Seo Yoon never planned on working in data management.
She never planned on working at all.
At least, not like this.
She had spent years shaping herself into the kind of person who was supposed to succeed. The kind who never wavered, never hesitated, never let exhaustion catch up to her.
Business. Law. Medicine. Three fields, each demanding, each consuming, each woven into the rigid structure of her life.
She had been the student who always had her notes in perfect order, who stayed up until dawn preparing for exams, who absorbed textbooks cover to cover because not understanding something was never an option.
The one professors nodded at approvingly.
The one peers secretly envied.
The one family members bragged about at gatherings.
"She's brilliant. She'll do great things."
"With those grades, she can go anywhere."
"She's going to change the world."
It was exhausting. But there was no room for exhaustion.
Because if she wasn't studying, she was working.
If she wasn't working, she was interning.
If she wasn't interning, she was planning for the next step.
Always the next step.
Because that was what was expected of her. That was the only way forward.
And then—graduation came.
And nothing happened.
The applications went out. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Law firms.
Hospitals.
Research institutions.
Corporate firms.
Big companies, small companies.
Companies that boasted high salaries and competitive benefits, companies that barely paid at all.
She wasn't choosy.
She wasn't waiting for the perfect job.
She just wanted a job.
Just one response.
Just one interview.
Just something.
But weeks passed.
Then months.
And silence stretched between them.
At first, she told herself it was normal.
The market is tough. Everyone struggles. Just keep trying.
So she tried harder.
She rewrote her CV.
She reworded her cover letters.
She went to networking events she didn't want to go to.
She sat through workshops on interview techniques.
She spent hours tailoring every application to match company expectations.
Still—nothing.
Still—silence.
And slowly, that silence started pressing down on her.
She stopped checking her email first thing in the morning.
She stopped refreshing job listings every hour.
She stopped rehearsing answers to interview questions in her head while she lay awake at night.
Because the weight of rejection—even silent rejection—was a different kind of exhaustion.
It started gradually.
She let herself rest for one day.
Then another.
Then—somewhere along the way—she stopped getting out of bed altogether.
Her friends had a word for it.
Bedrotting.
They laughed about it in group chats, sent memes about post-graduate burnout, made jokes about surviving on instant ramen and convenience store coffee.
"God, I've been bedrotting for three days straight."
"I swear I'm going to apply tomorrow. Or maybe next week."
"This is temporary, right? Right??"
Seo Yoon had typed out "same" more times than she could count.
But it wasn't the same.
Because for them, it was a bad phase.
A slump.
For her, it became a way of being.
Because the longer she was stuck in place, the heavier everything became.
Because getting out of bed wasn't just getting out of bed.
It was forcing herself to shower.
It was forcing herself to eat.
It was forcing herself to try, again and again, knowing nothing would come of it.
She wasn't lazy.
She wasn't unmotivated.
She had tried.
She had tried so fucking hard.
And she was tired.
She hadn't even meant to take this job.
She had gone to the interview with no expectations.
A government-adjacent department. Data management.
It was quiet. Unnoticed. Bureaucratic.
A job that was safe, but unimpressive.
The kind of job where you disappear behind paperwork.
She was overqualified. That was obvious.
Her degrees, her credentials—they had skimmed them, barely glanced at them.
But they didn't ask why she was applying.
Didn't question why someone with her background would want this.
They just said:
"You're hired."
And just like that—Seo Yoon finally had a job.
It was mechanical.
Records. Files. Names. Identities. Dates.
She was supposed to sort data, flag inconsistencies, cross-check reports.
No one told her why she was looking at them.
No one told her who the reports were for.
She was just meant to process information.
She liked it.
Because no one expected anything from her.
Because no one looked at her.
Because no one cared who she used to be.
But today—
Today, something feels wrong.
Seo Yoon blinks at her monitor.
The data swims slightly.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, but she isn't typing.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz too loudly.
The air in the office feels too thick.
The sound of typing, the soft hum of the copier—background noise, but suddenly unnatural.
She glances at the reflection in the dark screen of her monitor.
For a split second—
It doesn't feel like her.
Her stomach twists.
Why does everything feel…
out of place?
She exhales slowly, shaking it off.
She's just tired.
It's just another day.
Right?
The apartment feels different.
Seo Yoon tells herself that's ridiculous.
She stands in the entryway, keys still clutched between her fingers, her other hand hovering over the light switch. The dim glow of the streetlights filters through the curtains, stretching elongated shadows across the walls.
She swallows, shaking off the creeping unease tightening in her chest.
