“What else can I do? Just… don’t be too obvious about it when we’re outside, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to tiptoe around me so much.”
“Mhm.”
Even though he was told not to be so self-conscious, he still was. But really, how could he not be, when Lee Tae-rim’s mood was practically seeping out through his pheromones?
“Hyuuuuung~”
A faint sweetness laced Seon Juho’s pheromones. He squeezed his tall frame into Lee Tae-rim’s arms and turned up the charm, acting all cutesy. Honestly, his face alone should be classified as a lethal weapon… In the end, Lee Tae-rim couldn’t hold back a laugh, his anger melting away under Seon Juho’s shameless affection.
“Aigoo, seriously. You should be thankful you’re this cute.”
“Heehee~”
Seon Juho’s pheromones, meant to lift Lee Tae-rim’s spirits, actually worked. He’d heard this kind of emotional soothing through pheromones was usually a last resort—something only allowed when a pregnant Omega became too emotionally volatile to manage. Yet somehow, Seon Juho pulled it off, and Lee Tae-rim wasn’t pregnant or anything.
With effort like that, how could he not be lovable? Lee Tae-rim could only smile and think, I guess it’s my fault for being such a sucker for a pretty face.
***
Dr. Oh had the face of a man who’d grown old all alone. The researchers around him could only look at him with pity.
When Seon Juho came back from Molt and casually asked what an Incomplete Imprint was—saying that’s what he’d heard them call it—every researcher’s heart sank like a stone. Internally, they were all cursing out those Molt bastards. What the hell did those lunatics tell him?!
Because Lee Tae-rim was an S-rank with an exceptionally high Matching Rate, the Center had been handling Seon Juho’s Incomplete Imprint with extreme caution. The odds of the situation resolving cleanly were low to begin with.
And now, it seemed Seon Juho had caught on—just a hint of suspicion, but enough to make the whole situation even more delicate. An S-rank Esper having only one Guide was a serious risk, after all.
And yet, Seon Juho had figured it out. Incomplete Imprint. The word imprint alone was revealing enough that even an idiot could guess what it implied.
What he was really asking, most likely, was about the incomplete part. The researchers weren’t clueless—they understood exactly what Seon Juho was asking. But they had to feign ignorance. If they answered him, there was no telling how badly the Center Director would rip into them.
When no one responded and everyone looked away, pretending not to hear, Seon Juho leaned back against the wall of the lab and began quietly observing them. He didn’t issue any threats, didn’t raise his voice—but his presence alone was oppressive. Even if they tried to ignore him, they physically couldn’t.
Information on Espers wasn’t something an average person could just look up online. Any real data on Espers or Guides was stored on a secure site, accessible only after verifying your identity as a Center researcher. Because of that, the site was bookmarked on all their laptops by default.
And the unfortunate sacrifice… was Dr. Oh’s laptop.
It looked like Seon Juho had simply been standing there, watching them in silence—but he hadn’t been. With his S-rank vision, he’d been scanning every researcher’s screen the entire time. Dr. Oh, unaware of this, got up to use the bathroom—and the moment he was out of sight, Seon Juho moved like lightning.
“Nooooooo!”
By the time the researchers screamed in horror, Seon Juho was already seated at Dr. Oh’s desk, having found and read everything he needed.
Even when Seon Juho sat down and began typing at an unbelievable speed, the researchers were so stunned they couldn’t speak. He’d moved so quickly, it looked like he’d teleported.
Everyone knew Espers were fast—but knowing it and witnessing it firsthand were two completely different things.
With movements far too quick for the human eye to track, Seon Juho combed through Dr. Oh’s laptop and downloaded every bit of information he needed in an instant. And by the time the researchers snapped out of it and moved to stop him, he was already standing up.
“Tell Dr. Oh I said thanks.”
With that, Seon Juho strolled out casually, as if nothing had happened. Dr. Oh returned from the restroom only to be met with silence and chaos—and had to listen to the whole story with a dazed look on his face.
Naturally, the Center Director went ballistic when he heard. He summoned Seon Juho immediately and screamed that going through a researcher’s laptop was a disciplinary offense. But Seon Juho didn’t even blink.
In the end, the one who lost was the Director. Seon Juho walked away with nothing more than a three-month pay cut.
Afterward, acting like nothing had happened, Seon Juho went to see Lee Tae-rim—and there, he ran into Min Se-ah, who was in the middle of unloading a stream of insults onto Tae-rim. That was the beginning of yet another mess: what would come to be known as the Min Se-ah incident.
Seon Juho hadn’t actually been the one who sent Min Se-ah off to District 3, but the Center Director dragged him in again anyway. Since he couldn’t say a word to Lee Yeong-jun—whose father was a high-ranking government minister—he tried to pressure Seon Juho instead, a threat disguised as a plea for “leniency.” Naturally, Seon Juho didn’t so much as pretend to care.
