The basement laboratory felt suffocating in the aftermath of failure. Dr. Delein stormed through the narrow space between cluttered workbenches, his footsteps echoing off concrete walls that had witnessed too many questionable experiments. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across equipment that would have made legitimate researchers uncomfortable—modified tranquilizer guns, rows of empty animal cages, and monitoring devices jury-rigged with the kind of desperate ingenuity that came from working outside legal boundaries.
This rented house's basement had been perfect: isolated, unremarkable, tucked away in a neighborhood where people minded their own business. South Korea itself had seemed like the ideal location—a nation small enough to slip beneath international notice, weak enough in awakener representation that no one would think to look here.
Until yesterday. Until that damn tracker had interfered.
"Shit, shit, SHIT!" Dr. Delein's control shattered like glass. His hand swept across the nearest table, sending papers flying in a cascade of ruined data and failed calculations. His other fist slammed down hard enough to make beakers rattle in their racks. "How the hell did a tracker find me here?!"
The words tore from his throat with genuine bewilderment and rage. South Korea was supposed to be inconspicuous—a weak nation that held little relevance in awakener society. The kind of place where illegal experiments could proceed undisturbed, where forced awakening research could continue without drawing the attention of the world's major players.
"And yet someone was able to track me here!" His voice cracked on the last word, frustration bleeding into something that almost resembled fear.
The sound of footsteps on the basement stairs cut through his tirade. Dr. Delein's head snapped up, ready to unleash his fury on whoever dared interrupt his breakdown.
"Professor?" Wooin's tentative voice drifted down from the stairwell, young and uncertain.
"I told you not to disturb me!" Dr. Delein lashed out instinctively, his temperament swinging from cold calculation to hot anger in a heartbeat. "What is it, brat—"
But the rebuke died in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the dim stairwell and caught sight of the figure standing behind Wooin. Slightly taller than the boy, familiar in the worst possible way, the man descended with the casual confidence of someone who had every right to be there.
A wary expression replaced Dr. Delein's anger. This was not a subordinate he could berate. This was something far more dangerous.
The man looked distinctly amused by Dr. Delein's outburst—a sight rare enough to be noteworthy. The doctor's violent fits of temper were usually kept tightly controlled, professional fury reserved for failed experiments rather than thrown papers and shouted curses.
"Now, now, Doc," the man said, his voice carrying a slightly cheerful lilt that somehow made the situation more threatening rather than less. He continued walking down the stairs, passing Wooin without a glance. The boy remained frozen mid-step, understanding instinctively that he was caught between forces beyond his comprehension. "The kid didn't do anything wrong."
The man reached the basement proper and surveyed it with the casual interest of someone cataloging details for later use. He grabbed a nearby chair—one usually reserved for Dr. Delein's late-night deliberations—and sat down with deliberate ease, claiming the space as his own.
"Now." The cheerfulness vanished from his voice like water down a drain, replaced by something cold and surgical. "I was only supposed to check on you. But what I heard just now? That's something we need to talk about."
Dr. Delein felt his stomach clench. The shift in tone carried implications that went far beyond a simple status report. There was peril in those words—the kind that suggested consequences for failure, accountability for compromised operations.
"Wooin." Dr. Delein's voice came out steadier than he felt, reasserting control through familiar command structures. "Go upstairs. Do not come down unless I call for you."
The boy nodded quickly, relief evident in his posture as he practically fled up the stairs. His footsteps faded, and the basement door closed with a soft click that seemed far too final.
Silence settled between the two men like dust after an explosion. Dr. Delein straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to meet the other man's gaze. Whatever conversation was about to happen, it would determine whether his experiments continued—or whether he became just another failed researcher who'd pushed too far into forbidden territory.
The man leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and waited with the patience of someone who knew he held every advantage.
"So," he said softly. "Tell me about this tracker."
x
Three days of searching. Three days of careful reconnaissance through neighborhoods that all blurred together into the same pattern of narrow streets and unremarkable buildings. Three days of extending his awakened senses until his head throbbed with the effort, searching for any lingering trace of aether, any whisper of illegal experimentation.
Kenji had found nothing of substance.
