The Railroad Station with a Blaring Siren (2)

As I read through the rulebook, I instinctively reached out with my right hand.

Huh? Oh, right.

Then I belatedly lamented the hand waving through empty air. Without even realizing it, I had been about to pick up a pen and underline every other sentence.

An occupational hazard of being an editor — and a chronic one at that.

Which also meant this rulebook was riddled with that many errors.

Why on earth did they write these sentences like this?

Few of them weren't begging for a margin comment.

But I folded away my editor's ego for the moment and reread the words in front of me as a missing person. Even so, there was one word I simply couldn't make sense of.

What on earth was "martyrdom" supposed to mean?

Could it possibly mean what I thought it meant?

After some deliberation, I went looking through each route's detailed explanation and read the "martyrdom" section first.

……So it was true?

Now that I had my answer, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my stomach actually turned.

"Martyrdom" did mean exactly what the dictionary said — "to give one's life for one's country."

In other words: you're dead anyway, so put that life of yours to use and dig up some intelligence for us.

Absurd, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I flipped back to the front of the rulebook to double-check. Sure enough, it clearly said "managed by the government of the Republic of Korea."

So this was real?

Was the Republic of Korea the kind of country that urged its citizens in peril toward self-rescue or sacrifice?

From start to finish, the whole thing was preposterous.

But then, so was the reality I was in.

And what if I decided it was too suspicious to believe? Did I have any other clues, any other options?

Regrettably, I did not.

I didn't even know why the two people who had dropped dead right in front of me had ended up that way.

Which meant that, for now, this rulebook was all I had to cling to.

Clutching at straws, I read it through carefully, and fast.

The only choice available to me here was Route A: Escape by boarding a train.

Route B: Escape via the "Rag Doll" simply didn't meet the conditions at all.

And Route C: Escape via the "Recycling Bin"…… I just didn't want to attempt it.

Games of pure probability are not my forte.

Besides, I had no desire to meet that cleaner again.

So Route A was, relatively speaking, the only route worth trying.

That said, to board the train as written, I'd first need a ticket.

There were two ways to get one: buy it at the ticket office, or barter for it.

In any normal situation, of course, you'd buy a ticket at the counter.

But here, purchasing one looked all but impossible — because the tickets were obscenely expensive.

I mean, what kind of person walks around carrying fifteen million won in cash……

Fortunately, it seemed the rulebook's author had the same thought, because there was a workaround right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠below it.

Hm. A completely useless alternative.

Trade my belongings for cash until I'd scraped together 15.87 million won?

Maybe workable for someone with high-end luxuries on hand, but for a broke editor, it was a method I couldn't even attempt in the first place.

I doubted everything I owned put together would fetch even a million won.

No, wait — come to think of it, there was one way. Harvest the organs inside my body? Surely that would cover the sticker price. Of course, to use this method, I'd first need to find myself a helpful surgeon.

I felt wronged and pathetic — and yet, part of me thought it was just as well.

The image of a human head flying off right in front of that ticket office was still burned into my eyes. Not having to walk past it again was, honestly, a small mercy. Yes. Let's call it that.

In the end, bartering was my only option.

I took a deep breath, got to my feet, and slowly made my way out into the waiting room.

It was as quiet and spotless as when I'd first arrived. Every trace of the blood that had spilled here had been wiped away completely, and the cleaner was nowhere to be seen.

Eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to look at the signs scattered about and the words inside them, I walked. A massive celadon vase set out as decoration. Beside it, an escalator leading up to the second floor.

Riding the escalator — the only one still running — I came out onto the second-floor corridor. On one side of it were a restaurant and a café; on the other, restrooms and what looked like several office spaces — a conference room, a business lounge, something of the sort. The signage was illegible, though, so I couldn't confirm any of it.

So I counted pillars as I walked. One, two, three……

As written in the rulebook, I stopped at the sixth pillar and looked right. There was a glass door, automatic. The lettering above it was unreadable as well.

But if I'd found the right place, this would be the Armed Forces Officers' Lounge inside the station, used by soldiers and military civilian staff.

As I approached, the glass door slid open on its own. Inside, it was set up like a small unmanned café. Cozy, even.

The moment I stepped in, though, I flinched.

Something was sitting at the far end of the lounge.

It wore a khaki uniform, top and bottom — but it did not look like a person. Head bowed deep, limbs unnaturally long, so that the knees it had bent to sit in the chair rose at least fifty centimeters above its own head.

Worse, its outer skin was cracked and glistening, black as charcoal. Like a spider that had died and shriveled up.

That grotesque sight set my nerves on edge — but outwardly, I kept my composure, approached, and asked politely.

"Would you happen to have any unclaimed tickets?"

At that, the strange thing slowly nodded its head.

Nothing I was carrying matched anything on those lists.

Not the successes, not the failures — and certainly not the forbidden ones. None of it, either way.

Still, there was room to try. Who'd have thought my failure to reorganize my bag before a deadline would come in handy?

I'd been to a promotional-goods vendor just last week, and as a result, my bag was currently rolling with every kind of sample souvenir and freebie merch.

So I opened the bag, took out a metal cigarette case, and set it on the table.

No reaction.

I moved the cigarette case aside and set down a portable first-aid kit.

No reaction.

Swapping the first-aid kit for a flower-shaped key ring, I tried again.

Still nothing.

At the string of failures, I laughed hollowly. Room to try, my ass. Right — of course it couldn't be this easy.

So cigarettes, painkillers, and white flowers were acceptable, and that's exactly why I'd pulled out my cigarette case, first-aid kit, and something flower-shaped. And every one of them had been shot down in fine style.

All that remained in my bag was junk — bookmarks, memo pads, that sort of thing. If those failed too, my only options would be crossing over to the Circulating Library, or stepping into the "Recycling Bin" and leaving everything to chance.

Neither appealed to me. Not one bit.

Hoping there might be something else, I rummaged through the bag again — and felt something square-edged brushing against the lining.

Wondering what it was, I fished it out of the bag's inner pocket.

Oh, right. This thing.

What came out was a palm-sized paperback. Flipping it open, I found the author's signature and a brief message scrawled on the flyleaf.

Na Bit was one of the authors I edited.

And what had just tumbled out of my bag was a collection of her short fiction, produced to mark the tenth anniversary of her debut. I'd slipped it into my bag to keep at home, but work had been so relentless lately that I'd forgotten it entirely.

I turned a few more pages — and then, on the off chance, placed the book on the table.

No reaction this time either.

Just as I was thinking I'd guessed wrong again, the thing abruptly stretched out one long, skeletal arm, picked up my book, and began turning the pages, slowly.

What — was it working?

Could it actually be……?

……It did?

Looks like it did!

And here I'd figured I had nothing to lose!

At the thought that I'd succeeded, I let myself feel a rush of joy — a little too early, as it turned out.

Because in the very next moment, the thing tore my book to pieces.