Suddenly, Elena’s cry collapsed into silence, her breath catching sharp in her throat as if the air itself had been stolen. The roar of the truck, the shuffle of startled feet, even the shrill notes of the horn—all of it seemed to collapse into a hollow pause, as though the world itself had been muted. For a few impossible seconds, the night carried no sound, no motion, only the strange stillness of time severed from its flow.

Her eyes darted downward, bracing for the horror of what she thought she’d find, but instead George was standing at her side, clutching the edge of her coat with wide, bewildered eyes. He was safe, breathing, unscathed—though confusion shimmered across his small face as if he, too, didn’t know how he had been pulled from the jaws of death.

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs. She turned sharply, scanning the frozen street, her gaze cutting through the fragments of life that hung suspended. And then she saw him—Rudra. He was a short distance away, already walking, but not like any passerby. His steps carried an unusual gravity, an almost reluctant drift, his shoulders drawn tight as though he bore a weight no one else could see. He didn’t look back, didn’t wait for thanks, only moved with that odd, deliberate gait, slipping further into the stream of the city as though nothing extraordinary had just occurred.

Her breath came back in a rush, the world jerking back into existence—the truck horn, the yells, the commotion swelling around them—but all Elena was capable of was gripping George more firmly, her gaze locked on the boy retreating, who had recast the moment from death into life as a mere afterthought.

[» Achievement Unlocked: Za Warudo]

[After some minutes]

Rudra stumbled through the deserted street, each step slogging as though the pavement itself longed for him to fall. His hand bore down hard against his ribs, shaking, the iron tang of blood already gathering at the back of his throat. His jaw worked hard, pushing him onward, eyes roving frantically for a sink, a drain—anything into which he might release the whirlwind within him before it devoured him alive.

{You recall that you can only pause time for 3 seconds? it took you 5 for that kid to move and those already deadly tolls that you receive every time that you pause time got multiplied by 1.5X}

"Chup. rahe. Bhairav," he growled beneath his breath, every articulated word tight with hurt, his teeth clamped.

(Shut it, Bh

He swallowed hard, anguish wracking his gut like a writhing creature, his vision clouding at the edges, but still he struggled his legs.

Rudra stumbled, knees buckling as the weight inside him finally won. The world tilted, and before he could brace himself, his body lurched forward over the railing of Seoul’s great water bridge. His throat tore open in a wet, guttural retch, and then it came pouring out—thick strings of stomach mucus tangled with dark blood, the acid burn of bile, and half-digested remnants that hissed on the stone as if they wanted to eat through it. The smell hit him next, rancid and sharp, like a slaughterhouse mixed with sewage. He swore, through the blur of his watering eyes, he saw something in the river churn—dead fish bobbing to the surface as though his sickness alone had poisoned the Han.

{"Why are we at Seoul bridge now?"}

He fell against the railing of cold steel, rolling his head, gasping for a breath while doing his best to force it into his lungs. His hand wiped away the foul reddish froth from his face, streaking it against his cheek.

"What's wrong with Seoul's bridge?" He rasped back, half out of his mind, his voice hoarse as he twisted his head away from the seemingly interminable expanse of city lights. In that moment, he was almost serene, outstretched there, his shattered body leaning against the railing as if this was merely one more place for rest along a road that would not cease.

Bharaiva’s voice came, not sharp but cool and pragmatic, as though it were tracing lines on a chalkboard inside Rudra’s skull.

Think, Rudra. Who in their right mind leaves Incheon, goes through the madness of Seoul Station, and gets on a night bus all the way there—just to fall down on a bridge? Do you see the sense in that? Airports lead to hotels. Hotels lead to beds. Not… this.

The god’s tone wasn’t mocking; it was matter-of-fact, like someone pointing out the absurdity of a chess move. The bridge loomed with its pale lamps and the quiet churn of the Han below, too still for this hour.

Rudra half-lauged, half-coughed, grasping his belly as another lick of acid scorched the inside of his throat. He spat into the balcony railing, voice raw and dry.

"I don't know.army told me to stand here," he complained.

Not very far away, a small cluster of grown-ups in starched suits were congregated with some students, their words pointed and fretful, carrying over the bridge. Rudra picked up scraps—birthrate, 0.6, national crisis, incentives, decline.

Convenient. He approached them, a hand lodged in his hoodie pocket. The adults glared at him, some tense with awkwardness, the students whispering. Brown face in a uniform night crowd evoked mixed reactions—mistrust, suspicion, and disinterest.

One of them, mercifully, switched from Korean to halting English: “We are discussing… how to solve the population problem.”

Rudra blinked. "That’s it?"

Their eyes fixed on him, half expecting nonsense.

"It’s not that complex," he said flatly.

don't utter it," Bharaiva hissed within his thoughts.

"Have sex," Rudra finished, tone blank, face unreadable.

The group froze. Silence stretched thin as a blade. [Achievement Unlocked: National Policy Advisor.]