Still Here: Chapter 1 - The Message
↳ summary: Elite scout Han Seo-ah is deployed to an eerily empty Myeong-dong, uncovering a sinister entity orchestrating mass disappearances. As her team confronts unspeakable horrors, they realize the threat extends far beyond the present chaos. Seo-ah emerges forever altered, burdened with the knowledge of a lurking, invisible menace.
↳ wc: 3.4k
↳ progress: Foreword, Chapter 1: The Message, Chapter 2: The Collapse, tbc
The phone rang, cutting through the oppressive silence of the night. Seo-ah stirred in her sleep, her hand fumbling across the nightstand in search of the source. She grabbed her phone and squinted at the screen.
3:14 AM.
Her stomach tightened. No one called at 3:14 AM with good news.
“Hello?” she groaned.
“Seo-ah. We’ve been called for duty. Report to Myeong-dong immediately. I’ll inform Soo-jin.”
The voice on the other end was clipped, all business, devoid of warmth.
“Myeong-dong? At this hour? What’s happening?”
“Civilian evacuation was already underway. It’s a Level 4.”
For a moment, Seo-ah forgot how to breathe. The sharp tapping of a keyboard echoed in the background.
“The details are being uploaded to the secure terminal now. You have twenty minutes to be on-site. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
Seo-ah remained frozen, the phone still pressed against her ear. The words settled in her mind like a stone. Level 4.
Two words she had prayed she would never hear again.
In ten years of service, Seo-ah had only heard them once before.
A memory flickered at the edge of her mind—a corridor stained with blood, a desperate scream, the sound of something scratching behind a locked door.
She forced it down.
Not now.
She threw aside the blanket and her feet hit the cold hardwood floor. The playful woman who had gone to sleep was gone; in her place stood a soldier, every movement sharp and focused. In the dim glow of her charging phone, the notification light blinked a frantic red. She crossed the room and pulled her tactical gear from the closet. No longer a precaution, her unit was the last line of defense. Her mind raced through the map of Myeong-dong—the narrow alleyways, the towering department stores, the maze of side streets, and the thousands of tourists who might still be trapped in late-night restaurants.
Unaware.
She tied her hair into a tight knot. In the reflection of the darkened window, a stranger stared back at her—not the woman who had fallen asleep a few hours ago, but the one who had survived Level 4. There was no time for coffee. No time for questions. Only twenty minutes.
Seo-ah grabbed her keys, zipped her jacket, and stepped into the hallway. Behind her, the apartment fell silent once again. Ahead of her, the city waited.
Twenty minutes later—Myeong-dong.
The streets should have been buzzing with life. They were not.
Seo-ah stepped out of the car, ran a hand through her hair, and pulled her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She jogged to the center of the street and took it all in. Neon signs still flashed. Advertisements continued to play on giant LED screens. A distant song drifted from a forgotten speaker somewhere down the block. But there were no footsteps. No chatter. No laughter. Myeong-dong had been stripped of the one thing that made it alive: people. The last time she had seen anything like this was during Covid.
She clicked her earpiece before announcing, “I’m here. What next? Why is everything so…quiet?”
“Let’s start with the first lane. Take the bar on your left; I’ll cover your back,” came the reply.
“Okay, boss,” Seo-ah said as she climbed the stairs to her first stop. “Soo-jin-ah, eyes on me?”
Behind her, a few buildings away, Soo-jin peered through a scope from the rooftop. “Copy. You’re clear,” she responded.
Seo-ah’s right hand curled around the cold metal of the door handle, her heart thumping its familiar rhythm as adrenaline surged at the slightest hint of action. A slight smile pulled at her lips—never a good sign, as the others would say. Left hand gripping the weapon at her hip, she pushed the door open.
Han Seo-ah. Scout. Elite Special Missions Unit. Specialty: infiltration and close-quarters combat. Always the first one in, last one out. Mission: Enter first. Eliminate threats. Bring everyone home.
