Morning had fully arrived by the time Seo Jae-Min reached the street.
The stairwell that led down from the rooftop smelled faintly of old paint and detergent. A child's bicycle leaned against the landing, its chain rusted. The air was thick with the scent of rain and city life — coffee, exhaust, and damp concrete.
He paused by the building's front door, watching the world move through the glass.
Seoul was alive again. Cars drifted past in steady rhythm, their tires whispering across wet asphalt. A row of schoolchildren walked by under bright umbrellas, laughing. An elderly man set up a small stall selling roasted chestnuts, steam curling into the air like white smoke. Nothing about it looked like the world he remembered — though, to be fair, he remembered almost nothing.
"Welcome to civilization," L.I.A. announced in his ear. "Population: too many. Noise level: intolerable."
Her voice, filtered through the neural link, was crisp despite the chaos outside.
He adjusted the collar of his jacket — a scavenged piece from a laundry line he'd passed earlier. "It's… peaceful."
"If by peaceful you mean dangerously under-defended, then sure."
She paused, scanning.
"No visible drones, no uniformed patrols, no radiation shielding. How quaint. Humans survived this long without constant orbital surveillance? Miraculous."
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the light.
It was still overcast, but bright enough to make him squint. The drizzle had stopped, though water still dripped from the awnings. People passed him without a glance — a stranger among thousands.
He moved slowly, studying everything. The advertisements that flickered over convenience stores. The chatter of voices, all speaking familiar Korean but with inflections that felt different. The sight of delivery drones weaving through traffic like lazy insects.
And everywhere — people smiling.
That, somehow, felt most alien of all.
***
He found himself at a small café on the corner of the street, its sign blinking: Café Luna — Since 2019. The smell of roasted beans and baked bread drifted out as the door opened and closed with a bell's gentle chime.
"You're hungry," Lia said matter-of-factly.
He nodded slightly. "Apparently."
"You do remember how to eat, yes?"
"I believe so."
"Good. Try not to disassemble the utensils. They're not weapons."
He ignored her and stepped inside.
The café was quiet, lined with soft lights and wooden tables. A young barista glanced up from behind the counter — a man in his twenties with dyed silver hair and the bored expression of someone who had seen too many early shifts.
"Welcome," he said mechanically. "For here or to go?"
Jae-Min looked at the menu board behind him. The words were all familiar but strangely meaningless — Americano, Latte, Vanilla Cold Brew.
"...For here," he said after a moment.
"Name?"
He blinked. "My name?"
The barista stared. "Yeah. For the order."
Jae-Min hesitated. "...Jae-Min."
"Alright, Jae-Min-ssi. What'll it be?"
He studied the board again. Americano seemed simple enough. "One of those," he said, pointing.
The barista tapped the screen. "That'll be 4,500 won."
Jae-Min reached into the pocket of his borrowed coat and found nothing.
"Excellent," Lia muttered. "We have no currency. Infiltration success rate: zero percent."
He looked around, calm as ever, while people in line behind him shuffled impatiently.
Then, without missing a beat, he turned to a man who was just stepping out of the café with two drinks.
"Excuse me," Jae-Min said politely. "You dropped this."
The man blinked, confused. "Huh? I didn't—"
Before the man could finish, Jae-Min bent down, picked up a small coin rolling on the floor — one that had slipped unnoticed from the man's pocket — and handed it back.
"Ah—! Wow, I didn't even see that. Thanks!"
"You're welcome."
The man, grateful, handed him one of his drinks. "Here, take this one. I ordered too much anyway."
And just like that, Jae-Min was seated with a hot Americano a minute later.
"You just manipulated a civilian into giving you caffeine," Lia said, somewhere between impressed and scandalized.
"I helped him."
"You guilt-tripped him with grace and precision. That's worse."
He took a sip, eyes half-closing at the taste. It was bitter, clean, and strangely nostalgic.
"I must have liked coffee," he murmured.
"Or your brain just associates caffeine with combat readiness. Either way, you're welcome."
***
Outside, the morning crowd thickened. Office workers hurried by with umbrellas. Delivery scooters weaved through puddles. The city moved like a living organism — chaotic yet perfectly balanced.
He watched quietly, sipping his drink.
"You're being unusually quiet," Lia said.
"Observing."
"Anything interesting?"
He thought about it. "Everything."
A pause. Then:
"You're such a poet when you're concussed."
He smiled faintly.
