ep10. What Agent Seo Never Knew (2)

Installing surveillance cameras inside Special Zones was one of the Bureau's core duties. The task was important enough that an entire department — the Control Team — existed solely for that purpose.

And yet, no Bureau camera had ever survived inside the performance hall of the National Theater that Roots Out the Fake.

There had been multiple attempts. We'd even hidden pinhole cameras in inconspicuous places. Every one of them was destroyed by the entities almost immediately upon discovery.

The Bureau's official conclusion went something like this: Most performance venues strictly prohibit unauthorized recording. The National Theater, therefore, is simply enforcing its no-filming policy with particular thoroughness.

As a result, the contents of the Theater's performances could only ever be pieced together from survivor testimony. And in every record to date, no two survivors had reported watching different performances at the same time.

At least, not until now.

"What I saw was people wearing traditional masks. They were playing some kind of tag with each other. What's this 'white man' you're asking about? There were a few people in white hanbok, sure, but—"

People in traditional masks. That sounded like the Theater's third performance, Hide-and-Seek.

The Theater's performance patterns numbered seven in total. Patterns one through six were standardized shows with titles like Ganggangsullae and The Shouting Game. Performances that reflected an audience member's past or trauma, however, were classified as pattern seven.

And when a pattern-seven performance took the stage, it wasn't just the person at the center of it who saw the show — every other member of the audience saw it too, exactly as it was. Which meant the trauma's owner could be subjected to catastrophic psychological distress all over again. That was what the manual said, anyway…

"What about a wheel, then? Did you happen to see any animals — angels, lions, a bull, birds, anything like that?"

"No. Definitely nothing like that."

Choi Sang-eun shook his head again and again. I looked at him, then forced myself to swallow dryly.

"I see. Thank you for confirming. Take care on your way in, then."

My situation was unusual.

Being dragged into a Special Zone without warning, over and over again, was unusual, singular, and downright strange in itself. It wasn't new to me anymore, but still.

What was I supposed to do if every visit dumped a fresh pile of confusion on my head…?

I was sitting there wrestling with the problem alone when—

Click!

Heo Gu-young of the Post-Management Team walked straight into my interview room. Unlike his near-tears earlier, his face was now positively glowing.

"Survivor Eighty-Four has returned home!"

Survivor Eighty-Four, meaning Choi Sang-eun.

"Thank you so much, Agent. Honestly, you saved my life. Well — his. You get what I mean."

Heo Gu-young, thanking me so earnestly, was a young man with thick eyebrows and a clean, handsome face — the kind of guy who'd get a free pass at any family introductions. His personality looked to be about as pleasant as his face. Unlike the beasts of the field teams, he was an ordinary, polite, well-socialized human being.

"We'd hoped to handle things within our own team, so I'm sorry for the trouble of dragging you out here."

"Not at all. It was a good chance to meet Mr. Choi myself."

"Hearing you say that really means a lot. Really. Reporters are genuinely hard to deal with, you know. And this one had a sense of mission on top of it — really, honestly, whew."

Heo Gu-young shook his head wearily, as though drained to the bone. Apparently he truly had suffered; the adverb "really" was pouring out of him without restraint.

"Anyway, the moment you showed up, everything got resolved. See, this is why rapport matters in everything… Oh, right — Agent. Would you mind signing something for us here?"

Finished with his lament, Heo Gu-young opened his bag. Assuming the paperwork required a signature, I reached for a pen without a second thought.

And then…

"What is this?"

"It's limited-edition merch for third-cohort members of the Otter Survival Movement HQ. If you could just sign the body here?"

What Heo Gu-young revealed when he opened the small box was a piece of glasswork. A stained-glass otter, assembled from painstakingly cut pieces of colored glass, designed to hang in a window like a suncatcher.

What is this absurdly high-quality otter merch.

Yu-ju. It's you again, isn't it.

When did you make this?

No — how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did you even make this?

Heo Gu-young held out a marker along with the merchandise, requesting my autograph. Setting my bewilderment aside, I wrote my name across the otter's streamlined glass belly.

Whereupon Heo Gu-young slyly opened his bag again.

"I-I'm so sorry, but since you're at it anyway… ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could you do this one too? Our team leader and the rest of the team asked as well."

Ten identical boxes came tumbling out at once.

The moment I gaped at them, Heo Gu-young offered an awkward explanation.

"Ahaha, it's a lot, isn't it? Our whole department joined together during the third cohort."

"Why… why would you do that?"

"Third-cohort enrollment was first-come, first-served. So we waited at the office, and the second the form opened, we all signed up at once. The competition was brutal — a few people actually failed to get in."

That's not what I was asking…

When I stared at him with wavering eyes, Heo Gu-young nodded with evident pride.

"Every single person in our department is a die-hard fan of yours, Agent. Our team leader especially."

"…"

"Oh — was that too much? I'm sorry, ambushing you like this out of nowhere…"

"No, no. Writing my name isn't difficult at all—"

I tried to wave it off with something diplomatic, but the words trailed off at the end.

