The night was transparent, as if the city had exhaled all the smog and was left in a clean, crisp air. Wires above the street quietly hummed—a deep, drawn-out sound, like a low singing. Occasionally, the wind touched the antennas, and somewhere far away an old transformer crackled—like the broken rhythm of someone else's heart.
Ryeon was returning home. His steps barely touched the asphalt; only the fabric of his cloak rustled with his movement. Seoul seemed deserted. Without people, without neon—only darkness, pierced by the cold light of monitors behind windows.
The mission ended strangely. Min Ki said: "I'll check the signal source"—and the connection was lost. All that remained was a dry crackle in his ear, like breathing through metal. Usually, he paid no attention to such glitches, but today the sound wouldn't disappear. It clung on, as if it knew Ryeon wouldn't turn off the headset.
When the apartment door closed behind him, it became even quieter. The cold crept inside, mixing with the smell of iron and dust. He took off his mask, tossed the gloves onto the table, and switched on the control panel. Screens lit up on the wall, slowly, one by one. A soft blue light spilled onto his face.
The system was slow to start. Lines of code trembled, as if the text was shivering from the cold. Ryeon ran his hand over the panel, checking the routes. Everything looked correct, but an inner feeling told him: something was wrong.
And he wasn't mistaken—a line flashed in the center of the screen: Route failure.Biorhythms unstable. Check impossible.
He narrowed his eyes. — Biorhythms?… Since when does the system monitor my heart?
There was no answer. Only the screen grew brighter, and the words shifted, turning into a new inscription: Deviation 16%. Source - operator node.
— So—me, — he exhaled, feeling an electric current run down his spine.
He placed his palm on his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, he felt not a beat, but heat. Not a fever—a live, dense warmth that seemed to breathe along with him. His pulse was erratic, disobedient. A slight ringing flared in his head, and for a moment it seemed to him that the warmth responded to this sound.
— Min Ki, did you change something in the protocols? — he asked into the void.
Silence. Only the hum of the wires behind the wall and the quiet clicking of a relay.
He stood up, walked to the window. Outside the glass, the city was as if in isolation: sparse lights, electrical flashes, wind carrying dust and the smell of ozone. And suddenly—a barely audible signal in his ear. Not a voice, not a word—an impulse.
— Don't go out.
He turned to the monitor, but nothing had changed on the screen. Only the shadow of his reflection—a pale face, green eyes, a slight shimmer of light across his cheekbones.
— Min Ki?…
Silence.
His fingers rested on his chest again. The heat grew stronger—as if someone inside him was slowly waking up. His heart was beating irregularly, but not from fear. It was a sensation—like during an impending contact, when the body reacts before the mind.
He sat on the edge of the bed, clenching his fists. The air became viscous, his breathing uneven. The screen flashed again: Shouldn't have seen him.
Ryeon stood up abruptly. — What? Who is writing?
There was no answer. Only a weak impulse in his chest—three short, one long. A system signal. But he hadn't activated anything.
He stood motionless, feeling how the pulse under his fingers seemed to be speaking to him in a different language. The warmth rose higher, reaching his neck, his lips, leaving a slight dizziness. In his ears—a hum, in his body—a tension, like a call.
All of this was wrong. But strangely—alive.
He walked around the room, as if trying to push this feeling out of himself. — It's not a virus, — he said softly. — It's just a glitch.
But the screen flashed again. On it—a short, trembling message without a signature: He is still nearby.
Ryeon froze. His heart stumbled again, as if someone standing very close was breathing in unison with him. And suddenly he understood: the warmth inside didn't leave because it wasn't his. It was an echo of someone else's presence.
***
The city on the other end of the network was bathed in the cold light of monitors. A room without windows, without time. The air smelled of coffee and dust from overheated processors.
Min Ki sat in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. In front of him—a control panel on which hundreds of lines flickered. Each one—someone's route, pulse, breathing. But his gaze was fixed on only one indicator: R-07.
At first, everything was normal. Pulse stable, readings within norm. Then—a jump. The rhythm sharply increased, as if the operator's body had sensed a physical contact that hadn't occurred.
He opened additional graphs. — It can't be, — he whispered. — Such a reaction without an external impulse is impossible.
The system displayed a new line: Emotional response outside the norm.
Min Ki slowly ran his hand across the screen. — Emotional?… He shouldn't have emotional responses.
He started the drone's recording. The image was fragmented: fog, a silhouette, a flash. A tall man with a camera—and Ryeon nearby. Contact. A look. Then—a discharge.
Min Ki paused the frame. His own heart responded with a slight jolt in his chest. — So, that was him…
He peered into the biorhythm graph. After the contact with that person, the heart rate had almost doubled and wasn't returning to normal. A new item appeared nearby: Anomalous thermal radiation—localized in the chest.
— This is not a technical failure, — he said. — It's… an awakening.
He stood up, walked around the table, his gaze lingering on the route map. All network lines were smooth, but only one—Ryeon's line—trembled, pulsed, like a living thing.
Min Ki turned off the light. Only one screen remained. On it—the rhythm. Fast, resilient, irregular. He watched it for a long time, feeling his own breathing shift inside.
— If you feel… — he said quietly. — Then it's not a mistake.
He ran his finger across the glass, over the blinking dot on the map. — It's just the first time you're not following the route.
The words dissolved in the hum of the fans. For a moment, it seemed that between all those sounds there was a breath—not of the system, but a living one. As if the connection between them was no longer made of wires.
The city was silent, but somewhere deep, beneath the layers of concrete and code, two rhythms continued to sound in unison—not as signal and operator, but as two hearts, accidentally coinciding in time.