“I’ll open four this time.”
As Dr. Kwak gave a nod, the floor beneath the chamber holding Test Subject K slid open, and a pile of corpses came crashing down. The ground was slick with monster remains and blood. Test Subject K stared down at the grisly sight, his expression unreadable.
He’s that strong, and if he really does have an erasure-type ability… Even knowing it was beyond their control, the desire to harness it was impossible to ignore. Maybe—just maybe—this time, they had finally created an Esper capable of erasing a Gate.
The Gate Generator built by Dr. Lee was originally meant to achieve erasure. Unfortunately, it had failed to eliminate Gates entirely and instead became a machine that could only interfere with their wavelengths. But even that had been a monumental breakthrough. It had made it possible to reduce an S-rank Gate to a C-rank.
Still, Dr. Lee hadn’t been satisfied. He continued pushing forward, obsessively chasing perfect erasure. He hadn’t succeeded yet, but the results of his research were undeniably impressive—so much so that they left others speechless.
Then, a year ago, just when it seemed Dr. Lee was focused solely on erasure, he unveiled something completely unexpected: a Gate Generator. A device that created Gates—the exact opposite of what he’d been working toward. He claimed it was a byproduct of his erasure research, but Dr. Kwak couldn’t accept that explanation. The idea that the man who had built a machine to spawn Gates might actually want to reduce the human population began to seem disturbingly plausible.
Could he really be thinking about shrinking humanity? Dr. Kwak was a member of Molt, yes—but she had always stood firmly against any plan that involved humanity’s destruction.
What she hated wasn’t people—it was the Gate that had taken his son. Sure, she was guilty of hypocrisy, running experiments on Awakened individuals, but compared to the extremists in Molt, Dr. Kwak considered herself relatively moderate.
Still, that didn’t erase the fact that she had sacrificed lives for her own goals. And she was painfully aware of that. If they ever did manage to erase a Gate, she was ready to face judgment for her sins. A crime is a crime—no more, no less.
That’s why her research had to succeed. So that these sacrifices could finally end. But the one person who might hold the key to that success—Test Subject K—was refusing to cooperate.
Dr. Kwak was seething. If K had even a hint of maturity, he’d realize that his own sacrifice could save countless others. But he was still too young to grasp that kind of responsibility.
His Guide was no better—just as selfish. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like to lose a child. Letting his emotions cloud his judgment, utterly unaware of the weight of the sins he was complicit in…! Dr. Kwak was so furious she could barely contain herself.
The researchers, who had been forcing themselves to stay awake for who knew how many hours, were now nodding off in their chairs. To fend off sleep, Dr. Kwak poured herself an extra-strong cup of coffee and drank it down in one long gulp.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper meal. Ever since losing her child, she hadn’t been in her right mind. After joining Molt, it only got worse. She survived on energy bars and cereal, always sucking on glucose candies to stay alert.
She could never give up—not now. It was far too late to stop. No matter what it took, she would make Test Subject K use that erasure ability. For the future of humanity.
***
Lee Tae-rim had long since stopped counting the days. Trying to track time by the number of meals he’d eaten only seemed like a fast track to losing his mind. There was no way they’d be able to locate Molt just because they’d been abducted—and besides, he couldn’t bring himself to trust Central anymore.
At some point, Tae-rim had been moved to a different room. One morning, he simply woke up somewhere new. Not long after he’d screamed his head off—singing at the top of his lungs about how badly he needed a shower—they transferred him to a room with one. That must’ve been within a few days of his arrival.
The lighting didn’t help either; it made it even harder to tell if it was day or night. The lights were always blindingly bright, making it impossible to get proper sleep.
In that oppressively silent space where nothing stirred unless he did, the lights stayed mercilessly lit. He couldn’t fall into a deep sleep—he kept drifting off and waking up again, over and over, until his entire body ached with exhaustion.
Then one day, he fell asleep and didn’t even realize he’d been moved? There was no doubt in his mind—they’d spiked his food with sedatives. Thankfully, it hadn’t happened again since. But that time, they’d drawn his blood, too. Every time he saw the puncture marks still on his arm, his teeth clenched with rage.
He’d thought about rebelling—maybe by fasting—but the idea fell apart the moment he remembered Seon Juho. The kid always showed up looking worse than the last time, teetering right on the edge. It wasn’t just that he seemed moments away from a Rampage—he was coming in more frequently now, too.
