IGWKE Episode 35

Episode 35

‘Kyaaaak!’

Dark, suffocating surroundings. Damp humidity. A piercing, malicious noise assaulted his ears. He couldn’t breathe. Yoon-ui opened his eyes.

He wasn’t time-warped—this had to be a dream. Looking around, it didn’t take him long to realize where he was. The very first gate he had entered.

Endless darkness stretched in every direction. Eerie cries of monstrous creatures echoed from the depths. His protective gear and guiding amplifiers felt oppressively heavy and suffocating. A foul, metallic stench lingered in the air, its source indiscernible.

‘What a memory.’

Yoon-ui thought to himself as he surveyed the dreamlike recreation of that harrowing experience. It felt as though two versions of himself coexisted in this space: one, the terrified rookie from years ago, and the other, his current self, calm and detached, observing the dream like a bystander.

It was a C-rank gate, laughable now, but back then, it was utterly terrifying. The gap between what he’d learned from textbooks and 3D models and the harsh reality he faced in the gate was insurmountable. Young and inexperienced, Yoon-ui had been petrified.

‘I could die here.’

‘But where is this?’

He wanted to shout at his younger self, ‘You won’t die here!’ but in the dream, the terror consumed him just as it had then. His strength faltered, his composure unraveled, and his guiding power sprayed wildly into the air, uncontrolled.

Thankfully, the Espers accompanying him back then had been a reckless bunch, more focused on smashing and charging ahead than paying attention to his clumsy panic. They didn’t notice his struggle, and the mission ended in success.

Walking out of that gate and into the sunlight, the relief and euphoria of being alive had overwhelmed him. It was one of those moments where he truly felt the essence of life, though the memory now felt distant and diluted.

But beneath that relief and euphoria lurked shame.

In his dream, Yoon-ui couldn’t stop the flow of memories. They surged on, dragging him back to a time he wanted to forget.

‘Jung Yoon-ui!’

Five years ago. That day.

A maddened Esper had turned his powers toward Yoon-ui, his limbs contorted, his ability exploding violently. Yoon-ui squeezed his eyes shut.

‘That bastard…!’

‘Swear at me, yeah, go ahead. You think you’re the only one who wants to live?’

Had he really shouted that? Or was it only in his head? The details blurred, but the voice in his memory rang out clearly.

That day, he had been the only one left with full awareness. Even Jung-woo, the Esper involved, had no recollection. The investigation had long since concluded, and now, only Yoon-ui truly knew what had happened. That is, if his own biased, self-preserving memory could be considered the truth.

‘Kyaaaak!’

‘Please, I want to get out of here!’

‘Murderer!’

Somewhere in the gate, high-pitched screams mingled with desperate cries. Too loud. Yoon-ui clamped his hands over his ears. The voices weren’t coming from outside—they were in his head.

‘Kyaaaak! Murderer!’

In his dream, Yoon-ui begged his unconscious to let him escape, to pull him out of this suffocating memory. Anything would be better than this moment. Anything.

And the dream shifted. His plea answered, he found himself thrown into a fiery hellscape. Smoke choked the air, and ash stung his eyes. But amid the chaos stood salvation—a massive gray pillar. Heon-ju.

‘Heon-ju!’

Calling out to Heon-ju, Yoon-ui realized something. The curses he thought he had screamed in the earlier memory—they had never left his lips. The meeting with Heon-ju was one memory he was certain of, unmarred by guilt or uncertainty.

‘Get a hold of yourself, kid!’

For the first time, Yoon-ui had moved with the sole intention of saving someone. Approaching the frozen, ash-covered figure of Heon-ju, he brushed the debris from his shoulders and pressed a hand to his neck. The memory was slightly distorted, but Yoon-ui didn’t question it.

‘I’ll save you.’

Beneath his palm, Heon-ju’s erratic pulse thrummed violently. Yoon-ui channeled his guiding power, speaking to Heon-ju in a steady stream of reassurances.

‘Can you hear me, Heon-ju?’

He had to hear him. Even as Heon-ju’s eyes remained closed, Yoon-ui kept guiding and coaxing, his words unwavering. Open your eyes, Heon-ju.

But hope and salvation didn’t come easily. The chaotic pulse refused to calm, and the raging flames around them intensified, consuming everything in their path.

‘Kyaaaak!’

The high-pitched scream tore through the air again. This time, Yoon-ui knew what came next.

‘Murderer!’

This time, the voice wasn’t in his head. Yoon-ui’s eyes flew open as Heon-ju’s rigid neck twisted unnaturally, his eyes snapping open to glare at him. Pale lips parted, revealing a dark, cavernous maw filled with hate and despair.

‘Murderer!’

The voice echoed in perfect clarity.

“Ah!”

Yoon-ui bolted upright, gasping for air. No flames. No Heon-ju. It was just a dream. His body felt weak, as though all strength had left him. He collapsed back onto the bed.

“What time is it….”