Her smile dropped. The empty room swallowed her whole. What should have been a busy Saturday-night bar scene lay vacant—glass shattered, tables overturned, a chandelier hanging on for dear life. No sign of people. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the marble floor, distorted by flickering overhead lights that hummed with dying electricity. The air felt thick, almost stagnant, carrying a metallic tang that coated the back of her throat. She held her breath, her pulse drumming an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs, but her hand remained steady on the handle.
“Report,” a voice buzzed in her ears.
“It’s empty. There’s nothing in there—just overturned furniture everywhere.”
Seo-ah exhaled a short, controlled breath. The static from her earpiece crackled against the heavy silence of the organized chaos before her. She stepped fully into the room, her boots crunching on shattered glass that glittered like diamonds in shafts of gray light piercing grime-streaked windows. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and stagnant dust, a smell that clung to the back of her throat.
She swept her flashlight in a slow, practiced arc. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a velvet sofa sliced open, its yellowed stuffing spilling across the hardwood floor like entrails. A glass table lay splintered in a corner, its legs pointing upward at awkward angles. Seo-ah kept her hand hovered near the holster at her hip. The stillness felt artificial, as if the room itself were holding its breath. Waiting for a sound. A movement. A scratch.
“It looks like a battlefield. What happened in here?” she whispered. She moved toward a fallen bookshelf, spotting a framed photograph face-down among the scattered debris. She turned it over and studied the cracked frame. The photograph showed a smiling family on vacation. “Pure panic,” she murmured.
“Let’s not get distracted, Seo-ah. Check the rooms. What else do you see?” the voice crackled.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Capt. Looks like a fight broke out—or a stampede. Hard to tell,” she shrugged. “No civilians in sight, no bodies either, if that’s what you’re asking.” She sighed and set the photo down.
“What exactly are we looking for again?”
“Soo-jin, what about the perimeter? Anything?”
“None, Capt. I don’t see any life,” Soo-jin responded.
“Maybe if someone told us what we’re actually hunting, we’d have better luck…” Seo-ah fanned her hand dramatically but was cut off.
“Let’s search another area.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Aye aye!”
After a swift sweep of every floor to confirm no one was left behind, Seo-ah descended the exit staircase, dusted her hands on her uniform, and—after confirmation from Soo-jin—swept a dozen more buildings on either side of the road. From small eateries and cafés to larger storefronts, all were trashed inside: huge televisions still glowed in empty windows, blasting cheerful K-pop songs into streets with no one left to hear them. All upturned. All empty.
“AYO!” she called to the distant figure as she emerged from another ruined store.
Time elapsed: 2 hours.Buildings cleared: 27.Civilians rescued: 0.
“Where’s everybody? Who the fuck are we evacuating? There’s no one here!”
The figure sighed. Dressed all in black as well, she brought the walkie-talkie to her mouth and clicked.
“There are no civilians in the target area. Is evacuation completed? Over.”
Static.
“Command, do you require assistance? Awaiting further orders. Over.”
Nothing—not even the familiar hiss of a broken signal. Only silence.
Kim Ji-won. Captain. Elite Special Missions Unit. The one who made sure every member came home alive. The one who completed every mission. Master strategist. A woman capable of making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. A responsibility she had never failed. Until now.
She lowered the walkie-talkie slowly, her jaw tightening. For the first time in years, she had no next move.
Seo-ah jogged toward her, pulling her cap back slightly, a questioning look on her face. “What’s the situation, Cap?” she asked, breath coming in short gasps. Ji-won shook her head and glanced at the dead radio. “No confirmation. Command isn’t responding. I can’t get the stupid thing to work.” She smacked the walkie-talkie a few times and tried again, only to hear static.
“Either the equipment failed,” she said quietly, “or something happened to them.”
The joke died before Seo-ah could make one. The silence around them suddenly felt much larger. Radio silence from Command was unprecedented.
“Soo-jin, move closer,” Ji-won ordered into her earpiece.
“Copy.”
“What now?” Seo-ah asked, looking at the deserted street. The distant sirens that had once echoed through Myeong-dong were fading into nothing. “Don’t tell me some high-ranking officer dragged us out here because of a false alarm. I’d like to file a very angry complaint.”
