It Lives in Gyeonggi Province (4)
Thud! The heavy iron door slammed shut with a resounding boom. Jung Ha-yeon straightened her posture in front of the desk, suppressing the lingering smell of gunpowder and her bone-deep fatigue. Across the desk, the head of operations—responsible for mission execution—spoke without lifting his eyes from the stack of documents.
"They want to tear up the entire park and start over? Budget office already called. They're gearing up to send the repair bill straight to me."
His tone dripped with sarcasm, but Jung Ha-yeon's expression didn't flicker as she placed the report tablet she'd been holding onto the desk.
"It'll be cheaper than the compensation for civilian casualties or the cost of media control, sir."
"You always know what to say." Only then did the section chief adjust his glasses and fix his gaze on her. He swiped through the tablet screen, reviewing the tense footage from the subjugation. His finger paused at the moment Ha-yeon's sword cleaved through the entity's torso.
"This thing—wasn't it classified as Level 1 in the risk assessment? Looks at least Level 2 to me. One slip, and we'd have had a massacre right in the middle of the commercial district. What the hell is Analysis doing anyway? Detection net might as well be useless. Still, good work. You stopped a major disaster."
"Just luck. My team members were scouting nearby and picked up the signal fast."
Stopping it before casualties arose had been pure chance. This whole incident was nothing but good fortune.
"We're critically short-staffed right now. Dispatch calls are spiking, and everyone's exhausted. Our team alone has taken down over five entities this month."
The section chief sighed, stroking his chin at Ha-yeon's words. He switched the screen to display a graph of entity appearances over the past month. A sharp red line climbed steeply upward on the chart— and that was just the confirmed cases the bureau knew about. Factoring in unconfirmed entities outside their radar, this was the bare minimum.
"Team Leader Kang, how many direct dispatches have you led this week alone?"
"Seven, including today."
"Right. Seven days in a week, seven dispatches. And you're the team leader who should be commanding, not out there every time. Three of those days, you went out twice. Does that make any sense? Just a year ago, these things popped up once every other week, if that."
The section chief rubbed his dry face and let out another heavy sigh. Ha-yeon added flatly,
"Field agents are at their breaking point, especially. We don't even have time for equipment maintenance."
Frustrated, he gulped down his cold coffee. Empty paper cups littered the desk.
"I know, I get it. But what can we do? We can't just grab special forces kids, hand them guns, and send them out untrained. It takes time—time we need."
Even elite recruits were measured against ordinary humans. Throwing them at monsters without training was like tossing live bait to beasts. The creatures wouldn't thank you for the fresh meal; they'd just grow fat and strong.
"Hang in there a bit longer. Higher-ups are watching the changes closely. They've already rolled out countermeasures; things should improve soon. And..."
As if remembering something, the section chief trailed off and pulled an item from his drawer.
"Here, take this."
A document envelope slid across the desk and stopped in front of Ha-yeon. Stamped boldly in red ink on the yellowed paper were the words RESTRICTED ACCESS.
"Got a cooperation request from the magic world. They're asking us to find a kid."
As Ha-yeon picked up the documents, the chief continued.
"Kid with mage talent. They want us to hand him over for proper training. NIS already tracked him down and confirmed his info. Address and details are all here—just go persuade him."
Simple child protection duty? Ha-yeon's eyebrow twitched in doubt, but the chief added,
"One caveat."
His voice grew more serious.
"Analysis recommends the execution team handle it directly, given signs he's already awakened his powers. Risk assessment and all."
Mages were different from birth. To normals, they were monsters in human skin. Kids weren't any less dangerous—uncontrolled, immature power could spark disasters.
"Don't worry too much, though. It's just precautionary. Parents seem fine, kid's your typical elementary schooler. Nickname's 'possessed' or something? Definitely special, but no incident records. If something was gonna happen, it would've by now."
"You said he might have awakened. That makes your point moot."
Among the intel shared between nations, mage data abounded. Clips of children turning dozens of adults to ash with a flick were easy to find.
"Hey, we're not doing this for free. Magic side's dispatching one of their own as 'goodwill'—basically our fee."
Expectation gleamed in the chief's eyes. Ha-yeon's brows rose slightly. Mage backup in the field, full of variables, was a huge asset.
"We thought building ties was enough, but those arrogant bastards reached out first. For magic-barren Korea, this is a golden opportunity. No idea what makes this kid special, but we're grateful."
Ha-yeon glanced at the photo in the file. An innocent face just hitting puberty. But behind those harmless eyes, she superimposed the image of a mage incinerating people in a video.
"So handle it gently, no provoking. He's at that age where he listens to Mom and Dad—convincing the parents is key. Heh."
The chief's sleazy grin screamed jackpot. Unlike Ha-yeon's faint unease, he looked worry-free.
"Giving you a couple days' leave. Handle it on the side."
Ha-yeon swallowed the retort—What kind of leave is this?—and silently gathered the documents before standing.
* * *
Monday. The word alone, surely spawned in hell, crushed souls with demonic weight. No exception for elementary kids.
The musty dust of weekend-sealed classrooms greeted them, heralding another grueling week. Faces ashen, they clutched bag straps like lifelines, filing in. Neatly aligned desks and chairs looked eerily like electric chairs. Was it illusion? They entered like condemned prisoners awaiting execution, sunlight casting shadows that amplified the tragedy.
But the despairing silence didn't last. You couldn't silence elementary kids by wringing a chicken's neck.
A scream shattered the quiet from the back corner.
"Uwaaaaaah!!! I forgot my homework!!!!"
"Pfft—idiot."
That sparked it. Monday curses erupted like fireworks everywhere.
The kid who'd just face-planted on his desk, soul drained, suddenly kicked back his chair.
"Oh yeah! Why'd you log off Bico yesterday?"
"Mom walked in during mute comp, had to quit."
"Dude, you see Hwangdon eating spicy jjambbong? Hilarious, check this."
"What? Lemme see!"
Five or six heads magnetized to one smartphone screen. The homework wailer and his mocker joined the huddle. Giggles hit the ceiling, stale air warmed by body heat, cool breeze from the window filling the room.
"Hot ham in lunch today!"
"No breakfast—sweet!"
"Don't forget tteokbokki after school?"
"Got it—"
The chaos hushed only when the door opened and the teacher entered.
"Quiet down—everyone sit!"
"Teacher's here! Sit, sit!"
Clatter of chairs, bright eyes fixed on her.
"Kids, good weekend?"
"Yes!"
"Roll call first. Hmm, one empty seat? Tae-woong's spot—who saw him?"
"Teacher, Tae-woong's not here yet."
"Really? Something wrong?"
Then, frantic footsteps—door burst open.
"Sorry I'm late!"
Tae-woong panted, an out-of-season scarf around his neck. Bruises everywhere, sweat streaming—clearly off.
The teacher frowned worriedly.
"Tae-woong, you okay? Sick?"
"Just cold vibes, bundled warm—too hot now."
"What about your face?"
"Fell playing."
After repeated checks, she let him sit, relieved. Neighbor kid whispered,
"Cold from a cold, wear warm clothes—not just a scarf?"
"Tch—mind your business, I got it."
Irritated, Tae-woong ignored the voice from behind.
"Scared of that ghost story?"
"Nah, it's Tae-woong."