The Director clutched the back of his neck in frustration once again.
They’d finally found a Guide who was compatible with Kwon Hae-beom. That’s why the Director even dragged Kwon in, hoping he’d talk some sense into Seon Juho.
Unfortunately, Kwon Hae-beom couldn’t have cared less about anything at the moment.
Tragically, not a single person was on the Director’s side.
Eventually, on the Director’s orders, the researchers were warned to be extra careful, and the development team rushed out a new security program for staff. A textbook case of locking the barn door after the horse had already bolted.
Later, completely unaware of what had actually happened, Lee Tae-rim apologized to Dr. Oh. It seemed he thought Seon Juho had just pestered the man into revealing something about the Incomplete Imprint.
Dr. Oh wanted to come clean. But with Seon Juho standing behind him, staring daggers into his back, he couldn’t say a word. All he could do was force an awkward smile and accept the apology.
Dr. Oh was genuinely aggrieved. All he’d done was step out to take care of a natural bodily function—and in that short window, a disaster had unfolded. He got chewed out by the Director like it was all his fault.
He wanted to argue that Seon Juho probably already had a rough idea of what “imprint” meant the moment he heard the word. But he couldn’t say anything—just silently endure the scolding. It was the pitiful fate of a corporate employee.
In the end, Lee Tae-rim remained completely in the dark. No one told him what Seon Juho had done. Or more accurately, they all kept quiet out of fear.
And Dr. Oh thought to himself: One day, please, let Seon Juho’s little act blow up in his face—right in front of Lee Tae-rim. Just once. I’m begging.
***
The collapse of Molt in Korea following the District 6 incident quickly made international headlines. The government announced it was in the process of tracking down the remaining fugitives—and declared to the public that it would be using the most heavy-handed methods imaginable.
Namely, mobilizing mental-type Espers.
The question these Espers were instructed to ask was simple:
“Are you affiliated with the anti-government organization Molt?”
That single question was all anyone had to answer. The news spread like wildfire, and the country was thrown into a frenzy. Heated debates broke out over whether this constituted a violation of human rights—but true to form, Korea’s characteristically fiery public quickly moved on. The outcry for justice—Catch those bastards already!—drowned out any concerns about civil liberties.
Thanks to that, the investigation moved forward at an impressive pace. Citizens eagerly reported anyone they deemed suspicious, which left the police overwhelmed—but also led to the arrest of several actual Molt operatives.
Based on Lee Tae-rim’s testimony—that the Espers under Molt’s control all had lifeless, unfocused eyes—the investigation teams began inspecting the backs of suspects’ necks when they encountered individuals with vacant expressions. That tactic led them to uncover a significant number of Espers marked with barcodes behind their necks.
It appeared that the Molt leadership had stayed in hiding, using Espers as expendable foot soldiers. And there were far more Espers wandering around than anyone had anticipated.
At first, the Espers linked to Molt surrendered without resistance. But once they realized they’d been exposed, many began to go berserk the moment they were discovered, making them far more difficult to capture. Some incidents broke out because of this, but thankfully, there were no civilian casualties in District 1—thanks largely to Kwon Hae-beom, who was chasing them down with burning intensity.
With their base destroyed, Molt had grown increasingly disorganized. The neural chips implanted in their Espers’ brains sometimes detonated, and sometimes didn’t. That inconsistency allowed the S-rank mental-type Espers to interrogate the captured ones, leading to the discovery and arrest of a large number of Molt operatives still in hiding.
In short, Molt’s presence in Korea was truly being wiped out.
And in the midst of all this, Kwon Hae-beom’s eyes had started to come alive again—but not entirely in a good way. Still, it was better than the dead-eyed emptiness he’d carried before.
Yet at the same time, it was worrying. His eyes burned with intensity, but it felt less like a return to life and more like someone throwing themselves into one final blaze. Those around him—and even the higher-ups—were starting to worry.
He, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to burn.
Every time Lee Tae-rim guided him, he felt the urge to say something. To warn him. To stop him. To tell him anything. But the right words never came. In the end, he could only do his job—guide him in silence and send him on his way. And truthfully, even if he did say something now, it probably wouldn’t reach Kwon Hae-beom at all.
If anything proved that, it was Jung Jae-heon’s increasingly frequent complaints that Kwon Hae-beom was driving him crazy. As much as he understood that Espers naturally prioritized their own Guides, how could he so completely ignore everything his teammates said? He knew it wasn’t personal—but it still hurt.
And while everyone else worried, there was one person who remained completely unfazed: Seon Juho.
For a variety of reasons, he had never had a real conversation with Kwon Hae-beom. And maybe because of that, he was the only one who showed absolutely zero interest in him.