The apartment looks the same. The furniture is untouched. The air smells faintly of coffee and detergent, the scent of familiarity. The curtains sway slightly, caught in a weak breeze from the cracked window.
Everything is normal.
So why does it feel like she's walking into something that doesn't belong to her?
She exhales slowly, slipping her shoes off. The floor is cold beneath her feet, grounding her in the present. Her movements feel automatic—mechanical, almost. She locks the door behind her.
Click.
She checks the latch.
Click.
She checks it again.
Her fingers press against the metal, feeling the solid weight of it.
She lingers there, staring at the lock, before finally turning away.
The silence feels wrong.
It's not the peaceful quiet she used to welcome after a long day. This silence is too full, pressing against her ears, stretching into every corner of the apartment, waiting.
She turns on the TV—not to watch, just to break the stillness. The sudden burst of noise startles her more than it should. The screen flickers to life, the newscaster's voice sharp against the heavy air.
"—another disappearance, this time in the Jongno district. Authorities have yet to release details, but sources confirm the victim—"
Seo Yoon grips the remote and shuts it off.
She doesn't need to hear more.
The silence returns instantly, swallowing the room whole.
She rubs a hand over her face, forcing herself to move toward the kitchen.
Water. She just needs water.
She reaches for a glass, but her fingers tremble slightly when she grips it. She presses her lips together, steadying herself as she fills it from the sink.
The first sip does nothing to ease the tension in her throat.
Neither does the second.
Her hands won't stop shaking.
She sets the glass down carefully. Watches the ripples spread across the surface.
Deep breath. It's just paranoia.
She inhales slowly, pushing herself away from the counter. Sleep. She just needs sleep.
She turns toward the bedroom.
And then—
A knock.
Seo Yoon stops breathing.
Her entire body freezes, her muscles locking in place.
The sound is soft. Too soft.
Not rushed. Not demanding.
Not hesitant, either.
Deliberate.
Her grip tightens on the counter.
She swallows, but her throat feels dry.
The apartment is silent again.
But now, the silence is heavier, charged with something unseen.
Then—
The second knock.
Not a knock.
Not knuckles rapping against the door.
Something pressing against the wood.
Lingering.
Seo Yoon doesn't move.
Her breath is caught in her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Her mind screams at her to ignore it.
To pretend she isn't here.
To wait until it stops.
But her body moves before she can stop it.
Slow.
Careful.
Her bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as she crosses the room.
Each step feels too long.
Her pulse too loud.
The door looms in front of her.
She doesn't touch it.
Her fingers hover over the lock.
Her other hand reaches for the peephole.
She hesitates.
She leans forward.
And—
Nothing.
The hallway is empty.
The air is thick.
Seo Yoon doesn't move.
Her breathing is shallow, barely there.
Then—
At the very edge of the frame—
A shadow moves.
She yanks away from the peephole, stumbling back.
Her lungs seize. Her stomach coils so tight it hurts.
Her phone.
She grabs it from the counter, her fingers unsteady as she hovers over emergency services.
Call.
Call.
Call.
But she doesn't press it.
Her breath comes too fast, too ragged.
Her hands won't stop shaking.
The apartment is silent again.
But her body knows better.
She waits.
She waits.
She waits.
The presence is gone.
But deep inside her, something cold whispers—
You are not alone.
Seo Yoon blinks at her screen.
She's been at work for hours, but it doesn't feel like it.
Time is moving strangely. Too fast and too slow all at once.
The office around her hums with the same low, mechanical rhythm—the endless tapping of keyboards, the whirring of printers, the occasional murmur of conversation.
Familiar. Ordinary.
But today, it feels like she's watching everything from a step too far away.
She can see herself—Seo Yoon, sitting at her desk, fingers moving, back straight, doing what she's supposed to do.
Yet somehow, it doesn't feel like her.
She inhales slowly, steadying herself.
She needs to focus.
Click.
A new file loads.
Her eyes scan the text, her mind shifting back into routine.
Data entry. Record validation. Cross-referencing.
Her fingers move automatically across the keyboard, her body going through the motions like a well-programmed machine.
Click.
Another file.
Click.
Another.
And then—
She stops.
Her fingers freeze on the mouse.
Her breath catches in her throat.
The name on the screen—
Ha Eun-ji.
Her vision tunnels, the world narrowing to the four letters in front of her.
A chill trickles down her spine.
The reaction is instant. Visceral.
Like something buried in the deepest part of her mind has just cracked open.
She doesn't understand why.
The name doesn't mean anything.
Does it?
