The apartment was borrowed. Not from anyone he trusted.
Above an ancient secondhand bookstore in Guro-gu, wedged between a shuttered budget hotel and a half-lit karaoke bar. The lock didn't match the door—like maybe someone had changed it in a hurry. The front steps creaked. He memorized every blind spot in that stairwell before he chose it.
There was power. No heat.
Kyo entered without turning on the lights.
He waited ten seconds by the door. Listening.
No sounds. No shadows moving beneath the windows. No shifts in the floorboards.
Only then did he move.
He slid off his hoodie, folded it in half, and placed it on the floor beside the bed. The mattress was old, likely rigged with sound detection fiber. He never used it.
He sat cross legged on the concrete, facing the window where the morning haze hugged the skyline.
Pressed his palms to his knees. Closed his eyes.
Stillness.
The Constant stirred—not surging, just present. Like a second pulse, in counter-tempo with his heartbeat.
Not angry. Not unstable. Waiting.
He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled slowly through his nose.
Kyo gave up. He couldn't turn it off anymore.
Opened his eyes. No tremor. Steady. At least that was something.
He remembered it now.
The bus. The scream. The boy.
The moment his body moved without permission—like something inside him propelled him to act. He hated that feeling.
He didn't regret saving the boy. But he dreaded what would follow.
Someone, somewhere would have already tagged the footage. The Constant leaves marks. Not just in the air, but in the algorithm.
Normally, he would leave. Within the hour.
But the spikes were getting stronger. Worse. He needed to re-learn control. No choice but to stay in Seoul. Lay low for a few days. A week. Then move again—and contact him.
The only person he ever asked for help from.
Across the room, his shoulder bag sat propped against the radiator.
He stared at it for a long time.
Didn't move. Didn't reach for it. Didn't touch it.
The pendant was inside. Her pendant. Wrapped in cloth. Untouched for ten years.
He imagined it now: the faint brushed-metal glint—imperfect, but true.
Not something to be hidden.
Something meant to be given.
But he hadn't given it. Not then.
And now—even if he found her—they were probably watching her too.
Even if they weren't, she was already part of a world that he didn't belong in.
He wondered if she would even wear it—or if ten years had changed her and left no trace of that girl he used to know. If the lights and stage had buried that version of her for good.
Inside him, the Constant hummed again—
like it was remembering something, too.