“Ahhh! Holy—!Get outta there! Now!!!”

  Yoon Ji-chung screamed without warning.

  It happened the instant he peered into a beaker resting on a hospital shelf.

  Inside the transparent glass,a soul was staring straight back at him—eyes stretched wide,thick with seething resentment.

  The moment their gazes met,Yoon Ji-chung recoiled on instinct,staggering backward and nearly crashing to the floor.

  “Ji-chung. Careful.”

  Kim Beom-u spoke immediately.

  “When a soul turns into a ghost, it becomes violent.They bite. They scratch.”

  His voice remained steady.

  “Pin it first with the baton so it can’t move.Then scan it. Got it?”

  At the warning, Yoon Ji-chung cleared his throat,tightened his grip,and corrected his stance.

  He had originally joined the company as an office worker,and the adjustment had been brutal.

  Contrary to what he’d imagined,desk work had driven him dangerously close to despair.

  In the end,he had persistently requested a transfer to field duty.

  That was how he’d ended up on Kim Beom-u’s team—a rookie thrown straight into the front lines.

  And now—

  he was finally starting to develop a feel for the field.

  “Team Leader, don’t you worry one bit!”

  Yoon Ji-chung said, gripping the baton firmly.

  “This little punk won’t lay a finger on me.Don’t move—stay right there, you ugly bastard.”

  Kim Beom-u let out a quiet chuckle,but his eyes never left Yoon Ji-chung—not even for a second.

  As always,safety came first.

  Kim Beom-u himself had once been the team leader assigned to the Los Angeles sector.But after a sudden order from the Director,his jurisdiction had been reassigned to Korea.

  Since then,he had been out in the field every day like this—side by side with Yoon Ji-chung.

  “Lately, I’ve been thinking,”Kim Beom-u said, scanning the ward.

  “Even just a hundred years ago,the operational environment was completely different.

  Back then,the smell of blood alonewas enough to pinpoint a death instantly,and retrieving souls was far easier.”

  He paused briefly.

  “But now—even if you watch for months—people don’t die easily.

  Most of them pass away quietly, in hospitals.”

  He continued,

  “Because of that,once a soul separates from the body,it’s becoming harder and harderto trace where it’s gone.”

  Kim Beom-u glanced toward the shelf where the beaker had been.

  “In the past,bodies were carried on foot to burial sites,and the souls followed the same routes.That made them easy to track.

  Now,bodies are transported by vehicleand cremated almost immediately.

  Souls scatter—or worse,they clump togetherand grow far more violent.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  His voice dropped.

  “We used to track souls by the smell of blood.A hundred years ago, that was more than enough.

  But in Korea…most deaths leave no external wounds.The scent is too faint.Finding them is much harder.”

  Kim Beom-u shook his head bitterly.

  “That’s why I raised the issue again and again.I told the company,‘This method doesn’t work in the Korea sector.’

  But up above,they didn’t even pretend to listen.”

  He exhaled softly.

  “And that’s probably whythe Special Audit Teamended up coming down from Headquarters.”

  Meanwhile,Yoon Ji-chung continued his sweep—beneath shelves,behind wardrobes,inside beakers—leaving no corner unchecked.

  A moment later,his voice came through the in-ear communicator.

  “Team Leader!Fifteen ghosts secured and sent off.Doesn’t look like there are any more—over.”

  His breathing carried an odd mix:half calm, as if nothing had happened,half betraying the fear he’d just forced down.

  Kim Beom-u scanned the area one last time,then replied curtly.

  “Jeju sector clear.Moving to the next point. Over.”

  As soon as they completed the final sector in Jeju,they continued the operation as planned.

  From Jeju to Seoul,they combed through every zone—locating unretrieved souls one by oneand transferring them to the intermediate realm.

  -------

  While enjoying her first date with Hyeonpil at the Yeouido Cherry Blossom Festival,Dahye hesitated for a moment.Then, midway through her meal, she gently set her chopsticks downand turned her gaze toward the Han River.

  “Oppa… there’s something I want to say.If I say it… it might be a little embarrassing.”

  The sudden seriousness in her voice caught Hyeonpil off guard.He nearly spilled the ramen in his hands.

  “Dahye—what is it?What could be so embarrassing?Go ahead. Tell me.”

  Trying to mask his flustered reaction,he forced an awkward smileand studied her face carefully.

  Dahye took a slow breathand began to speak, carefully unsealing what she had kept inside.

  “You know how, after I graduated college,I worked in psychological counseling, right?I really… I honestly tried my best.”

  Her gaze fell to the foil bowl, now holding only broth.

  “But listening to clients every day…I felt like I was the one breaking down first.My emotions got tangled.Sometimes I felt likeI was the one who needed counseling.”

  She paused, swallowing.

  “So… in the end, I couldn’t hold on.I quit.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “My mom was furious. She begged me not to quit.After that, the atmosphere at home went cold…and it was really hard on me.”

  Hyeonpil straightened, his voice gentle and sincere.

  “Dahye…I really had no idea.”

  She gave a small, fragile smile,then lifted her head again.

  “That’s why…I think I finally understand—at least a little—what I want to do now.”

  Her eyes shimmered in the spring sunlight.

  “I want to become a creator.Not copying someone else—but making what I want to make.I want to create content that’s truly mine.”

  At her confession,Hyeonpil fell silent for a long moment.Then he smiled softly.

  “I… something just came to mind.”

  Dahye looked up at him.

  “You know the stories the teacher sometimes tells only me?Those conversations…”He paused.“They’re honestly too good to keep to myself.”

  His voice remained steady, thoughtful.

  “They’re words that feel too precious for just one person to hear—things no one else ever gets to hear.If we captured them naturally on video and shared them…I think they could really help a lot of people.”

  He smiled at her.

  “I honestly think it’s a great idea.What do you think?”

  Caught off guard by the unexpected direction,Dahye hesitated.

  “That’s… not what I meant,” she said, pouting slightly.“Oppa, aren’t you overestimating my dad?The moment he opens his mouth,he’s already thinking about how to tease me.What ‘wise sayings’? It’s all just jokes.”

  Even at her complaint,Hyeonpil didn’t lose his smile.

  “Well…”He chuckled softly.“From where I stand,I think it’s because he loves you very much.”

  Dahye blinked.

  “At the philosophy office,the teacher is really… charismatic.His words have depth,and there’s a pull that makes you focus without realizing it.He’s a little different from the version you see.”

  Then he added gently,

  “I just hope…you’ll understand his hearta little more.”

  The spring sunlight had grown subtly cooler.

  After tidying up around the bench,the two of them sat close enough that their arms nearly brushedand leaned in together over Hyeonpil’s phone screen.

  “What do you think of this model?”he asked, pointing at the display.“I think it’d work well for filming.”

  Dahye checked the priceand immediately shook her head.

  “Oppa, this is just… average.If I’m going to be a pro, this won’t cut it.”

  She held out her own phone.

  “I want to do this properly from the start.Let’s go with this one.”

  Hyeonpil’s eyes widened.

  “Dahye… 1.5 million won is a lot.Wouldn’t it be better to start with something cheaper—”

  “Oppa.”She cut him off firmly.“You get what you pay for.”

  Then, half sulking, she added,

  “My dad charges only 30,000 won per consultation—that’s why he has no clients.Who runs a philosophy office for 30,000 won these days?Seriously.”

  Hyeonpil nearly burst out laughing.In the end, he simply looked at herand smiled—warmly, quietly.