Chapter 26

Shin Kyung-jae flailed his arms wildly as he lunged at Seo Ji-hyuk. His hands curled like claws, as if he were trying to snatch Seo Ji-hyuk in a single motion.

The onlookers gasped in shock at the sight of his jaw stretching open so wide it looked as though it might tear apart.

In the next instant, Shin Kyung-jae leaped into the air, his body soaring as he pounced on Seo Ji-hyuk’s upper body.

“Ahhh!”

“Gasp!”

Screams erupted from the startled crowd.

With a sickening crack, Shin Kyung-jae’s neck collapsed inward. The sound of his cervical spine snapping echoed through the room.

“Oh my god!”

“Aaaah!”

His body crumpled like a discarded straw doll, lifeless as it hit the floor.

“Why didn’t you use the ampoule?”

The Center Chief, who had just arrived at the interrogation room, reprimanded Seo Ji-hyuk.

Wiping his rough face with a dry palm, Seo Ji-hyuk responded in a flat tone.

“I can’t exactly reveal the existence of the ampoule in front of all these people, can I?

They’d start asking, ‘What the hell is in that solution? Why did you suddenly throw it on someone in the middle of their meal?’

People would start talking.”

“That may be true… but what I meant was, you should have at least confirmed it with the ampoule first.”

“If you had been at the scene earlier, would you have been able to do that, Center Chief? I honestly don’t know.”

“Hmm….”

The Center Chief stroked his white beard, his expression tightening.

Seo Ji-hyuk sat on the stiff chair, his gaze unfocused as it drifted downward, then toward some distant point, before he finally closed his eyes.

Watching him in silence, Kang Yu-han found himself lost in thought.

Could he dare say he understood Seo Ji-hyuk? Could he even begin to grasp the gaping hole left in his heart? He wasn’t sure.

Shin Kyung-jae, now dead, had been Seo Ji-hyuk’s friend.

Given his notoriously aloof and arrogant nature, Seo Ji-hyuk had very few people he interacted with. But Shin Kyung-jae had known him since their youth. To Seo Ji-hyuk, he must have meant something special.

Kang Yu-han, who no longer had a single surviving friend of his own, could easily imagine the weight of that loss.

And yet, Seo Ji-hyuk had killed that friend with his own hands. He had crushed the grotesquely mutated body with brutal precision. Even if Shin Kyung-jae had lost his sanity and transformed into something monstrous…

That monster still wore Shin Kyung-jae’s face. It would have been more unnatural if Seo Ji-hyuk’s heart hadn’t shattered.

Even for someone as sharp-edged and emotionally detached as him.

Then there was another, more unsettling thought—what if this execution had been a mistake?

From the brief symptoms displayed, Shin Kyung-jae was a Variant.

Aggression, lack of appetite, then the sudden shift to showing hunger in front of others—these were all textbook signs.

But what if, by some slim chance, he wasn’t? What if he had contracted an entirely different virus?

Or worse—what if he had only been in the earliest stages of transformation, a point where he could still have been saved?

Seo Ji-hyuk had disregarded all those possibilities. Without hesitation, he had killed his friend. That was the kind of man he was.

From beyond the glass window, Kang Yu-han watched Seo Ji-hyuk’s slumped figure. He looked like a corpse—lifeless, weighed down by exhaustion and guilt.

Kang Yu-han understood that feeling better than anyone. It was unbearable to watch.

“Major Kang, write up the incident report and submit it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Center Chief let out a heavy sigh as he left the cramped interrogation room. The head of the Esper Bureau followed him out, offering a formal escort.

Now, only Kang Yu-han and Seo Ji-hyuk remained.

His desk and laptop were right in front of him, ready for him to start working. But he couldn’t focus.

He wanted to offer Seo Ji-hyuk some words of comfort.

But after years of being on the receiving end of Seo Ji-hyuk’s hatred, he knew that anything he said would only aggravate him.

Even if he meant it sincerely, their long-standing animosity had built too thick a wall.

Realizing that left a leaden weight in Kang Yu-han’s chest.

“…Kang Yu-han.”

Seo Ji-hyuk suddenly spoke.

Kang Yu-han lifted his head and looked at him through the glass window.

For the first time, he saw an expression on Seo Ji-hyuk’s face that he had never witnessed before—one of complete and utter emptiness.

“Kyung-jae was the catcher. I was the pitcher.”

“…….”

“Do you get what that means? When I threw the ball, he caught it.”

Kang Yu-han remained silent.

This wasn’t a moment for him to interject. The sorrow radiating from Seo Ji-hyuk was overwhelming.

Seo Ji-hyuk, uncharacteristically, shared a piece of his past. It wasn’t much, but to Kang Yu-han, it was all new.

Back when he lived without worries, alongside his researcher parents at the Center, Seo Ji-hyuk played baseball.