Her stomach twists.
She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe.
The sounds of the office fade into a dull hum, distant and meaningless.
For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the name.
Ha Eun-ji.
It sits there, black text on a white screen, harmless, ordinary.
Yet somehow, she feels like it's staring back at her.
Something shifts in her chest—a slow, creeping sense of wrongness.
She forces her fingers to move, clicking the file open.
The details load.
Her eyes scan the text.
Date of birth.
A year dangerously close to hers.
Cause of death:
Unconfirmed accident.
Case status:
Closed.
She blinks.
She's seen thousands of files, thousands of names.
Some are messy—filled with reports, investigative notes, conflicting statements.
Some are clean—simple, straightforward, properly documented.
This one is too clean.
Her pulse picks up.
Her breath comes shallow.
She scrolls further, trying to find more.
No autopsy.
No body recovered.
No witnesses.
The case was shut within 48 hours.
She exhales sharply.
Her fingers twitch against the mouse.
This isn't normal.
Even the most routine accident cases go through standard procedures—forensics, statements, medical records.
This file has nothing.
Just a name.
A birthdate.
A vague mention of an accident.
Like someone had rushed to make it official.
Like someone had wanted it to be forgotten.
She swallows.
Her mind is racing, but she forces herself to stay calm.
There are thousands of people in this system.
She processes hundreds of names every day.
Maybe this is just a coincidence.
Maybe it's nothing.
Maybe—
Her cursor drifts back to the name.
Ha Eun-ji.
A deep, sinking sensation coils in her gut.
The fluorescent lights above feel suddenly too bright.
The air in the office feels too thick.
Her chest tightens.
The name.
The birthdate.
The case that shouldn't exist.
Is it a coincidence?
She doesn't understand why, but suddenly—
She feels like she's looking at something she wasn't supposed to see.
Her fingers tighten around the mouse.
Her breathing quickens.
She tries to push it away, to convince herself that it doesn't matter.
But the more she stares, the heavier the feeling grows.
A thought creeps into her mind.
A thought she doesn't want to have.
A thought that makes her skin prickle.
Why does this name feel like it belongs to me?
The world forgets.
That is what it does. That is what it has always done.
It forgets the people who vanish. It forgets their names, their stories, their lives.
It moves forward like a machine, replacing the missing with the present, plastering over the holes they left behind with something new—new tragedies, new faces, new names to be grieved for a while before they, too, are forgotten.
But Jung Hyun-seok?
He doesn't forget.
He never forgets.
He keeps them all. Every face. Every name. Every question that was never answered.
The ones lost to the city.
The ones who were erased.
The ones no one is looking for anymore.
Hyun-seok sits at his desk, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, his tired eyes scanning the dim glow of his monitor. The air in the room is thick, pressed down by the weight of old paper and the hum of electronics running far too long into the night. His desk is cluttered—documents stacked on top of each other, missing persons flyers that have long since curled at the edges, printouts covered in notes scrawled hastily in the margins.
He doesn't keep his workspace neat.
He keeps it full.
Because he can't let go of the people no one else remembers.
Because if he forgets them, then no one will remember at all.
Tonight, one name in particular refuses to leave him.
H A E U N - J I
The keys click softly under his fingers. The search bar blinks.
Processing.
A familiar moment. A routine action.
He's done this a thousand times before.
His breath is slow, steady, his pulse familiar with the anticipation of waiting—waiting to see if there's anything left of someone the world erased.
And then—
The file loads.
Hyun-seok leans forward, his tired eyes sharpening.
And immediately—something is wrong.
His stomach twists.
He wasn't looking for Ha Eun-ji in missing persons reports.
Because there is no missing persons report.
Instead—he's staring at a death record.
A death record.
His jaw tightens as his gaze sweeps the screen, taking in the information with rapid efficiency.
Date of birth: 9 years old at the time of death.
Cause of death: Car accident.
Case status: Closed.
His grip on the desk hardens.
Too fast.
Too simple.
Too convenient.
Something isn't right.
He keeps reading.
No autopsy performed.
Case closed within 48 hours.
No official police investigation.
The world had moved on from her death before it even had a chance to question it.
His pulse thrums steadily, his mind moving faster now.
He scrolls further, searching for anything—any inconsistencies, any leads.
And then—he finds them.
The family records.
Father: Ha Tae-jin
Mother: Lee Su-young
Sibling: Ha Min-ji.
His brows furrow.
She has a sister.
The system registers everything—her family's names, addresses, school history.
But the deeper he looks, the more the gaps appear.
