Those Who Never Came Out

"Sunbae, what's wrong? What's over there?"

The first-year girl—her hair no longer in a bob, but gathered back into a ponytail—comes up beside the boy standing frozen stiff.

The boy flinches and tries to shut his locker, but it is already too late.

"Don't tell me that's—"

The two of them seem to grasp the meaning of this anomaly at once. That place is a labyrinth, one that lets out only those who fulfill a specific condition. And waiting for graduation is probably the simplest way to resolve it.

"I'm jealous. I'm so jealous of you. If only I'd been born a little sooner, we could've graduated together. But really—really, congratulations. I mean that. I mean every word."

Tearful but valiant, the round-eyed girl manages to finish brightly.

Seonghwa High's one and only first-year buries her face in the chest of its one and only graduation candidate and cries for a long, long while.

Sniff.

A sniffle drifts over from the back row.

The audience holds exactly two people, and one of them has thrown up while the other is weeping. Truly a beautiful cinematic experience.

"Quit it with the weird talk about who gets left behind—just think about getting yourself out. Don't come back. And don't you dare waste it worrying about me. If you're that worried, then get out and come rescue me, right? We know all the rules by now."

"You think you can hold out without me? For two whole years?"

The two of them glare at each other, bloodshot eyes stabbing like knives.

"Then what about me? Can I hold out too? Without you?"

I know that love can save a person.

"Holy shit—what even is that thing?! Its eyes and its mouth are all fused together?! Hey! You! Get inside the faculty office and cover me! I'm gonna go smash that thing! I'll be right back, so pass word to Song Seorin for me!"

And I know, too, that love can kill a person.

"S-Seorin. Song Seorin. What are you doing. Hey. Get up. C'mon. Huh? Are you sulking? Because I didn't come to the auditorium? I— I didn't even graduate, so……. Wait. My— my graduation. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠So then, it's because of me……?"

In the faculty office, drowned in blood, Yoon Haejun gathers Song Seorin into his arms and does not stand up for a very long time.

The screen cuts away.

Yoon Haejun silently gathers up the bodies. Wipes the dried bloodstains from the faculty office floor. Puts himself in order, right down to jacket and tie. Selects food from the school store with practiced hands, carries it up to the rooftop, and lays it out one item at a time on a desk lowered as far down as it will go.

I study the school-store goods Yoon Haejun has arranged: apple jelly, pear ice cream, sikhye rice punch, galbi-flavored crackers, fish-shaped cookies, rice drinks…….

Yoon Haejun kneels before the heaviest memorial table in the world and bows. He rises, and bows a second time. His back, curled up small as a child's, trembles faintly.

Black smoke begins to rise beyond the shoulders of Seonghwa High's last remaining student.

The camera pulls back, ever so slowly, to frame the school in full—Seonghwa High School, blazing like a torch in the darkness.

At last, as the school shrinks smaller and smaller, the end credits begin to roll.

Names. Names. Names. More than two hundred of them.

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

A labyrinth is a realm of rules—of rules, by rules, for rules.

Follow its established rules correctly, satisfy the labyrinth, and you may leave it.

'Those Who Never Came Out.'

Which means the labyrinth bears no malice.

If it appears malicious, that is mere mimicry—nothing more than an arbitrary interpretation imposed by human minds.

To me, this machine-like space, horrifying in its purity, was——

The credits were over.

I slipped out my phone and checked the time. 6:02. Running time: two hours and seven minutes.

Deciding we ought to be getting up soon, I turned toward the back row and gestured to Choi Jaeha.

Pop—!

But then, all at once, the space behind the back of my head—that is, the screen—lit up again.

Crazy. It was mounting a time-lagged attack.

I slammed my half-risen rear straight back down into the seat. If I had stood up believing the credits were done, I really would have died.

Don't tell me this insane labyrinth went and made a post-credits scene. What is it planning—a preview of the next film?

The instant I glared at the screen, dumbfounded—

"Huh?"

—I shot up out of my seat without meaning to.

"Huhh?"

Choi Jaeha's idiotic voice was the last thing I remember.

This labyrinth definitely had a rule banning the word 'huh?'

Goddammit.

"If it were possible to turn back time, what would you do, Mr. Seon Yuhan?"

Was I imagining things? Had I really seen what I thought I saw? And it had all happened in an instant—I didn't even know how I had died.

What method could there be for killing a theater villain in silence, in the middle of a screening?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

……No. Never mind. I had work to do.