He had been a promising pitcher, but when the Variant outbreak escalated, schools shut down, and his baseball career ended.

Kang Yu-han could guess the timeframe—he, too, had been forced to leave school that same year.

“After I met Kyung-jae again…”

I picked up a baseball.

I kept saying I’d forgotten how to play, that I wasn’t good enough to start again, that I wasn’t interested. But that was a lie.

I wanted to play—with Kyung-jae.

And because of that… I quit. I told him I didn’t feel like playing anymore.

He probably thought I had gotten sick of baseball.

Should I have told him the truth?

Seo Ji-hyuk’s voice was barely above a whisper, like the last flicker of a dying flame.

Kang Yu-han could guess at the unspoken meanings hidden in his words.

Or at the very least, he hoped he was understanding even a fraction of it correctly.

“Last night… we played catch in the parking lot. He had brought a baseball and gloves.”

“…….”

“Was he already a monster back then?”

Seo Ji-hyuk’s voice was hollow.

It was a question no one could answer.

“Or was it… after?”

After the Kyung-jae I knew was already gone.

Seo Ji-hyuk leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes.

Aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest, he looked lifeless.

“I wasn’t saying this for you to listen. Just… talking to myself.”

“It’s fine.”

“What?”

“I’m not listening, so say whatever you want.”

Seo Ji-hyuk’s eyes widened in surprise.

He hadn’t expected anyone to sit through his rambling, much less Kang Yu-han.

“Just pretend I’m not here.”

Seo Ji-hyuk nodded.

A quiet silence settled between them.

It was ironic.

The one who had told him that Kyung-jae was a Variant—the one he had momentarily resented for it—was Kang Yu-han.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault that Kyung-jae had become a monster.

No one knew when or how he had been infected.

Seo Ji-hyuk knew, deep down, that Kyung-jae was a victim. And yet, for a brief moment, he had wanted to blame someone—anyone.

But in the end, it was Kang Yu-han who gave him the one thing he couldn’t get anywhere else.

A silent, unspoken understanding.

He hadn’t offered any condolences, hadn’t told him it would be okay.

He had simply been there.

And right now, for Seo Ji-hyuk, that was exactly what he needed.

* * *

The entire Center was in an uproar.

The sudden appearance of a Variant in the middle of lunch was shocking enough, but the fact that it had been executed on the spot sent an even deeper wave of unease through the staff.

When rumors spread that Seo Ji-hyuk had been close friends with the deceased, people began to point fingers at him.

“He’s terrifying. He’s ruthless. How could he kill his own friend?”

Most were openly voicing their fear.

“Look at his eyes—terrifying. I guess you have to be that cold-blooded to kill your own friend.”

Today was no different.

An Esper passing by in the hallway muttered the words while glancing at Seo Ji-hyuk.

It wasn’t a particularly far distance—he had meant for him to hear it.

Seo Ji-hyuk’s reputation in the Center was already terrible. This was just another person jumping at the chance to tear him down like some kind of public enemy.

With a bang, Seo Ji-hyuk lifted the man into the air and slammed him against the wall.

“Urk—!”

The man gasped, eyes wide with terror as he struggled.

“What did you just say?”

“I—I didn’t say anything…!”

“You want to die?”

“N-no! Please, please let me go…!”

Tears and snot dribbled down the man’s face as he stammered in fear.

Seo Ji-hyuk tossed him aside like garbage.

The entire corridor fell into a stunned silence.

Meanwhile, the higher-ups were pressuring Kang Yu-han to get a detailed report on the Variant case.

If the corpse found at the rest stop was connected to Shin Kyung-jae, this could become an uncontrollable incident.

Following protocol, the staff from the Incheon Center were brought in for questioning one by one.

Every single one of them claimed they had no idea that Shin Kyung-jae was a Variant.

They also insisted that they themselves were not infected.

When their testimonies were put together, it became clear—none of his colleagues had realized what he had become.

For Kang Yu-han, this was a massive headache.

If Variants had become so indistinguishable from humans, how were they supposed to be identified?

Could they really justify taking action against potential suspects with no clear proof?

The situation was becoming increasingly complicated.

This time, Kang Yu-han had been lucky—his clairvoyance had allowed him to catch a Variant by chance.

But luck wasn’t a reliable strategy.

Even in the Seoul Center, where the highest concentration of Espers was stationed, only two or three people had clairvoyant abilities as advanced as Kang Yu-han’s.

They couldn’t just assign them to stand around checking every person who walked by all day.

Yet, the Center Chief had just issued a new order—investigate the remaining suspects immediately.

It was already a chaotic mess, and now they were being rushed to finish the job.

At this rate, Kang Yu-han was starting to feel an urge to retire just as much as Seo Ji-hyuk.