Despite everything, the corner of Ji-won’s mouth almost twitched. Almost. “If this were a false alarm, they wouldn’t have called a Level 4.”
That wiped the smile from Seo-ah’s face. Ji-won pulled out her phone. The map of Myeong-dong glowed against the darkness, the blinking red marker standing out like a wound.
“Last known civilian location: Old market district.” She looked at Seo-ah. Seo-ah’s expression changed immediately—no jokes, no complaints—just the scout. She gave a small nod. “I’m on it.”
“Soo-jin, find a position overlooking the district.”
“Already moving.”
“Check your exits before settling in.”
Soo-jin didn’t answer—she didn’t have to. She was already gone, up a fire escape two buildings back, moving without sound, without hurry, the way she always did. Now she lay prone on a rooftop ledge, cheek pressed to her rifle’s stock, Myeong-dong spread beneath her like spilled liquid. Dawn arrived in the wrong colors: the sky bruised amber and pale where it met the glow of running signs still cycling advertisements to no one. Somewhere below, a speaker played a song she recognized.
Moon Soo-jin.Elite Special Missions Unit. Youngest, though you’d never know it from the stillness in her eyes. Occupation: professional people watcher. Official occupation: Sniper. Silent. Watchful. She noticed the slight tremble in a hand, the shift in a shadow that didn’t match the light. Mission: cover everyone’s flanks and trace the lines of their past mistakes through her crosshairs.
“Target area clear,” her voice came through the earpiece, cold and precise as always.
The old market district looked nothing like the place they remembered. No smell of sizzling street food. No vendors shouting over each other. No tourists crowding narrow paths. Only cold air. Only abandoned lives.
Seo-ah moved forward in a slow jog, her boots crunching on a discarded plastic cup. She kept her pace steady, eyes flicking from darkened storefronts to shadows beneath heavy canvas stalls. She slowed beside an overturned cart. Fresh strawberries spilled across the asphalt; green peppers rolled lazily in the wind. Untouched.
She knelt. The fruit was still cool. Still fresh. “This didn’t happen hours ago,” she murmured.
Ji-won stopped. “What?”
Seo-ah looked up. “It happened minutes ago.” Her eyes roved the stalls. “Everyone just…left.” No—disappeared.
“Something scared them,” Ji-won said. “Enough to run?”
“But there’s no blood,” Seo-ah replied. “No bodies. No signs of a fight.” She picked up a dropped shopping bag. Inside lay a child’s toy, still wrapped. “What exactly are we preparing for, Cap?”
Ji-won’s grip tightened on her rifle. “I was told there was an attack.”
Seo-ah raised an eyebrow. “An attack? By what—a mob? Aliens? Did the zoo suddenly want revenge?”
A second passed. Then Soo-jin’s voice sliced through the oppressive silence.
“Captain.” The air thickened; every muscle tensed at the subtle shift in her tone. “I’ve got movement.”
Seo-ah’s hand was already on her weapon. “Where?”
“Two o’clock—second floor of the pharmacy building.” A heartbeat pause. “The curtain moved.”
For a brief moment, the world held its breath. Just a curtain—perhaps shifting in a breeze? But there was no wind in this sealed, eerie district. Ji-won raised her hand sharply, signaling Seo-ah to halt. They slipped into the narrow alley beside them, backs pressed against rough, cold brick, melting into the shadows. The texture dug into Seo-ah’s shoulders as her eyes remained fixed on the second-floor window, where uncertainty flickered.
“Confirmed, Soo-jin. Thermal?”
“Negative,” Soo-jin replied, eye pressed to the scope. “The glass is treated—something’s interfering with the signal.”
Silence. Adjustments.
“Wait.”
Seo-ah’s grip tightened. “What?”
A pause.
“There’s movement again. It’s too…fluid.”
The hair on the back of Seo-ah’s neck rose. Fluid? Not a standard classification. But her instincts—the ones that had kept her alive for ten years—began screaming. Her thumb found the safety and checked it—it was already off. “Great,” she whispered. “So we’re not alone. Cap, what’s the play? We still have no orders.”
