They expected him to run.

Expected back-alley scrambles, resistance messages, hidden alliances. The system’s auto-hunter subroutines deployed in predictable sweeps — same as always. Patch the glitch, purge the node, update the listing.

But Yoon Jiyon didn’t run.

He went silent.

Hard silent.

No auctions accessed. No relics moved. No divine pings. No karma-drift, no thermal signature, no behavioural residue. Not even rumour. Not even noise.

Just absence.

The real kind.

Not hiding — missing.

And the system — for the first time since the Auction began — hesitated.

In the Moderator Nest beneath Seodaemun, a Level IV crawler failed its trace for the third time.

[Subject Yoon Jiyon (Original): Status – NULL]
[Contradiction Class: YES]
[Listing: Not Found]

Suggested Action: De-escalate overwrite sequence.

Error: Overwrite subject (Jiyon.2) showing conflict signatures.

That part was new.

Because the stabilised copy hadn’t reacted to anything until the broadcast.

Until the mirror shattered.

Now…

It was twitching.

Small things, at first.

A failed memory recall of timeline 2.
A response in an interrogation sequence that didn’t match the expected syntax.
A hesitation — half a second — before executing a direct system command.

And then, worst of all:

A name spoken in the wrong tone.

“Na Rina,” the copy said aloud in the middle of a system briefing, “used to—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

Didn’t blink.

And Moderator Ji Hwan glanced at Kang-ho across the briefing table with something too close to alarm.

Kang-ho didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But he understood.

The contradiction broadcast hadn’t just saved Jiyon.

It had infected the system’s faith in the copy.

Because if the original was not gone…

Then, which version was the contradiction?

He stood in the observation hallway and watched the copy train alone in the mirrored arena.

Same face. Same movements.

But slightly… slower now.

Like he was reacting to thoughts that weren’t his.

Not echoes.
Not bugs.

Doubts.

And doubts in a system-compliant construct were like splinters in code. They spread.

Kang-ho turned off the observation screen.

Meanwhile—

In the sublevel crawlspace of an auction vault once thought decommissioned, Jiyon sat alone on concrete, a single candle guttering beside him.

No relics. No armour. No plan.

Just silence.

And in the silence:

Reflection.

He wasn’t regrouping.

He was decoupling.

Every hour he remained untraceable, the system flagged more of its protocols as “inconclusive.”
Every time a scan failed, it created a deeper logic loop.
Every moment the overwrite stalled, the stabilised copy drew closer to instability.

Jiyon had realised the truth.

He didn’t need to be seen.

He just had to exist in places the system couldn’t resolve.

He rubbed ash from his palms.

Exhaled through clenched teeth.

And whispered:

“You can’t overwrite what you can’t locate.”

At that same moment, deep in the core server's inner mirrorfield, the copy blinked at nothing and said, unprompted:

“…Where am I?”

Not metaphor.

A real question.

And the system had no answer.

It couldn’t find either of them now.

Not the contradiction.

Not the correction.

Just the echo of a voice the code had lost track of:

“I am not compatible.”