He'd scoured the area surrounding the alleyway where Jiwoo had first encountered Dr. Delein, methodically expanding his search radius in careful grids. He'd walked every accessible street, checked every abandoned building, monitored every suspicious property. His investigation had been thorough, systematic, and utterly fruitless.
They've increased their security measures, Kenji thought grimly as he stood in yet another empty alley that looked distressingly similar to all the others he'd checked. They're laying low after their encounter with Jiwoo.
It made tactical sense. From their perspective, Jiwoo's interference had been catastrophic. The boy had sabotaged their forced awakening experiment, stolen their only confirmed success and escaped without leaving any exploitable trail. They would have assumed he was an enemy, possibly a scout for a larger awakener organization investigating their illegal activities, probably thought of the kid as a tracker.
They're probably trying to replicate their success with new subjects, Kenji reasoned, his analytical mind working through possibilities even as frustration gnawed at him. New cats, new location, tighter operational security.
The conversation with Jiwoo two days ago had been... complicated. Kenji had sat in the boy's modest living room, surrounded by the cheerful chaos of multiple cats and one suspiciously intelligent orange feline who'd watched their entire exchange with unsettling focus.
"I haven't been able to locate them," Kenji had said bluntly, believing that Jiwoo deserved honesty even if the truth was disappointing. "They've gone to ground—probably relocated their operation or at least suspended activities temporarily."
Jiwoo's face had fallen, that earnest expression clouding with worry and guilt. The boy blamed himself, Kenji could see it in every line of his posture, in the way his hands twisted together in his lap.
"Listen to me carefully," Kenji had continued, leaning forward to make sure Jiwoo understood the severity of what he was about to say. "You need to be extra vigilant. These people now consider you a threat—a direct enemy who cost them significant time, resources, and their only proof of success."
"I understand," Jiwoo had said softly, but Kenji wasn't finished.
"If you see anything suspicious, anything at all, you call me immediately." Kenji had pulled out his phone, making sure Jiwoo had his number saved with high priority. "Don't try to handle it yourself. Don't investigate. Don't follow anyone. You call me first."
"But what if—"
"Especially if you think you can handle it," Kenji had interrupted, knowing exactly where the boy's stubborn heroism would lead him. He'd seen that look before in young awakeners who didn't yet understand that courage and stupidity often looked identical from certain angles. "If you even feel like trouble is coming, you contact me. Understood?"
The orange cat, Casein Nitrate, a name that Kenji thought as rediculous, had meowed in what sounded suspiciously like agreement.
"Promise me, Jiwoo." Kenji had held the boy's gaze, unwilling to leave until he received adequate assurance. "I need to hear you say you'll be careful and you'll call for help."
"I promise," Jiwoo had finally said, and something in his voice had carried enough sincerity that Kenji felt marginally better about leaving him. "I'll be vigilant. I'll call you if anything happens. I won't try to handle things alone."
Kenji had studied him for a long moment, this boy who'd only just discovered his awakened nature and had already thrown himself into danger to save a stranger's cat—and finally nodded. "Good. I'm holding you to that."
Now, three days later, standing in the middle of his company's cafeteria line, those memories played through Kenji's mind with the persistence of unfinished business. Had he done enough? Should he be more proactive in monitoring Jiwoo's—
"Kenji? Kenji!"
A hand tapped his shoulder insistently, and Kenji blinked back to awareness. Soo-yun stood beside him, concern evident in her expression, her hand still resting on his shoulder.
"You're holding up the line," she said gently, gesturing ahead to the gap that had opened between him and the person in front. Behind them, a queue of hungry employees waited with varying degrees of patience.
"Ah—I apologize," Kenji said immediately, his professional mask sliding back into place. He stepped forward quickly, then turned to address the people behind him. "Ah. My mind wandered for a moment."
There were understanding murmurs and a few sympathetic smiles. People zoned out during lunch; it happened to everyone. The line began moving again, but Soo-yun remained beside him, her eyes searching his face with the kind of concern that came from genuine friendship rather than mere workplace courtesy.
"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, pitching her voice below the cafeteria's general din. "I've never seen you blank out like that before."