***
He left the café after a while, walking aimlessly. Every corner of Seoul felt like a different world — narrow alleys where stray cats slept under motorbikes, broad streets lined with LED billboards, and the quiet hum of vending machines that never slept.
He stopped at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to turn green. A group of high schoolers stood beside him, talking animatedly about a new mobile game. He didn't understand half the slang they used, but he found himself smiling at their energy.
Then he noticed movement — subtle, quick — in the reflection of a shop window.
A man in a gray hoodie had just slipped his hand into one of the student's backpacks.
"You see that?" Lia's voice sharpened instantly.
"I do."
"Civilian theft in progress. Recommend non-interference."
"Why?"
"Because it's none of our business, and your face already screams 'government experiment gone wrong.'"
He didn't answer. The light changed to green, the crowd began to move, and in that moment the pickpocket pulled the student's wallet free — smooth, practiced.
Jae-Min stepped forward, calm as a whisper.
"Excuse me," he said.
The thief turned — startled — just in time for Jae-Min's hand to close around his wrist. Not hard, not violent — just precise. The wallet slipped back into the student's bag with perfect timing.
"Careful," Jae-Min said gently. "You almost dropped that."
The man blinked, confused. "I— what—?"
Jae-Min smiled politely. "Have a good day."
He released the wrist and walked on. The thief stood frozen for a second, unsure whether he'd just been caught or hypnotized, before bolting down a side alley.
"You told him to have a good day?" Lia said in disbelief.
"He seemed troubled."
"He was stealing!"
"Then he's troubled and poor. Both unfortunate."
"Unbelievable. You neutralize a criminal and sound like you're offering therapy."
He ignored her, continuing down the street.
Behind him, the high schooler checked his bag, eyes wide. "Wait… I thought I lost this…"
A passerby who had seen the moment pulled out his phone, whispering, "Did anyone else see that? He didn't even touch the wallet— it just—"
The rumor began to spread before Jae-Min had even turned the next corner.
***
He ended up near the Han River by afternoon. The rainclouds had cleared, revealing a wide stretch of blue sky. Joggers passed by in colorful clothes, couples shared convenience-store snacks under trees, and a busker tuned his guitar nearby.
Jae-Min sat on a bench, his coffee long finished, watching sunlight dance on the water.
"You're trending," Lia said casually.
He blinked. "Trending?"
"Yes. Someone uploaded footage of your little Robin Hood moment. The caption reads, 'Mysterious man saves student without breaking stride.' You've got two hundred thousand views and counting."
He frowned slightly. "That sounds… inconvenient."
"Correct. Infiltration status: compromised by virality."
He leaned back against the bench, looking up at the sky. "Can't be helped."
"It could've been helped by not performing random acts of public heroism."
"Perhaps. But it seemed the right thing to do."
"You're impossible."
"So you've said before."
"Multiple times."
He smiled faintly, closing his eyes. The warmth of the sun on his face felt good. He could almost forget that he was out of time — a man displaced, haunted by fragments of a war that hadn't yet happened.
For a moment, he just listened — to the rustle of trees, the chatter of people, the distant buzz of drones overhead. It was ordinary. Peaceful. Something worth remembering.
"What now?" Lia asked after a while.
"For now," he said softly, "I'll stay here. Observe. Learn."
"And after that?"
He opened his eyes, watching the river flow. "When the time comes, I'll know."
"That's not a plan."
"It's enough of one."
"You're really going to live here? Blend in? Pretend you're some normal guy?"
He nodded once. "Until I remember who I was."
There was a long silence. Then Lia sighed — a very human sound for an artificial mind.
"Fine. But don't expect me to enjoy pretending to be your smartwatch."
He chuckled. "Would you rather be something else?"
"A coffee machine. At least then people would appreciate me."
"Noted."
He stood, stretching. "Come on, Lia. Let's find somewhere to stay."
"With what money?"
"I'm sure something will come up."
"That's what you said before the last three disasters you caused."
"Then perhaps this time, I'll cause a smaller one."
"I hate that you sound optimistic when you say things like that."
He smiled faintly and started walking, his reflection moving across the water beside him — a calm stranger in a world that didn't yet know his name.
***
That night, somewhere in a nondescript corner of Seoul, an algorithm tagged a new viral video for investigation.
A faceless government analyst frowned at the screen, zooming in on a single frame — a man with calm eyes, hand extended mid-motion.
The file was marked:
Potential anomaly detected. Subject ID: Unknown.
And far above the quiet city, a satellite blinked awake for the first time in years, as if remembering something lost.