"Excuse me. As of this moment, this building has become an invasive labyrinth. You need to leave. Yes, I'm serious. Please keep listening."

Raising the interviewer up out of her seat, I explained as we went.

"The power will cut out soon, so the elevator is off-limits. Be careful not to fall on the stairs, and don't stand on them for more than five seconds. If anyone asks you the time, just answer with whatever you know. If you end up trapped in the main auditorium, you must follow the guidance announcements, no exceptions. Also, it seems we can only move one floor at a time—so if you finish your business on the second floor and still can't get out to the first…… then I don't know either. I'm sorry."

Ha. I had poured out far too many words while walking at a near-run, and now I was out of breath.

"O-oh, okay. Understood."

Bewildered though she was, the interviewer nodded.

"But are you all right, Mr. Seon Yuhan?"

"I'm fine. Please hurry. I have to go pull the people out of the elevator."

I didn't forget, either, to ask her to have Yuwi Guild's Red Weavers spread word of the labyrinthification on social media.

"I see. Understood."

The interviewer looked at me with clear, steady eyes.

"Oh, and Mr. Seon Yuhan—there's no need to apologize here for not knowing something. A labyrinth is, by nature, a place where not knowing is only to be expected."

"Ah."

Which meant that I—someone who had rambled on about the labyrinth knowing more than a little—was, inevitably, a person for whom that wasn't 'natural.'

She had noticed that much, and yet she didn't pry. She even went so far as to tell me not to feel sorry.

Having a person like this as my interviewer was one of the few mercies among my countless misfortunes.

"Yes."

Somehow I found it hard to meet her eyes, so I answered as though muttering to myself and bowed my head.

"Then, Mr. Seon Yuhan—take care of yourself. Let's meet again sometime."

"Will do. You take care."

It would be nice if she didn't disappear. Would we even be able to meet again?

With that thought, I stopped the elevator.

6… 5… 4… 3… Ding!

And there was the CPA's face—hardly a welcome sight.

"Mr. Choi Jaeha."

"Huh? Yes?"

"I have something to tell you. Step out for a moment, please."

Confused by the request of a man he was seeing for the first time in his life, yet unable to simply brush it off, Choi Jaeha shuffled out in a daze.

"Uh—I'm sorry, what is this about……?"

Choi Jaeha stared hard at me, as if searching his memory to check whether my face existed anywhere inside it.

What I had to offer him wasn't much. Just that the Jaerae Building had become a labyrinth, that communications would go dead within about a minute, and that the building's interior was about to lose power.

"No—come on, that makes no sense at all…… does it?"

The way he so smoothly slipped into polite speech—honestly, people really are simple creatures. Treat them courteously, and they'll return the courtesy even to a lunatic spouting nonsense. Maybe that was because last time I'd simply hauled him out by the arm; he'd used nothing but casual speech from start to finish then.

CRASH!

"AAAGH! What the hell!"

BOOM, KRRRASH, KWAANG!

"There—you've heard it for yourself. Now let's take the stairs down."

KWA-BOOM, THUD!

"Uh, o-okay…… Got it……"

After savoring the Jaerae Building Elevator Plunge Show in full surround sound, the man's brain had gone a little numb, and he had turned docile.

"Hold the handrail and come down slowly. Just—don't stop moving."

"Oh—yes. Um, but the thing is, I honestly can't place you, so if it isn't rude to ask—how exactly do you know me……?"

Choi Jaeha's voice rolled through the emergency stairwell like a cave.

"It's a one-sided acquaintance, on my end. You're with Howol Accounting, aren't you."

The accountant breathed a sigh of relief and started to smile—then froze.

"But—"

"—don't stop. Keep coming down."

"Ah—yes. No, wait. What was your name, again?"

"Seon Yuhan."

Fortunately, since we were in the middle of a descent, Choi Jaeha didn't reach for a business card.

"Right. Anyway, Mr. Seon Yuhan."

Opening the first-floor emergency exit and stepping through, the accountant looked me dead in the eye.

"How did you know I was in that elevator?"

Whoa. Sharper than I'd expected.

"I didn't."

"Hard to believe, when you called my name almost the instant the doors opened, like you'd been waiting for me."

So this is the problem with pretending to know things in advance and calling someone out of an elevator.