Kenji's mind worked quickly, constructing a response that was technically honest while revealing nothing of substance. He met her eyes and allowed a rueful smile to cross his face. "It's because I'm having a hard time picking which food I'm going to eat. The cafeteria options today are all good—I was genuinely torn."
It was a transparent deflection, and they both knew it. Kenji watched Soo-yun process the non-answer, saw the moment she decided whether to push or let it drop. Her expression flickered—curiosity, concern, and finally acceptance. If Kenji didn't want to share what was really on his mind, she wouldn't force it. That was part of why he valued her friendship; she understood boundaries.
"Well," Soo-yun said, her tone deliberately brightening as she let him off the hook, "if you're struggling to decide, you should definitely try the braised short ribs today. Chef Kim outdid himself, they've been simmering since this morning, and the meat practically falls off the bone. It's my favorite dish in the whole cafeteria rotation."
She gestured toward the steam tables ahead where the ribs in question sat in their rich, glistening sauce. "The seasoning is perfect, sweet and savory with just a hint of spice. And they serve it with this banchan that complements it beautifully. Trust me, you won't regret it."
The line moved forward, and they reached the serving area. Kenji grabbed a meal tray, one of the larger ones with multiple dividers designed for employees with substantial appetites, and began making his selections.
First, he accepted a generous portion of the braised short ribs Soo-yun had recommended, the serving staff member adding an extra piece when she saw his athletic build. The dark sauce pooled enticingly around the tender meat, and Kenji had to admit it smelled exceptional.
Into the next compartment went a substantial serving of steamed white rice—he needed the carbohydrates more than most people realized, his awakened metabolism burning through calories at an accelerated rate. The rice formed a perfect mound, still steaming slightly.
He added several banchan: kimchi that looked properly fermented and spicy, seasoned spinach, crispy dried anchovies, and pickled radish. The vegetable tempura caught his attention next—light and crispy, still hot from the fryer.
His soup selection was doenjang-jjigae, the fermented soybean paste stew thick with tofu, vegetables, and small clams. The serving was larger than standard, filling the bowl to its rim.
Finally, he grabbed a small plate for dessert—fresh fruit including sliced pear, strawberries, and melon, alongside a small portion of yakgwa, the honey cookie he'd developed a weakness for.
His tray was substantially heavier than most of his colleagues', the portions reflecting an appetite that would have seemed excessive for someone with his lean build. But maintaining his level of awakened ability required fuel, and he'd learned long ago not to be self-conscious about his needs.
Soo-yun had finished loading her own tray with more modest portions and was heading toward their usual table when Kenji's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced at the screen and felt his stomach drop.
The text was from Jiwoo—or at least from Jiwoo's number. But the message itself looked wrong. The words were barely spelled correctly, letters jumbled as though typed in desperate haste or by someone unfamiliar with a phone's touchscreen.
"keji trubel kom quik pleez"
(Kenji. Trouble. Come quick. Please.)
x
[Five minutes earlier, at Jiwoo's house]
Kayden stared at Jiwoo's smartphone where it lay on the coffee table, its screen dark and unresponsive. The boy had gone to the corner store—just a quick errand, he'd said, barely ten minutes there and back, leaving Kayden alone with the sleeping rescued cat and the very real possibility that danger was closing in.
The orange cat had seen the suspicious figure lurking near the building's entrance. Had watched with experienced eyes as the man pretended to check his phone while actually surveying the apartment complex with the systematic attention of a professional. This wasn't a lost delivery driver or confused visitor. This was reconnaissance.
The kid needs backup, Kayden thought grimly. And that neighbor of his is the only one who can provide it without revealing my identity.
Which meant operating this infernal device.
Kayden extended one chubby paw and tapped the screen with his pad. Nothing happened. He tried again, applying slightly more pressure. The screen flickered to life, displaying Jiwoo's lock screen, a cheerful photo of all the cats lined up by their food bowls.
The unlock pattern. Right. Kayden had watched Jiwoo enter it countless times, his enhanced memory recording the sequence. He lifted his paw and attempted to trace the pattern.