He reached for his phone, only to remember it was off. He’d turned it off after Manager Im’s relentless calls.

“Ugh… annoying.”

Turning it on, he saw the litany of missed calls: thirteen in total. Eleven were from Manager Im, the last at 4:53 p.m. Two more came later—from Heon-ju.

5:10 p.m.
6:30 p.m.

He scrolled through the messages, ignoring those from Manager Im and starting with Heon-ju’s.

[Did you leave early?]
[You weren’t feeling well?]
[Are you really resigning?]
[Can I come to your place?]
[Am I being a bother?]

“Ah.”

Stopping at the last one, Yoon-ui sighed. It carried unmistakable hurt, the kind that even text couldn’t mask. He felt guilty but still turned off his screen.

‘Later… I’ll respond later.’

The man was as despicable and spineless as ever. Memories flooded in—the time he tried to substitute her child support with the stipend from Yoon-ui’s mandatory guide training, and the time he showed up after years of silence, claiming he needed a co-signer for a business loan and demanded Yoon-ui’s service record as collateral. Yoon-ui cursed his own weakness for not deleting this man’s number long ago.

“Anyway… yes, I’m leaving the service,” Yoon-ui said, voice strained.

— Oh? You must’ve saved up quite a bit, then.

“Yes, well… I’m not calling to ask for anything. But I do have to vacate my quarters immediately.”

Why did I call him? Yoon-ui thought, cringing at himself as he continued. I can afford a budget hotel for a month if I need to. Why him? What was I expecting?

— Uh… okay. And?

“Where do you live these days?”

— Me? Where I live? Why?

Yoon-ui could hear the unease in the man’s voice. He was stammering, clearly anticipating a request to move in. His irritation bubbled up.

This is ridiculous, he thought. Why did I even hope to lean on this man? All I’ve done is humiliate myself.

“I just thought… maybe I’d visit you once I leave,” Yoon-ui said, masking his bitterness.

— Oh, really? You know, Espers and guides get a decent severance when they leave, right?

“I haven’t looked into the details yet.”

— It should be in the thousands, right? That’s life-and-death money, after all.

“Yes, well…”

— So, you’re saying I might get to enjoy a steak dinner courtesy of my son? Haha.

Listening to the man’s shameless tone, Yoon-ui found himself thankful, for once, that he wasn’t an Esper. If he had been, his powers might have surged uncontrollably at that moment, driven by sheer rage.

“Sure… but since you live far away, maybe we’ll meet some other time.”

— Oh, it’s not that far! If my son wants to see me, I can make the time!

“No need to go out of your way. I’ll visit when there’s a chance.”

Maybe at your funeral. Or your memorial. The thoughts sprang to mind, but he swallowed them down. The man sensed the chill in Yoon-ui’s voice and backed off.

— Alright, alright. It’d be nice to see you sometime.

“Sure.”

— But what are you going to do if you’ve got nowhere to go after leaving?

“Good question.”

— If only your mother hadn’t remarried. Then you’d have somewhere to stay. What kind of woman abandons her child like that?

“I’ll call you back another time.”

If the conversation continued, he might have lost control and paid a visit to make sure the man would never speak again. Permanently. The thought of being branded a “guide who killed an Esper while active and a civilian after retirement” brought a bitter chuckle to his lips.

“Damn it, Yoon-ui, you idiot,” he muttered, cursing himself as the man’s grating voice echoed in his head. Without hesitation, he deleted the number.

Now there was just one contact left. His mother.

His mother had remarried years ago, had a much younger daughter, and was living a happy life. Unlike his father, she wasn’t outright malicious, but every call ended with her apologizing for something or another, which left him feeling worse.

The last time they spoke, three years ago during Lunar New Year, she’d thanked him for calling but hurriedly ended the conversation, claiming she was busy with holiday preparations. He could hear a child calling for her in the background, and her tone turned resolute.

— Sorry, but can we talk another time?

The interaction had been so unnecessarily cautious and defensive that he hadn’t called her again since. As he stared at her number now, he felt just as unwilling to reach out. With a sigh, he deleted it too.

“So, I’ve got no one left to ask.”

Yoon-ui collapsed back onto the bed, curling up under his blanket. As he lay there, childhood memories of hiding from his parents’ fights beneath a thin quilt surfaced. The sound of sharp words and accusations replayed in his mind like a phantom echo.

‘Whenever they fought, I’d hide like this…’

There weren’t many good memories from his time living with them. They had never reached out a hand when he needed one, so why had he instinctively called them now? Was it because society drilled into him that family was supposed to be there for you?

Throwing off the blanket, he sat up suddenly.

“Guess I’ve been brainwashed by social norms and expectations.”

With determination, he grabbed his phone again. The contact list, now significantly shorter, stared back at him. Even with just two numbers gone, the emptiness weighed on him.

“Damn it.”

The loneliness gnawed at him, a strange, aching desire for a place to call home even while sitting in his own.