“Jalhaess-eo… kkomaya,” a voice whispered, filtered through the warped seconds.

("Good job… Kid.")

The boy inside the bus caught a glimpse of him, wide-eyed and stunned, as the name cut through the slowed chaos:

“Kim Han Jhoonghyuk.”

Rudra’s focus snapped tight, muscles coiling like springs ready to unleash. Time was his weapon, but this new arrival carried a weight of his own—a presence he had been waiting for.

“Modu beoseuleul jab-ajuseyo.”
(Everyone hold onto the bus.)

Han Jhoonghyuk’s voice was calm but carried authority, eyes locking with Rudra’s. The nod he gave was subtle but firm, signaling Rudra to react. With a deep inhale, Rudra reactivated his temporal control, slowing the world once more.

In that frozen stretch of seconds, Han Jhoonghyuk moved with fluid precision. The bus, immense and heavy, hurtled through the air—yet he caught it, his hands wrapping around its frame with impossible strength. Instead of remaining stationary, he leapt backward, carrying the bus in his hands, moving to manage its deadly momentum.

“He is doing that to deal with the momentum,” Rudra noted aloud, nodding in understanding. He had faced similar physics when his own time powers stretched reality to save lives.

{"Such a sudden stop would have hurt them, considering the bus is tons heavy and moving at such speed."} Bhairava’s voice murmured in his head.

Step by step, Han Jhoonghyuk allowed the momentum to bleed away. The bus’s motion slowed, dragging seconds into eternity, until finally he placed it gently on the ground. Every passenger was alive, shaken, but intact. He let go, standing tall beside the grounded vehicle, aura calm but commanding, like someone who could bend the world without breaking a sweat.

Rudra’s gaze lingered on Han Jhoonghyuk as the tension of the street hung around them. The man didn’t move like someone trying to impress—every motion was deliberate, measured, almost surgical. His dark hair fell in subtle, precise disarray, catching the neon reflections like strands of shadow, and his lean frame carried a quiet readiness, the kind of body that could spring into action without a hint of wasted effort.

The black jacket hugged his torso perfectly, not tight, not loose, as if custom-made for every shift of muscle beneath. The charcoal shirt underneath followed the same principle—functional, minimal, stripped of anything decorative, while the dark trousers ended in polished boots marked by small, earned scuffs. Nothing about him screamed style; everything about him whispered discipline. Even the hands that had just cradled a moving bus seemed natural, controlled, impossibly calm.

Rudra noted these things without thinking, almost instinctively, as if cataloging a tool he might need one day. There was an aura around Han Jhoonghyuk—calm, precise, and unshakable, like the eye of a storm. When their gazes met, there was no arrogance, only quiet authority that didn’t demand recognition but commanded it nonetheless.

“I have gotten your file,” Han Jhoonghyuk said, voice even. “Impressive. But considering you are more a returner than a newbie hunter…”

“Tch,” Rudra winced, a small smirk hiding the tension. “Did Captain Pluto tell you that too?”

“Everyone in Handpump knew a bit about you,” Han replied. “Considering who your master really is… tell me, has your flower inherited their will yet?”

Rudra’s eyes flicked downward. “No, I guess. Couldn’t bring myself… anyways,” he said, stepping closer. “My name’s Rudra. Just Rudra. For the next three months, I’ll be in your care. English isn’t my first language, but the only Korean word I know is probably… kimchi, so I prefer we talk in—wait, I think I know konnicha too.”

“That’s not a Korean word,” Han said, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Who cares? Y’all look the same,” Rudra replied casually, unaware of the vein popping in Han’s temple.

“Leudura,” Han attempted, accent clear in the mispronunciation.

“It’s Rudra… try it—Ruuuudddraaa,” Rudra corrected.

“Reuduuurraaa,” Han tried again.

“Damnit… just call me Red. That’s my nickname,” Rudra muttered, waving it off like the conversation itself was barely worth the effort.

“Why are you called Red, anyway?” Han asked, voice flat, unimpressed.