His toe bean was too large. The screen registered the touch but couldn't distinguish the precise direction he intended. The pattern failed. A notification popped up: "Incorrect pattern. Try again."
"Ridiculous," Kayden muttered, his tail lashing with frustration. "I've faced off against the top awakeners with no problem, yet I'm having a hard time operating this damn phone!"
He tried again, this time using the very tip of his claw for greater precision. The screen protested—tap tap tap—not registering the lighter touch properly. Another failed attempt.
On his fourth try, Kayden managed to unlock the phone through a combination of determination and sheer bloody-mindedness. The home screen appeared, displaying rows of colorful app icons that meant nothing to his feline form.
There. The messaging app, green icon with a white speech bubble. Kayden tapped it with his paw pad.
The app opened to reveal Jiwoo's recent conversations. Kayden scrolled with difficulty, his chubby paw making the screen jump erratically. Too far. Back. Too far again. Finally, he located Kenji's contact information.
The keyboard appeared when he tapped the message field—a grid of tiny letters that seemed deliberately designed to mock someone with paws instead of fingers.
Kayden took a deep breath and began the agonizing process of typing.
K... E... His paw hit three letters at once. He backspaced clumsily and tried again. K... J...—close enough.
This was taking too long. The suspicious man outside could move at any moment. Jiwoo could return and walk straight into danger.
Kayden abandoned proper spelling and focused on speed, mashing his paw against letters in roughly the right positions: trubel kom quik pleez
It was barely legible, but it would have to do. The message conveyed urgency, and that was what mattered. He wanted Kenji to think it was from Jiwoo—an assumption that would come naturally given the phone number and the panicked, hasty spelling. No need to reveal his own involvement yet.
Kayden jabbed the send button with more force than necessary, relief flooding through him as the message marked as delivered.
Now he just had to hope that Kenji would respond quickly, and that Jiwoo wouldn't do anything reckless in the meantime.
Who am I kidding? Kayden thought with dark humor. The kid's middle name is 'reckless.'
x
Kenji stared at his phone screen, reading the garbled message a second time to make sure he'd understood correctly.
"Kenji? What's holding you up?" Chungho's voice cut through his racing thoughts. His team leader sat at their usual table with the rest of their work group, looking expectant and hungry. "Come on, we're starving here!"
"Dude, sit down already," Chul added with characteristic directness, gesturing to the empty chair they'd saved. "My stomach's eating itself."
Soo-yun appeared at Kenji's elbow, her own tray balanced carefully in both hands. "Are you okay?" she asked again, concern deepening as she took in whatever expression had settled on his face.
Kenji made his decision in the space between heartbeats. He turned to face Chungho, his expression apologetic but firm. "I'm sorry, but something's come up that requires my immediate attention. I need to leave."
Chungho's eyes widened slightly. In the two years Kenji had worked on this team, he'd never once left early for personal reasons. "Is everything alright? Is it family?"
"A neighbor emergency," Kenji said, which was technically accurate. He picked up his tray, all that carefully selected food now destined for the break room refrigerator at best, and managed a wry smile. "For what it's worth, this still counts as half-day work, right?"
The joke fell flat given his obvious urgency, but it served its purpose of deflecting further questions. Chungho waved him off with concerned understanding. "Go. Just keep us posted if you need anything."
"Thanks. I'll make it up to everyone," Kenji promised, already moving toward the tray return area.
Soo-yun followed him partway, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "Kenji... if you need help—"
"I've got it handled," he assured her gently but definitively. "Thank you, though. Really."
He deposited his untouched lunch, including those perfectly prepared short ribs—into the refrigerator with his name labeled on the tray, grabbed his jacket from his desk with practiced efficiency, and was out the building's main entrance within three minutes of receiving the text.
The afternoon air hit him with unseasonable warmth as Kenji broke into a run that would look merely athletic to any observers but was carefully calibrated to eat up distance without revealing his awakened capabilities.
His phone remained clutched in his hand, Jiwoo's desperate message still displayed on the screen like an accusation.
I told him to call if there was trouble, Kenji thought as his feet pounded against pavement. At least he listened to that much.
He just hoped he'd arrive in time to make sure the boy's stubborn heroism didn't get him killed.