Ringing the Doorbell
Those who encounter a calamity-grade anomaly fall into two categories.
Those who return alive, and those who don't.
The former are a tiny minority. The latter are too numerous to tally in the statistics. The reason they're uncounted is simple: most leave no bodies behind.
Han Jeongsu belonged to the former.
Captain of the Management Bureau's Special Response Team Division 1. A-rank hunter. Twenty-three years on the front lines this year. Number of times he'd returned alive from operations: twelve.
Twelve times.
Being deployed twelve times on calamity-grade ops and surviving every one was a legendary record in this line of work. No, legendary didn't quite fit. Calling it legendary for someone who'd been to hell and back twelve times felt off.
Tough was more like it.
His appearance bore the full weight of those grueling years. Plenty of people were shocked to learn he was only forty-seven.
A scar ran from his forehead to his jaw. His left eyelid drooped slightly—a lingering effect from the Busan op when his left orbital bone cracked. Surgery had saved his vision, but the eyelid never fully recovered.
He sat in his office chair, face like that, staring at the monitor.
An awakener-only community. The anomaly discussion board. One post climbing the views in real time.
A photo was attached. A black dog. A little girl asleep on its back, the dog wagging its tail while having its ear held.
Han Jeongsu zoomed in on the photo. He studied the dog's build. Shoulder width, skull shape, ratio of forelegs to hindlegs. He didn't need to cross-reference the Management Bureau database's observations on the calamity-grade Black Dog. He'd seen it in person. From 500 meters away.
500 meters.
That was the Black Dog's fear radius. Any civilian stepping inside died of heart failure from sheer terror. Even awakeners below B-rank collapsed, legs giving out.
And this dog was having its ear held in the photo.
He scrolled to the comments.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Han Jeongsu slowly sipped his coffee.
Four years ago, maybe. The Busan calamity-grade. Codename Red Tide. It had crawled up from the sea.
Deployed personnel: 34. Op duration: 91 hours. Survivors: 11.
Han Jeongsu had come back with a broken left arm. An eyepatch over his right eye. Lying in his hospital bed, he'd scrolled the community one-handed. The comments were the same back then.
'Red Tide popped off lol, Busan folks so screwed lmao'
'What're the A-ranks doing, just eating tax money?'
'Red Tide's weakness is this, right? I could've taken it.'
Funny stuff. The poster probably typed it laughing.
The next bed over held a junior. Park Junhyeong. Three years in. The night before the op, he'd shyly confessed he hadn't proposed to his girlfriend yet.
Junhyeong couldn't read the community anymore. Both eyes gone. A Red Tide tentacle had pierced his face. Surviving at all was a miracle, but the life after wasn't one worth calling that—too long, too cruel.
Heard he'd proposed in the end. His girlfriend beat him to it. Han Jeongsu thought the woman who'd pledge forever to a man without eyes was incredible. And he felt sorry.
Irritated, Han Jeongsu shut off the monitor.
"People who've never even faced a calamity-grade."
Muttering to himself. The office was empty.
He knew the photo wasn't a fake.
Lee Seojin's report. He'd read it three times. Once to grasp it. Twice because he couldn't believe it. Thrice because he had no choice.
Calamity-grade anomaly Black Dog. Evac alert issued upon Seoul appearance. Already neutralized by arrival. One civilian making bare-handed contact. Anomaly's aggression fully dissipated.
Black Dog vanished afterward, recaptured at the civilian's residence.
One additional danger-grade anomaly confirmed. Humanoid. Predator type.
One calamity-grade, one danger-grade. Inside a 7-pyeong one-room in a civilian residential zone.
Last line of the report.
'Subject appears unable to perceive the anomalies as anomalies.'
Han Jeongsu pulled the original report from his drawer and read it a fourth time.
Then he pictured the photo again. Black dog. Ear grabbed, tail wagging. Child asleep on top.
That's a calamity-grade.
The same rank as whatever took Junhyeong's eyes.
Yet its ear was being held. Tail wagging.
Han Jeongsu set down his coffee. It was cold. Office coffee always was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd drunk it hot.
Then the phone rang.
Smartphone screen lit up: Lee Seojin.
Han Jeongsu had many direct juniors. Or used to.
Of those still alive, he could count them on one hand. Fewer still hit the field. Most had retired with broken bodies or fled after their minds shattered first.
Lee Seojin was one of the rare ones still active.
He hit accept.
"Captain."
Her voice was the usual: firm, restrained, emotions locked down. A ten-year hunter's voice. Han Jeongsu hadn't taught her that, but long survivors all sounded like it eventually.
"What."
"We need to assemble a team."
Han Jeongsu didn't reply. Lee Seojin continued.
"Surveillance alone has limits. One calamity-grade, one danger-grade in a civilian residential area—a dense one-room district with heavy foot traffic. Confirmed the subject posted photos to an animal community. Bureau deleted them, but screenshots are circulating."
"Saw it."
"Spreading in the awakener community now. Still dismissed as fakes or jokes, but it'll surface eventually."
"Switching to contact?"
"Approved by upper command. I'll visit personally. Under pretense of awakener accident victim support. Backup team around the building, engagement rules unchanged."