"And you knew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the power cut would make it fall, too. I mean, elevators don't actually plummet just because the lights go out. Labyrinth or no labyrinth……. It hadn't even been five minutes since this place started turning into a labyrinth, had it? Everything was perfectly normal right up until I stepped into that elevator. It barely even looked like a labyrinth—so how did you know?"

Wow. He hadn't gone this far last time.

Give a person time to think calmly, and they actually get smarter. Then from now on, I would simply have to make sure not to give him time to think.

"My instincts are just good, that's all. Like—today, of all days, this place really feels about to become a labyrinth. A feeling like I know exactly what's going to happen in this labyrinth?"

"No—is that even a thing?"

Choi Jaeha finally threw polite speech out the window.

"Even the fortune-teller who called the exact day some foreign president would die couldn't predict where the next labyrinth would appear."

"That fortune-teller has probably never been trapped in a labyrinth."

Only then did the accountant shut his mouth.

"Labyrinths sometimes leave behind problems that never get solved. Even after they've been resolved."

The way he kept sneaking glances at me, trying to fathom what I really meant—honestly. For all his flailing, the man was an open book.

"In any case, the problem we have to solve right now is this one."

To keep Choi Jaeha from wandering off into useless speculation, I tossed him a fresh problem.

"We opened the first-floor emergency exit—and came out on the second floor."

"Wha— what? Seriously?"

So we went all the way down to the first floor and emerged onto the second floor. Again.

"Aaaaargh! For real!"

Apparently nothing could be done about that one. Fair enough, really—if I were him, I'd have wanted to see it with my own eyes too, and I had no intention of giving him grief over it.

"So what are you planning to do from here, Mr. Seon Yuhan? I mean, you're a labyrinth survivor—you must know something, right? About what we're supposed to do. I know invasive types are a whole different beast from contested ones, but still."

"I'm going to explore every last inch of the second floor. That alone might turn out to be the condition for getting down to the first floor—and even if it isn't, at least I'll be able to work out what that condition is. First of all……"

"—from here."

With that, I jerked my chin toward the front doors of the auditorium right in front of us.

"The auditorium? Why there?"

"No reason. It's my gut."

A total piece-of-garbage snuff film, titled Does Spring Come to Seonghwa High School?

Honestly, I couldn't stand the sight of it.

But last time, I hadn't made it through the post-credits scene.

I had to watch. Even if I couldn't bear it—so that I would know.

I had to know. Even if I didn't want to—so that I could get out.

"And once we're out of the auditorium, I'm planning to take one full lap, starting from that daycare over there, and circle back around to this spot."

I pointed at the second-floor floor plan posted on the corridor wall. The Jaerae Building was built in the shape of a hollow square.

I didn't bother telling Choi Jaeha to follow me or asking him to come along.

"S-sure. Let's do that."

Without being told, he simply came along on his own. For all his bulk, he seemed secretly timid—and unexpectedly rich in feeling.

"In return—whatever happens, try not to panic, and you must follow the rules."

"The hell's that supposed to mean? What am I, a kid?"

He was acting exactly like one. That was the only reason I'd said it.

Remembering how, last time, I had begged Choi Jaeha—please, please, just stay in your seat—I opened the doors of the auditorium.

In the end, I had to placate an accountant raising a tremendous fuss about refusing to sit down, and sit through a second viewing of the utter piece-of-garbage snuff film titled Does Spring Come to Seonghwa High School?

Not 'The Ones Who Come Out'—as in, the cast. The ones who never came out.

Even on a second viewing, no hollow laugh would come.

While I waited for the post-credits scene, I thought about Seonghwa High School.

By all accounts, the school's interior had been found immaculately tidied, and nearly everything in it burned utterly away, making it nearly impossible to establish what had actually happened there.

Only the six corpses left on the rooftop, and the traces of more than two hundred people—clumsily dismembered and packed into every sort of storage container—proved just how much sorrow had been sealed up inside that place.

And now I knew the road they had walked.

Would a day ever come when I could speak of them? Of how brave those children had been, and how cowardly, too. Of how tender those adults had been, and how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠foolish. Of how much they had thought of others, and how often they had thought of no one but themselves.

Of how fiercely, how desperately, you all failed.

Could I ever tell it to the bereaved families still trapped inside a labyrinth that no longer exists?

Could I get out of this labyrinth? If not for my own sake, then for theirs?

Pop—!

The last of the credits rolled away, and the screen brightened once more.

This time, determined not to leap out of my seat the way I had before, I gripped the armrests until my knuckles went white.

The post-credits scene that had killed me began to play.