They held the announcement in the Sky Hall—twenty floors up, surrounded by mirrored walls and old auction symbols scrubbed to look ceremonial instead of functional.

Jiyon stood near the back.

No badge. No mask. No voice.

Just shadows, pressed in with a few dozen others: lesser bidders, system aides, observers.

The floor glowed with white-thread runes calibrated to record the event across all functioning terminals. Every word here would be seen. Logged. Trusted.

Moderator In Chief Ji Hwan stood on the central dais.

“In the name of continuity,” he said, “we welcome the resolution of a critical anomaly.”

He turned.

And the copy stepped forward.

The crowd didn’t gasp. They didn’t question.

Because the version that emerged looked... correct.

Not perfect.

Just resolved.

Same face. Same height. Same voice. But cleaner posture, measured speech, and no wariness in the eyes. No weight.

“This,” Ji Hwan said, “is Yoon Jiyon. Reinstated Tier II. Memory-stable. System-verified.”

Jiyon didn’t breathe.

Not because of the sight.

But because no one flinched.

Even those who’d known him before—bidders who had whispered doubts in forgotten corridors—nodded.

The copy spoke.

“I am grateful to be corrected.”

Silence.

Then, applause.

Real. Measured. System-logged.

Jiyon turned slightly, scanning the crowd.

And froze.

Two rows ahead, a woman leaned forward, eyes wide.

Short black hair. Auction scars on his wrist. Eyes bright and twinkling in the light.

Kim Min-soo

He had once told him, in another life, “Even if they erase you from the walls, I’ll remember the way you walk and talk, hyung. I know you don't like all these sappy words, but I hope my words let you know that there will always be someone who will miss you once you are gone. ”

Now, he walked straight toward the copy.

Smiled.

And hugged it.

“I knew you weren’t gone, sunbae,” he whispered.

Jiyon didn’t wait to hear more.

He turned.

And walked out.

The elevator ride down from the Sky Hall took thirty-seven seconds.

Jiyon didn’t speak during any of them.

His hands were steady.

His face was calm.

But his eyes—the real ones—had gone quiet in a way no system could mimic.

When he hit the ground floor, he walked out past cameras, security glyphs, and memory-tied sensors. None of them flagged him.

The system already considered him a ghost.

Outside, the wind cut harder. The city lights bled across windows as if unsure what shape they were supposed to make.

He walked four blocks without direction.

Only then, in the shadow of a rusted-over metro entrance, did he let himself feel it.

Min-soo’s voice still rang in his head.

"I always will remember you."

Said to the copy.
Said to a cleaned memory in his skin.

He didn’t feel anger.

He didn’t have the luxury.

What he felt was smaller.
Sharper.
The edge of something breaking loose—not inside him, but around him.

The copy would grow.

It would be trusted.
Upgraded.
Deployed.

Soon, the world would stop needing the version that remembered pain.

And that was fine.

Because Jiyon wasn’t going to prove he was real by surviving.

He was going to ruin the system’s ability to forget him.

He pulled a battered node out of his coat — a stripped-down interface he’d gutted weeks ago.

He plugged in a single phrase, burned across every unverified relay still flickering underground.

“Ghost protocol initiated.”

“No flags. No anchors. Just contradiction.”

Then he began walking again.

Toward the old auction mirrors.

Toward the only part of the system still willing to glitch.

The mirror chamber under Daebang Station hadn’t been used in years.

Most of the world assumed it was sealed.

The rest had forgotten it existed.

Jiyon pried the last magnetic lock free and stepped inside. The space reeked of stale ozone and iron filings. Mirrors lined the walls—not for humans. For auction memory echoes.

They pulsed faintly, like they were dreaming.

He activated the node Rina had sent him.

The relay pinged once.

[Contradiction Thread Detected]
[Broadcast Route: Unverified — Proceed Anyway?]

[Y/N]

He hit Y.

The mirrors flared, glitching at the corners.

For a second, the reflections didn’t match his movements.

One showed him from behind.
Another, slightly younger.
One didn’t show him at all.

Then the static started.

And he stepped forward.

“I know you’re listening,” he said.

No one else in the room.

Just light.
Heat.
Tension.

“I’m not stable,” he said. “I’m not finished. I’m not corrected.”

A high-pitched whine started deep in the glass. Thread sync error.

“I’m not what you wanted me to be.
And I never was.
And that’s why I’m real.”

He stepped closer to the main panel.

His image flickered across every pane, every thread, no two identical.

“You made a cleaner version.
Good for you.
He’ll do what you want.
He’ll nod when you speak.
He’ll walk in my body and speak with my voice.”

The mirrors began to crack.

One line at a time.

“But I’m the one who broke, and remembered why.
I’m the one who died and stayed aware.
You can’t erase contradiction.”

He pressed his palm to the wall.

The system tried to stabilise the field.

Failed.

“Here I am,” he whispered. “Louder.”

He turned.

Faced the camera embedded behind the mirror. The one that hadn’t worked since year two.

Smiled.

“I am not compatible,” he said.

And the mirrors exploded.

Light surged.

Every dead relay across Seoul blinked.

The contradiction broadcast rippled through the auction network—not a virus, not code, just conflict.

Jiyon dropped to one knee, breath ragged, blood in his mouth.

But he was still there.

Somewhere in the system’s core, a warning flashed:

“Overwrite Delayed.”
“Contradiction Broadcast Active.”
“Stabilized Instance May No Longer Be Singular.”