[10 minutes earlier]

A grocery stall sits under a strip of flickering light. Vegetables are laid out in neat piles. Fish packed on ice. The seller talks loudly in Korean, calling out prices, arguing with a customer, then switching tone to attract another.

Today’s catch is displayed up front.

Large yellowtail. Daebangeo.

Fresh.

A woman steps up to the stall.

She doesn’t fit in.

Her clothes are formal, but practical. Something you’d expect from someone who works for wealthy people, not someone who shops for herself. Clean lines. Neutral colors.

She’s short. Around five feet.

Blue eyes. Brown hair tied back.

She speaks first, but her Korean is broken.

The seller notices immediately. He stops mid-sentence and switches to English.

“Fish? Fresh. Good price.”

She nods slightly.

Her name is Lena.

She works as a nanny.

Specifically, for Michael Si-yoon—the son of David Si-yoon, CEO of Blackice.

One of the top five chaebols in the country.

The “five-pointed star” of Korea.

Blackice isn’t just another company. It deals in military hardware. Weapons. Vehicles. Contracts that don’t get talked about openly.

Lena points at the fish.

“How much?”

Her accent is clear. Not local.

The seller names a price. She listens carefully, then nods again, pulling out her card.

Routine.

Normal.

Nothing about the moment stands out.

Not yet.

They make small talk while he weighs the fish.

The merchant leans in a little, lowering his voice.

“I hear things,” he says. “Blackice… not just business. Underground PMC work. True?”

Lena pauses.

Just for a second.

Her expression shifts, but only slightly. Then it’s gone. Replaced with mild confusion.

“That’s just rumor,” she says. Her English is steady now. “You shouldn’t listen to those podcasts.”

Her tone is calm. Polite.

Her eyes aren’t.

The merchant studies her for a moment. He knows she’s lying.

He also knows better than to push it.

He nods, backing off. “Yes, yes. Just talk.”

They finish the transaction.

Lena turns—

—and stops.

Her eyes scan the area.

Mikey isn’t there.

Her posture changes immediately.

She looks left. Right. Behind the stall. Nothing.

She grabs her walkie.

“Michael? Respond.”

No answer.

She listens. Static. Then a voice—unclear, rushed.

She replies quickly, sharper now. “I lost visual. Checking perimeter.”

Her free hand moves under her coat.

She pulls out a handgun.

Compact, but heavy.

Modified Desert Eagle.

She moves fast, scanning faces, paths, gaps between people—

Then she sees him.

“Michael!”

The boy is ahead, walking straight.

Not running. Not playing.

Just walking.

Slow. Unresponsive.

Like he doesn’t hear her.

Her eyes follow his path—

—and lock onto the road.

A truck is coming.

Suddenly, she feels it.

Her body locks for half a second.

Her breath cuts short, like something interrupted it midway.

She stops.

Takes another breath.

Everything feels… off.

Then she looks down.

Mikey is right beside her.

Close. Too close.

She didn’t see him walk back. Didn’t feel him pass her. One second he was in the road—

Now he’s here.

He looks up at her, confused.

“…Noona?”

His voice is normal. No trance. No delay.

She grips his shoulder immediately, checking him, pulling him slightly behind her.

Her eyes flick back toward the road.

The truck passes.

Nothing unusual.

People keep moving.

No one reacts.

Lena stands still for a moment longer.

It feels like something just happened.

Like a gap.

Like time stopped for her.

Or maybe for everyone.

She exhales slowly, steadying herself.

Then her expression hardens.

“What were you doing?” she snaps, pulling him closer. “I told you not to wander off.”

Mikey blinks, still confused.

“I didn’t… I was just—”

“Don’t.”

Her tone cuts him off.

She looks around once more, slower this time. Careful.

Something is wrong.

She just doesn’t know what.

[3 minutes later]

Rudra slows down for a second.

His stomach tightens, then growls.

Loud enough for him to notice.

“Damnit,” he mutters, pressing a hand lightly against his abdomen. “I just wish that kid doesn’t get into this again.”

In his right hand, something struggles.

A butterfly.

Not normal.

It twists, jerks, wings beating too fast, like it’s trying to tear itself out of his grip.

“A wraithwing,” Rudra mutters under his breath.