So for Seon Juho’s sake, Tae-rim decided to take care of himself. Because no one else could Guide him.
Tae-rim lay sprawled on his bed, staring blankly. Staying locked in this sterile white room with nothing to do made him feel like he was going insane. If Juho hadn’t been visiting for Guiding, he probably would’ve lost it already.
There was nothing to do, and he was constantly sleep-deprived. Naturally, he ended up spending entire days lying in bed. He’d close his eyes, drift off for a second, then jolt awake from the brightness. On and on, the same cycle. A perfect storm for a mental breakdown.
“Haa…”
His head throbbed just thinking about one more reason he couldn’t sleep. When had he gotten so used to it? Tae-rim realized Seon Juho’s body heat—always stuck to his back like a second skin—had become essential for him to sleep.
The room was temperature-controlled, not too cold or hot, and he was under a blanket, but still, his back felt strangely cold. He tried lying flat, thinking it might be his posture, but that didn’t help either. All he could think about was the warmth Juho used to provide.
If he was suffering this much, Juho had to be struggling too. He was an S-rank Esper—someone who didn’t need sleep for days—but even he had started showing dark circles under his eyes.
Juho had always fallen asleep to Tae-rim’s pheromones. He’d practically spent more than half his day wrapped in Tae-rim’s scent. Now that it had been suddenly cut off, of course he couldn’t sleep. The stress must’ve been unbearable.
During their Guiding sessions, it showed—Juho would bury his face in Tae-rim, desperately inhaling his scent. He looked completely unhinged, barely holding it together.
“Hyung.”
“Hey. You’re here.”
No matter how strong an S-rank Esper might be, no one could go to the brink of a Rampage over and over again without breaking. Tae-rim gently pulled Juho into his arms, holding him like a child and patting his back. The Guiding had just started, but already, Juho seemed worse than usual.
Tae-rim’s gaze shifted to the woman who always came in with Juho. She was watching them quietly, and by now, he no longer saw her as human. She looked more like a demon wearing a human mask.
“Hyung… Hyung…”
Juho pressed his face into Tae-rim’s neck, taking in a deep breath, and hugged him even tighter. He looked fragile—on the verge of falling apart. As Tae-rim gently soothed him with rhythmic pats, he suddenly felt something warm and wet trace across his neck.
In the still silence of the room, the sound of wet sucking began to echo.
Tae-rim’s eyes flew wide open in shock.
“J-Juho?”
“Mm, hyung.”
Juho replied, but the words sounded empty—like they were missing something. Tae-rim tried to stay calm despite his growing panic. Juho’s voice had dropped, low and husky. Tae-rim had known this might happen someday, had feared it—but now that it was here, it was still jarring.
The woman, along with the other Espers stationed in the room, didn’t so much as flinch. The Espers were as vacant as ever, their eyes blank, and the woman just continued to observe the two of them, face devoid of expression.
“Hyung, I missed you. I missed you so much.”
“…Yeah.”
Juho’s voice was soaked in longing, so painfully raw that Tae-rim couldn’t bring himself to push him away.
Just my neck, he thought. I can give him that much.
Lately, Juho had been saying he missed him constantly. And they still saw each other almost every day. How much had they put him through for him to be this desperate? Tae-rim’s chest ached just thinking about it.
“Juho, hey. Look at me for a second, okay?”
Juho resisted at first but eventually lifted his head when Tae-rim gently pulled him back. His usually striking face looked hollow and worn out.
“Hyung…”
Their eyes met—and he looked like he might burst into tears any second. Tae-rim’s heart clenched.
“Is it really that hard?”
Juho shook his head, but his expression said otherwise. His eyes were welling up, shimmering with tears.
“I just… I missed you so much.”
At last, the tears pooled in Juho’s eyes, threatening to spill.
Tae-rim’s heart ached. Why did this kid have to suffer like this? Hadn’t he already endured enough? He’d barely tasted freedom, only to be dragged back here again, to this hell. What had he done to deserve this?
“Hyung…?”
One of Juho’s tears fell and landed on Tae-rim’s cheek with a soft, wet plop.
Tae-rim startled at the sensation—and then realized what he’d done.
He had pulled Juho’s face toward his own and pressed their lips together.