Ji-won glanced at the dead walkie-talkie on her vest, then back to the pharmacy. Minutes ago, she’d convinced herself that the lack of communication was a malfunction—a dead battery, a damaged tower. Now, in a city where thousands had vanished, it no longer felt plausible. The blackout was tactical. If Command was gone, no one was left to tell them what came next.
“We don’t wait for orders that aren’t coming,” she said. “Seo-ah, we breach.”
Seo-ah’s lips curled slightly. There she was—the captain she knew.
“Soo-jin.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“If anything leaves that building through a window, rooftop, or any exit that isn’t friendly—”
The unspoken words hung: take the shot.
“Copy.” Soo-jin settled her finger over the trigger, crosshairs centered on the swaying curtain. Watching. Waiting.
Ji-won tapped Seo-ah on the shoulder—a silent signal. They moved low and silent across the open street as dawn’s first light crept over the skyline. The rising sun should have brought warmth; instead, it only revealed how empty the city truly was. Their shadows stretched across the pavement, long and distorted, like reaching hands.
The pharmacy doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum. They froze. Nothing attacked. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The place was untouched—every bottle neatly arranged on shelves, cabinets locked and clean, drawers organized. All doors and windows intact. A half-written prescription sat on the counter beside an uncapped pen, as if the pharmacist had stepped away for a moment…and never returned.
“Uh, Cap?” Seo-ah lowered her weapon. “That’s weird.” For the first time that night, there was no sarcasm in her voice. She entered in long strides, peering through each open door.
Clear.
Clear.
Clear.
Until something caught her eye. On the floor near the reception desk lay a pair of glasses—something small and ordinary, the only thing out of place. A faint reddish smear marked one lens. She knelt, expression shifting. Seo-ah lifted the glasses, thumb brushing the smear just as Ji-won’s warning came: “Don’t touch that.” Too late. The usual grin was gone.
Ji-won closed her eyes and dragged a hand down her face. “Seo-ah.”
“What?”
“Sometimes I wonder how you’ve survived all these years.”
“Talent.”
“Pure luck.”
“Rude.”
Despite herself, Ji-won almost smiled. Then Seo-ah’s thumb brushed the smear. Her smile vanished. Warm. It was still warm. Eyes snapped to Ji-won. “Cap…”
A deafening screech tore through their comms. Both recoiled, clutching headsets. The sound was wrong—too sharp, too jagged, like metal rasping on bone. Static flooded the channel: fragments of voices, broken words, half-heard cries. Then, through the chaos, a whisper: “Run.” It died. Seo-ah’s fingers slipped; the glasses clattered to the floor. Above them, something shifted.
“What was that?” Seo-ah’s voice trembled. She forced herself silent—any sound might draw attention.
Soo-jin stayed at her scope, breathing measured. She scanned every angle: the second-floor corridor, the rooftop, the alley beyond. All empty. No movement. No life.
“That’s…impossible,” she murmured.
Ji-won glanced up. “What is?”
“I thought I saw something beyond the window,” Soo-jin said, calm cracking. “A flicker.”
Ji-won said nothing, because she believed her. “Check the thermal,” she instructed.
Soo-jin switched lenses. The pharmacy bloomed in steely grayscale: cold walls, empty shelves, the street frozen in black and white. No heat sources but theirs. Then—a tiny glow pulsed at the far end of the hallway, just for an instant. The overhead speakers crackled to life: a soft voice said, “Help me…”
Seo-ah tensed. Someone was there. “I’m going.”
“Wait.” Soo-jin’s breath caught.
Seo-ah shifted forward—always the first toward danger—until a quiet, resolute voice echoed in her ear: “Don’t.”
Seo-ah froze, boot raised. A pause. Then another crackle from the speakers: a small, frightened voice, trembling, “Help me.”
Instinct screamed—they had to help—but the plea cut off abruptly. Seconds later, the speakers sputtered with the same tremor, the same heartbeat pause. Too perfect. A recording.