"Respond only if the anomaly strikes first."
"Yes."
Han Jeongsu asked.
"How many?"
"Seven including backup."
"Ranks?"
"Two A-ranks including me, three B-ranks, two support."
Han Jeongsu fell silent a moment.
Pathetically short for a calamity-grade. A standard op needed at least five A-ranks, special gear import, civilian evac beforehand. This was barely a fifth of that.
But deploying heavy forces in a neighborhood would tip off civilians. And the op's goal wasn't combat—it was contact.
Contact.
Ringing the doorbell at a house with a calamity-grade anomaly inside.
In twenty-three years, he'd heard of encirclement ops, luring ops, joint naval strikes against calamity-grades. Ringing a doorbell? First time.
"You going in yourself?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
Han Jeongsu leaned back in his chair.
He knew the resolve behind her call. A ten-year hunter saying "we need a team" wasn't just a routine report.
"...Got it."
"Thank you."
"Save the thanks."
Han Jeongsu hung up.
Gazed out the window. Sun was setting.
His eyes drifted to the black coat on the office rack. The one from last month's funeral. Got rained on; needed dry cleaning. Still hadn't.
No real reason. Not laziness, not forgetting.
Just didn't feel like it.
Next day. Morning.
Lee Seojin arrived at Han Jeongsu's office with her team.
Gear check. Comms test. Final deployment review. Han Jeongsu personally vetted the layout. East rooftop, west alley, vehicle standby spots. Three escape routes. Civilian evac radius for worst-case.
Worst-case.
In this line of work, that meant "someone dies."
The team's faces were grim. No one smiled on a calamity-grade op unless they were green or stupid. No greens here. No stupids.
After gear-up and departure, only Han Jeongsu and Lee Seojin remained.
Lee Seojin was doing a final comms check. Han Jeongsu watched her a moment.
Ten years ago, first meeting, she was the rookie. Sharp eyes, tight-lipped. No fear in the field was her strength—and her flaw. Fearless rookies didn't last. That's why he'd watched her closer.
Ten years on. She was alive. A-rank. Leading teams. Calling her senior to request a team muster.
Han Jeongsu spoke.
"Seojin."
She looked up from the comms.
"Yes."
"Seven."
Her hand paused.
Seven.
Han Jeongsu's juniors. Dead on calamity-grade fields.
Two in Busan. Choi Jinho, Kim Doha. One in Daejeon. Choi Youngmin. Three in Incheon. Lee Seojin remembered all their names. Jang Yunseo, Na Hyunsik, Oh Taekgyun. One in Gwangju. Song Jiho.
Seven. Men and women who'd called Han Jeongsu "Captain." Who'd gone before him.
"That coat from last month's funeral—the rained-on one. Still not dry-cleaned."
Lee Seojin met his eyes.
His face was the usual: blank. Twenty-three years' blank.
Hers matched. Not learned from him, but survivors ended up alike.
"Seojin."
"Yes."
"Don't die."
She nodded.
"I'll be back."
Han Jeongsu said nothing. No "come back safe," no "do well."
That was the unwritten rule here.
One-room building front.
Lee Seojin activated her comms.
"All units, confirm positions."
"Alpha, east rooftop set."
"Bravo, west alley set."
"Charlie, vehicle on standby."
2 p.m. Clear skies. Breezy. An ordinary afternoon. Typical alley in a one-room cluster. Convenience store, snack bar, coin laundry. A college guy pedaled by on a bike.
Ordinary scene. Minus the calamity-grade anomaly on the building's fourth floor.
"Reconfirm engagement rules. One calamity-grade, one danger-grade inside target residence. No preemptive action while I'm in contact. Don't move unless they strike first."
"And if they attack?"
"Evac in three seconds. Engage after."
Three seconds.
Not even generous if a calamity-grade bared its fangs. Red Tide's first casualty in Busan: 1.7 seconds post-emergence. On record.
Lee Seojin looked up at the entrance. Fourth floor.
Checked the weapon inside her coat. Compact suppression blade. Hoped she wouldn't need it. Sincerely.
She entered.
Climbed the stairs.
First to second floor. Worn steps. Peeling paint, creaky railing. Ramen cooking somewhere. Someone's daily life.
Second to third. Killed her footsteps. Habit. In the field, steps meant exposure.
Third to fourth.
The air shifted.
Mana density changed. Normals wouldn't notice. But an A-rank's skin knew. Air grew heavy. Breathing took more effort. Not lungs—something else pressing down.
Proof a calamity-grade was near.
Finally, fourth floor.
She stood before the door.
Standard one-room entrance. Paint chipped a bit, flyers jammed in the mailbox. Chicken discount. Pizza 2+1. New semester tutoring ads.
A calamity-grade anomaly behind this door.
And a woman treating it like a puppy.
Lee Seojin recalled her captain's words.
Seven.
Not dry-cleaned.
Don't die.
She exhaled. Long and slow.
Pressed the doorbell.
Ding dong.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Noise from behind the door.
Slippers shuffling. Small ones. Flip-flop, flip-flop.
And then.
"Who is it~?"
A young girl's voice.
Bright, light, zero wariness.
Creeeak.
The door opened.