Her education records exist—but her final year is missing.
Her medical records are there—but they stop abruptly, no follow-up visits, no records beyond childhood.
Her last known address is recorded—but there are no documents confirming she ever left it.
Hyun-seok stiffens.
This isn't normal.
This is a fabrication.
The framework of her life is still there. The bare minimum of records left behind.
Just enough for someone skimming through her file not to notice anything unusual.
But when you look deeper—
She disappears.
Like someone kept just enough of her existence intact to make it seem real—while making sure no one ever looked too closely.
He inhales sharply, tension tightening in his chest.
This doesn't make sense.
Ha Eun-ji was declared dead in an accident.
Her family was told she died.
There was no search, no investigation, no questions.
Because as far as the world was concerned—
She was gone.
Except—
Hyun-seok's hands tighten into fists.
He saw her.
That moment on the street. The weight of recognition even though he hadn't understood it at the time. The way her presence made something in his gut twist, even before he realised why.
The way she was just another stranger walking past him.
Alive.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
A person.
And yet—every official record states that she does not exist.
Hyun-seok exhales, slow and deliberate, but his pulse has quickened.
This isn't the first time he's found something that doesn't add up.
He's spent years digging through records like these—cases that were buried, details that didn't match.
But Ha Eun-ji's case is different.
Because this wasn't just a disappearance.
This wasn't a kidnapping.
This wasn't a runaway.
This was an erasure.
No missing persons report.
No forensic investigation.
No news coverage.
No pleas for information.
No one looked for her.
Because they thought there was nothing to look for.
Because her family—her sister, her parents—were told she was dead.
And if Hyun-seok hadn't seen her with his own eyes—
He would believe it, too.
His fingers press against his temples.
This isn't the world forgetting.
This is someone making sure the world forgets.
His body is heavy with exhaustion, but his mind is alight with a sharp, cutting awareness.
There's something bigger at play.
He can feel it.
A presence that lingers just beyond the surface of comprehension—something orchestrating the silence.
This is not an accident.
This is not neglect.
This is deliberate.
His eyes flicker back to the screen.
And this time, his breath steadies with something sharper than unease.
Determination.
Because this is no longer just about finding the lost.
This is about uncovering something no one was supposed to see.
Seo Yoon can't move.
Her ears are ringing.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard.
She searches again.
Again.
Again.
The details don't change.
This girl is supposed to be dead.
She stares at the name.
The date of birth.
Her birthdate.
Her chair scrapes against the floor as she stands too quickly.
Coworkers glance at her.
She barely notices.
Her hands are shaking.
Who is Ha Eun-ji?
The air in the office feels heavier, pressing down on her shoulders, suffocating in its stillness. She blinks once, twice, but the words on the screen don't change.
Ha Eun-ji.
Her name—her birthdate—her death date.
Her ears are ringing, drowning out the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the muted conversations of her coworkers, the distant clicking of keyboards. Her vision tunnels, narrowing on the file in front of her, each line of text sinking into her mind like jagged glass.
Her fingers twitch above the mouse. The cursor blinks, waiting.
She clicks out of the document. Then clicks back in.
Again.
Again.
The details remain the same.
Her breath comes fast and shallow, each inhale more unsteady than the last. She forces herself to read, to analyse, to break it down logically. But her mind isn't working the way it should. It's pulling at disconnected threads, fragments of memory she can't hold onto.
She leans forward, her fingers gripping the desk.
Cause of death: Fatal car accident.
Body unrecovered.
Her stomach twists violently. A cold sweat prickles at the back of her neck.
This isn't right.
Bodies don't just disappear.
People don't just vanish.
Her mind is screaming at her, but she doesn't know what it's trying to say.
Her birthdate.
It's there, printed in black and white.
But if this girl is dead—if this girl has been dead for over a decade—
Then who the hell is she?
Her chair scrapes against the floor as she pushes back too quickly, the sharp noise slicing through the air like a gunshot. A few coworkers glance up from their desks, their gazes flicking toward her in brief curiosity before turning back to their work.
She barely registers them.
Her hands are cold. Too cold.
She clenches them into fists, forcing herself to breathe, forcing her body to stay grounded in a reality that is slipping through her fingers.
The words on the screen blur.
She should close it. Shut it down. Walk away.
Pretend she never saw it.
But she can't.
Her eyes remain locked on the name, the letters seared into her vision, unshakable.
Ha Eun-ji.
Her body knows something before her mind does.
Her chest tightens.
Because suddenly, she isn't just looking at a name on a screen.
She's looking at herself.