh welled up from deep in his chest.
His face was already set in a vicious scowl, and whatever peace had existed when the researchers entered was long gone.
Yoo Ji-ho took a deep breath and reached out again.
Just hold the guy’s hand. That’s all. It’s no big deal, right?
That’s what Shin had said. But to Yoo Ji-ho, it was a big deal.
Just picturing himself holding this guy’s hand like they were buddies made his skin crawl.
He scanned the Guide’s body, searching for another patch of exposed skin.
Fucking hell. The guy was dressed like it was winter—long sleeves, long pants.
“You’re really bundled up today. At least you won’t catch a cold.”
“Uh? Ah, s-sorry…”
“…It’s fine.”
His head was spinning like he might pass out, but he forced out a gracious reply.
There weren’t many exposed areas to grab—but there was one.
The face. Just the face.
At last, he reached toward it slowly.
The Guide swallowed hard.
Yoo Ji-ho’s pupils trembled—his breath too.
“……”
“……”
The air was thick with tension. His hand hovered for a few seconds, wavering in midair—then, all at once, he lunged.
His hand shot forward and made contact.
“Ghk—!”
But it wasn’t the Guide’s hand.
It wasn’t his face.
Yoo Ji-ho’s hand twisted sharply around the Guide’s neck.