“Calm the fuck down,” he says, tightening his grip slightly. His jaw clenches as something presses against his mind. “I’m not in mode.”

The pressure builds—sharp, invasive. Not physical.

Mental.

Bhairava speaks.

Your Chronos Desist has improved.

Rudra exhales slowly, focusing.

You could stop time for three seconds before. Now it’s five.

Rudra nods faintly, still holding the thing.

“With the uniform… I can probably push it to ten,” he says quietly. “But that’s theory.”

The butterfly spasms harder.

For a second—

It slips.

Breaks free from his grip.

Rudra doesn’t chase immediately. He watches it fly, erratic, searching.

Looking for another target.

Then—

A sharp movement.

His boot comes down.

Precise.

The butterfly splits cleanly in half mid-motion before hitting the ground, both halves crushed under his sole.

Still.

Gone.

Rudra lifts his foot and keeps walking.

Ahead, the bridge comes into view.

Banpo Bridge.

“So,” Rudra says, adjusting his grip on his luggage, “what was the guy’s name again?”

“Kim Han Jhoongyuk.”

Bhairava lets out a quiet, amused tone.

Sounds like a webnovel character. Either some ‘omniscient’ type, or a ‘reader’ character. Wonder with what ‘viewpoint’ his parents named him.

Rudra stops walking.

Slowly.

“Say that again.”

A pause.

That again.

A car pulls up near the bridge.

Clean. Expensive.

The back door opens.

A short, heavy man steps out first. He looks relaxed, almost cheerful. Smiling even before he says anything.

Behind him, another figure steps out.

Taller. Slim. Well put together. Her posture is straight, controlled. Her expression doesn’t change.

Rudra’s eyes pass over her quickly.

He notices details without reacting. Outfit. Fit. Structure.

The padding is obvious to him. Subtle, but there. A padded bra, adjusting her frame, trying to add shape that isn’t naturally that pronounced.

He registers it instantly. Files it away.

Insecurity.

He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t react. Just notes it and moves on.

The man steps forward, extending a hand slightly.

“Hello, hello,” he says in English. “Principal Hun-Gi. Sisiphilus High School.”

The woman follows with a small nod.

“Sieun Sun-gi. Vice Principal. Disciplinary in charge.”

Her tone is flat. Professional.

Rudra stands there, luggage beside him.

Next to him is another guy. Local. Around the same age.

The principal looks between the two of them, smiling.

“Which one of you two fine young men is named Rudra?”

Rudra looks at him.

Then at the other guy.

Then back at him.

“Seriously?” he says. “You can’t guess?”

He lifts his forearm slightly.

“Take a look at us. Who do you think is named Rudra?”

The principal pauses.

Then laughs.

“Ah, I knew,” he says, raising a hand slightly. “I just didn’t want to sound racist.”

Rudra exhales, some of the edge leaving his expression.

“Fair enough.”

He steps forward and takes the handshake.

The Vice Principal steps forward.

No smile. No extra movement.

She holds out a small stack of things.

“Your ID,” she says.

A card. School-issued.

Then a folded set of clothes.

“Uniform. Your size.”

A small bag follows. Books. Basic supplies.

Rudra takes them without comment, glancing through quickly.

“You will be enrolled as a first-year student,” she continues. “Sisiphilus High School. Effective immediately.”

Her tone stays even.

“Until your assignment is complete.”

A slight pause.

“Only we know your status. You will behave like a normal student. No unnecessary actions. No exposure of identity.”

Rudra nods once.

Understood.

She watches him for a second longer, making sure it lands.

Then continues.

“Your assigned guardian—Kim Han Jhoongyuk—will not be arriving tonight.”

Rudra’s expression doesn’t change, but he registers it.

The principal steps in, still smiling.

“No problem, no problem,” Hun-Gi says. “I can drop you to your address. It’s on the way.”

Before Rudra can respond—

“Sir.”

The Vice Principal cuts in.

He pauses.

She looks at him directly.

“The party.”

A beat.

The principal blinks.

“…Ah.”

He straightens slightly, the smile turning a bit awkward.

“Yes. Right. Important.”

He looks back at Rudra.

“Seems like you’ll have to take the bus.”

Rudra shifts his grip on his luggage.

No reaction.

Just a small nod.

“Fine.”