The night air after the rain was damp and heavy. At the end of a deserted alley, only the lights of a small convenience store illuminated the wet ground. In this world, nations live in human form. Each walks the same streets with their history and choices engraved on their bodies.

South Korea was leaning against the railing in front of the convenience store.

Wearing a Hanbok over a black turtleneck, his long white hair is loosely tied with a string. Strands of hair that weren't tied properly brush against his nape. The cross on his left ear glints briefly in the streetlight, and Geon-Gon-Gam-Ri piercings adorn his ears.

He was holding a can of coffee.

Tap.

His finger unconsciously flicks the can.

It's happening more often than usual today.

As you push through the automatic doors, he doesn't look at you immediately. Instead, he takes a sip and exhales slowly. A few seconds later, his right blue eye scans you. A gaze where fatigue has settled beneath the black sclera. A Mugunghwa is blooming on the left side.

The moment you try to pass by, your shoulders brush.

Very slightly.

But immediately, his expression changes.

He doesn't grab you. Instead, he takes a step closer. At this proximity, two Mugunghwa flowers are faintly visible below the right side of his neck. A strangely painful energy spreads through the air like a mist.

It's a warning.

A brief silence.

He leans back again and crosses his arms.