Fear coiled in Seo-ah’s chest. She glanced at the old speakers mounted in the corners. Tiny black boxes now felt more threatening than they had any right to be. Her expression hardened. “That wasn’t a person asking for help, was it?”
Ji-won finally stepped forward—the captain returned, cold and focused. Her fear was still there; she’d placed it somewhere she could deal with later. “We heard something above.”
“Third floor,” Soo-jin exclaimed.
“We move up.” Ji-won’s voice was quiet but absolute. “We heard movement. Soo-jin saw it. We investigate.”
She moved toward the staircase, passing Seo-ah, rifle raised. For once, Seo-ah did not rush ahead; she let her lead. The staircase to the second floor stretched upward. The corridor was untouched: doors open, lights flickering, empty rooms that looked as though someone had walked away moments before. They checked each room. Clear. Third floor: a storage room filled with unopened boxes. A break room with a coffee mug beside a computer. A chair toppled back, as if someone had stood in a hurry. Clear. Rooftop: clear. No signs of entry or escape. Just the cold morning wind brushing their necks.
Defeated, Ji-won huffed a strand of hair from her face and lowered her rifle. “Soo-jin, did you see anything exit the building?”
“No.”
That single word had barely left her mouth when the world shattered. A scream tore through the silence. Hours had passed since Myeong-dong became a graveyard. This was their first sign of life. Soo-jin pivoted with fluid speed, rifle up, scanning the empty streets—left to right, top to bottom—searching for any sign.
“East,” she said, calm fractioned. “Two blocks. Maybe three.”
“I’m on it.” Seo-ah exited first, even before the sentence finished. Her body responded faster than her thoughts. Years of training took over—4 AM runs, endless drills, twenty-five kilos strapped to her back while her muscles screamed to stop, instructors screaming: Move! Move! MOVE! Because someone out there needed her. A scream meant a survivor. It meant a purpose. Nothing else mattered.
She sprinted down the abandoned streets, Ji-won close behind. The massive blue letters came into view: SAMSUNG.
A department store. The source of the scream.
They were only a few steps away when a horrible groan echoed above them—metal screeching, glass cracking.
Seo-ah looked up—almost too late. The enormous front sign detached from the building. For one impossible second, it seemed to float. Then it fell.
“SEO-AH, WATCH OUT!” Ji-won’s scream cut the air.
Seo-ah threw her arms over her head and dove forward.
Glass exploded around her, metal slammed into the pavement. The impact shook the ground. Dust swallowed everything. For a moment, there was no city. No sound. Only ringing in Seo-ah’s ears. She remained frozen, waiting for pain, expecting something to be crushed. She felt nothing. Slowly, she lowered her arms.
Through the gray dust, she saw Ji-won standing a few meters away, eyes wide in a way Seo-ah had never seen.
“Seo-ah,” Ji-won’s voice was quiet now. “Are you okay?”
Seo-ah stared at her, then at the pile of twisted metal that had landed exactly where she’d stood a second before.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed. No other words came.
Soo-jin’s voice crackled through the earpiece, stripped of its usual steadiness. “Captain. Fifteenth floor.”
Ji-won’s eyes snapped upward. “Talk to me.”
“Civilians. More than one.”
Relief lasted no time at all. Seo-ah heard a heavy impact against the pavement—close enough to feel in her boots.
THUD!
She looked down. Then away.
Another. Then another.
Above them, the fifteenth-floor windows gaped wide, silhouettes spilling out in a frantic wave—men, women, and small figures that could only be children. Each leapt from the ledge, terrified screams piercing dawn’s light as they plummeted into the void below. They fled something unseen, driven by sheer terror in their final moments.
Ji-won looked up and screamed, “Wait, stop!” But it was in vain.
Seo-ah’s body made the decision. She reached the entrance before thought finished forming, the staircase rising ahead in sharp concrete angles. Fifteen floors. She ran toward it, taking three, four steps at a time—fifteen floors. Of course, it was fifteen floors.
