[North Busan Juvenile Correction Center – Block D][Day 3 – Countdown Complete]
Lights flicked on at 6:00 a.m. Sharp.
Eli Nam opened his eyes. No alarm. No guards. Just the steady hum of the overhead fluorescents.
He sat up and straightened in silence, eyes drifting across identical bunks, each made to unbroken precision.
He stretched, then walked to the sink, ignoring his reflection until after he washed his face. Still pale, marred by dried cuts and bruises.
When he made it to breakfast thirty minutes later, the dining hall was packed with boys in gray uniforms pressed to identical specs. Under the long strip lights, everything looked the same — until he took a seat.
Someone had taken his utensils.
Two spoons lay next to the tray, but the fork and knife were gone. Not an accident.
Eli folded his hands and ate with a spoon only. Quietly. Precisely. Eyes down.
Across the room, Choi Dae‑Kwan and his Glass Dogs watched. Their spacing was organized — no drinks unless they'd spoken, no movements without purpose.
Dae‑Kwan nodded at the sight of Eli eating.
Eli finished. Walked out. No words. No eye contact.
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Later, he was assigned laundry room detail — the same shift as Choi Won‑Gi, a silent Glass Dog who looked old enough to know most of the fiction.
Laundry machines lined one wall; clothes steamed and spun. One cluster of lockers was sealed with combination locks — jurisdiction, not security.
Won‑Gi stood by them, eyes fixed on Eli.
He didn't wait to speak. He shoved the washer door open and slammed his shoulder into Eli's ribs.
Eli dropped the detergent bucket. The splash was loud in the closed space.
Won‑Gi: "You walk like this place means something."
Eli looked up, picked up the soaked bucket, and set it down carefully. The look in his eyes let Won‑Gi know he could let it go — or he could escalate.
Won‑Gi reached for a metal pipe, as if it was already in his hand.
Eli grabbed the door's hinge without looking, hand covering the mechanism—then tugged it the same moment Won‑Gi swung.
The door clanged shut on Won‑Gi's wrist.
He dropped the pipe.
Eli stepped forward, closed the three-foot gap.
Eli: "That was mistake one."
He caught Won‑Gi's wrist, yanked it behind his back, elbow locked in the crook of his arm.
Won‑Gi winced. Eli released the hold and pointed to the dryer.
Eli: "Fix it. Or we reset."
Won‑Gi stumbled away without a word.
Eli left the laundry room fifteen minutes later, sleeves adjusted, expression blank—just another boy doing his detail.
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That evening, the inmates filed out to the rec yard—air tinged with smoke from a nearby heating unit.
Glass Dogs moved along the perimeter, walking silently. A few tossed a ball on the cracked ground, but no cheers followed.
Eli stood in the center, back straight, eyes outward. No crew — just space.
A small inmate, older by a year, came close and whispered:
Boy: "Won‑Gi's got a limp."
Eli didn't answer.
A pause.
Boy: "You kept it quiet. Smart."
Eli nodded once.
The boy left.
Dae‑Kwan watched from the fence, emotionless. But there was acknowledgement in his stance.
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[South Busan — Late Evening, Under Highway Overpass]
Samuel stood in deep shadow, phone in hand. Screen cracked. A burner passed to him by a crouching figure.
Undercover contact (whisper): "You're running on fumes. CTRL9 will bait you."
Samuel's eyes flicked through chat logs.
One name surfaced — "Class‑07."
He tapped it.
A combination of glitches and loops. A transcript of a break in protocol during Ji Yun's simulation.
Part of it said:
"If compromised… neutralize the echo."
Echo.
That was Ji Yun.
CTRL9 killed the name a month ago.
Samuel closed the chat.
Samuel (soft, broken): "What are you pointing me toward?"Contact: "Don't follow. Make them follow you."
He looked up at the underpass columns.
Samuel: "Not for rescue. For ruin."
He pocketed the burner, walking toward the nightlights.
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Next morning, Eli stood in the same line. Four days in. Still no words exchanged. The missing utensils were returned—but Eli continued to eat with his hands.
They passed a tray with cut fruit.
He took a slice and cut it into four even pieces.
Across the table, Dae‑Kwan caught his eyes.
Dae‑Kwan (softly): "You know how to share."
Eli (quiet): "I know how not to."
The other guards watched from behind the glass wall, but they only saw food.
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After lunch, during sitting period, a note found its way to Dae‑Kwan's locker.
He opened it in silence.
Folded out length:
"Next time, the neck."
He refolded it, slipped it into his sleeve.
Later, he stood on the landing outside Eli's cell.
The boy with the dog tattoo stood sentinel.
Dae‑Kwan spoke without emotion:
Dae‑Kwan: "They want me to drive hard. Make sure you keep the neck warm."
Eli didn't blink.
Eli: "I never liked heat."
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Lights dimmed for lights-out.
Eli lay on his bunk. Eyes on the cracked linoleum but ears tuned.
He counted faint echoes — footsteps, voice commands, distant whimpers.
He counted to three.
And let his eyes close.