Tch, Rudra clicked his tongue, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

{"You are not telling him the truth, are ya?"} Bhairava whispered, dryly. {"Make an excuse."}

[X]- Tell the truth
[Y]- Stick to the lie further
[A]- Change the subject abruptly
[B]- Ask Han why he is called Han

“Red’s… uh… Red’s my favorite Pokémon game, yes, so I named myself Red,” Rudra said, shrugging casually as if the explanation required no further scrutiny.

Han raised an unimpressed brow, but didn’t push further. Rudra’s lie was simple, convenient, and harmless enough—he didn’t need to reveal that his real favorites were Platinum and Emerald. He let the quiet tension hang between them, watching Han’s measured gaze, knowing he’d successfully sidestepped the truth without missing a beat.

{"Smooth,"} Bhairava muttered in Rudra’s head, a hint of begrudging approval threading through his voice.

Kim looked at him. “I need to ask you something.”

“No, I don’t believe in caste system,” Rudra cut in immediately, lifting his hands as if he’d been through this script too many times. “Geez, like four people already asked me what my caste is. Hell, I don’t even have a last name. But my parents were from a Rajput clan, if that counts.” He shook his head with a sigh. “And I know you’re wondering why my accent doesn’t sound like the typical South Asian accent. Truth is—not everyone back home sounds like that. Plus…” he tapped his throat, “…I kinda cheated. I’ve got full control over my tongue and voice box because of the petal ‘larping’ in my flower.”

Kim froze mid-step. “…I was asking if you met the princi—wait. You can mimic any accent?”

Rudra’s mouth curled into a lopsided grin, his crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that usually spelled trouble. “Any.”

Kim pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him to this bus stop conversation.

“Spanish.”

Rudra threw his arms wide, voice thick with flair. “La Passiiiooon!”

“Japanese?”

Rudra snapped into a bow, eyes burning red with fake anime spirit. “YeSUUUU!!! I CAN!!”

Kim blinked. “…Italian?”

Rudra puffed his chest out, curled an imaginary mustache, and boomed, “IT’S-A ME!!!”

A couple of the bus passengers who had stuck around after the dragon incident tried not to laugh.

“French,” Kim demanded flatly.

Rudra tilted his chin, flicked an invisible scarf over his shoulder, and hissed through his teeth: “Za Bougttee…”

Kim’s eye twitched. “…American.”

Rudra slammed his fist into his chest, widened his stance, and roared, “WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER!!!” Immediately followed by an obnoxiously loud EAGLE SCREECH from somewhere in his throat that made even Bhairava fall silent for a beat.

Kim’s lips parted. “Damn. You must come in handy…” He paused, then raised a brow. “Now do an English accent.”

Rudra didn’t miss a beat. He straightened, pressed his hands together solemnly, and intoned: “Ahimdullah.”

Kim froze. “…What?”

Rudra winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. The syllabus kinda updated on that island.”

"If your save Europe 4chan thread is over," a voice came — feminine, drifting through the skyline. Rudra looked up at the rising sun that suddenly seemed to hesitate on the horizon.

A figure stood there. Feminine. Too still. Too silent.

"I was wondering why the sun suddenly slowed down," Kim muttered, wasting no time as he lunged, rapier forming in his hand. But before he reached her—something dragged him down. He looked—flesh. A slab of lizard meat clinging to his legs.

The dragon corpse. Splitting apart. Clinging to Han. Wrapping him whole. Until Han vanished, buried alive inside a swelling, suffocating mass of meat.

{"The passengers!"} Bhairava’s voice thundered inside Rudra’s skull. He spun back toward the bus—but his vision blurred. A sting. Something sliding through his head.

Then he saw it—his own eyeball. On the ground. Staring upward.

Through that fallen eye, he caught a glimpse of a shadow above him. Unclear. Human? Monster?

"What?" the figure said, crushing his tongue beneath her heel. "A cat got your tongue?"

Rudra’s vision convulsed. Everything above his nose imploded. Bone and blood burst. His last sight—the child, framed through his severed eye—fading into black.

[BAD ENDING]