How was I supposed to explain this?

It was probably time to address the elephant in the room.

Truthfully, the first time I heard about the Otter Survival Movement HQ, I assumed I was being teased. The mountains of presents piled up in my dorm, I took for an unusually extravagant welcome party. When Yu-ju blurted out that she was my fan, I just found it cute — she was Jae-gyeom's friend, after all.

Right up to that point, I could rationalize all of it.

But then came the overwhelming attention that poured out every time I visited the training grounds. The ferocity with which the Otter HQ had hunted down and crushed a Contaminated gang in record time. And the slow creep of unease when I learned that even a graying, middle-aged chief from General Affairs — not some junior staffer — was a member.

And now. This moment.

Here, now, a man my own age from a completely different department was declaring himself my fan and asking for my autograph.

I couldn't help asking the fundamental question.

What is this, exactly?

Why are people going this far?

Am I really supposed to just keep swallowing this poisoned wine, gulp after gulp?

Yes, I'm a fan of someone too. I loved a certain work and its author so much that I changed my entire career path because of them. But even so… I've never wanted to preserve that author in the form of an animal…

There was so much I wanted to say, but I swallowed back everything tangling on my tongue and offered the most distilled sentence I could manage.

"I'm… not really accustomed to this kind of attention…"

"Oh! Right, of course — sorry. I read about it in the bylaws."

"The bylaws?"

"The Otter HQ bylaws. The ones that say 'look with your eyes only.' It says you're an introvert, Agent."

"How do you all know that I'm an introvert?"

"Oh, everyone knows that. You nearly got motion sickness at your appointment ceremony, remember? You went absolutely white as a sheet."

That's right. That did happen.

The day I first put on this Bureau uniform. The day I was the only appointee and had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to accept my commission alone in front of hundreds of people. My appointment ceremony, which had been merciless to a man whose hobby was reading and whose profession was editing, had happened just last month…

"Whoa — sorry, sorry. I got ahead of myself."

Heo Gu-young apologized quickly, probably because my face had gone pale all over again. He even moved to clear the boxes off the table, and I shook my head. Whatever any of this was, I opened a box and began silently writing my name. Signing my name a few more times wasn't exactly hard labor.

Though I still had no idea how I was going to digest a situation that was getting more suffocating by the minute…

"Ahem. Agent, I really don't mean to burden you with this, but…"

As I carefully traced my name onto the glass, Heo Gu-young broached the subject with studied casualness.

"The truth is, our team is the one most affected by you."

"Affected how?"

News to my ears.

I had almost no points of contact with the Post-Management Team. Even when I'd returned home before, I somehow never ran into them — Cha Si-eon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was always the one who showed up.

When I looked at him like he was speaking nonsense, Heo Gu-young elaborated.

"That reporter earlier was Survivor Eighty-Four. That number resets to one every year."

So Choi Sang-eun was the eighty-fourth person rescued this year?

Come to think of it, I had a number too. Survivor Twelve when I came out of the Railroad Station. Survivor Twelve-and-Thirteen when I came out of the Hospital.

…Hold on. Doesn't that count me twice?

"Last year, there were two hundred eight survivors. This year, there are already eighty-four as of April. Of those, the civilians you personally rescued number fifteen. Thanks to you, we've been quite busy lately."

Heo Gu-young beamed even as he complained about the workload. The sight reminded me of Ha Yu-ju, who once said busyness made things fun.

Right. Chief Kwon Mu-seop had said the same thing — that they didn't just stand around watching because they enjoyed the spectacle. That when you saw someone in danger, of course you wanted to save them. Apparently, human hearts really did run along the same channels everywhere.

But wait. How had I rescued fifteen people?

One person at the Railroad Station — Lee Sol. Five people at the General Stadium, including Jang Han-bin. Ten people at the National Theater, including Choi Sang-eun.

That's sixteen. The numbers don't add up.

Was Choi Sang-eun excluded because he escaped under his own power? Or maybe the discrepancy was on Jang Han-bin's end. Of course, the important thing wasn't a discrepancy of one or two — it was whether all of these people should be counted as rescued by me at all. The General Stadium, where Jae-gyeom had been right there with me, was one thing, but—

"The National Theater crowd were getting out either way, you know."

"Of course, that's true. But for us, the aftermath matters more than the rescue itself."

"The aftermath?"

At my follow-up question, Heo Gu-young's expression grew noticeably more careful.

"I said there were two hundred eight survivors last year. But only one hundred twenty-six of them are still alive today."

"I'm sorry — what?"

If only one hundred twenty-six of two hundred eight were alive, what had happened to the other eighty-two? They'd died within a year — no, within less than a year? After clawing their way out of that living hell, why…?

"Don't tell me it was Contamination—"

"No. Contaminated Persons and inmates were never included in these numbers to begin with."

"Then…"

I trailed off, chilled by an instinct I didn't want to name. And Heo Gu-young drove the point home in a voice heavy with bitterness.

"They took their own lives."