The building was a skyscraper of glass and gold in Gangnam — a digital sanctuary for influencers, start-ups, and trend chasers.
And on the 38th floor, behind biometric locks and Fold-encrypted routers, Min Seo-Jun sat in silence.
Streaming live.
To over 11 million viewers.
He wasn't screaming. Or preaching.
He was smiling.
And telling them about the truth beyond dreams.
"It's not control," he said. "It's clarity. You've been told life has to hurt. That suffering makes you real. But what if that's a lie? What if peace isn't the end of you — but the beginning?"
His followers flooded the chat with hearts, spirals, and a new emoji: an eye inside a dream bubble.
Fold symbology.
"Pain is the glitch," Seo-Jun said, voice calm. "The Fold fixes the glitch."
Ji-Hyuk watched from a neighboring rooftop, eyes narrowed.
Maeryn floated beside him, wings dim.
"He's human," she said.
"Not for long," Ji-Hyuk replied. "He's synchronizing with the Fold. Letting them use him as a resonance core."
"A beacon?"
Ji-Hyuk shook his head.
"A preacher."
They entered through the ceiling — Ji-Hyuk silent as a memory, Maeryn following as a ghost.
By the time they reached the studio, Seo-Jun was waiting.
No guards. No panic.
He simply turned in his chair and smiled.
"You're late," he said.
Ji-Hyuk said nothing.
"You think I'm brainwashed. But I chose this."
Maeryn's hands twitched with magic. "Why?"
Seo-Jun stood, walked to the window. The skyline reflected in his glasses.
"Because I saw the world as it is. A meat grinder. A noise machine. And the Fold? It offered me stillness."
Ji-Hyuk stepped forward. "It offered you nothing. A hollow self."
"No," Seo-Jun said. "It offered me a clean self."
Maeryn raised a suppression glyph.
Seo-Jun didn't resist.
"You're going to kill me," he said. "That's what heroes do."
Ji-Hyuk stopped.
"No."
Seo-Jun blinked.
"I'm going to let you see what you've become."
Ji-Hyuk touched his forehead — and whispered a counter-glyph.
It wasn't attack.
It was reversal.
It turned Seo-Jun's Fold synchronization inward.
And suddenly, the preacher collapsed.
Screaming.
Because the Fold's lies weren't built for introspection.
They were built to overwrite, not reflect.
And now he was drowning in his own mind.
When it was over, Seo-Jun lay on the floor, eyes wide.
Shaking.
"You made me—feel it all again," he whispered.
Ji-Hyuk knelt beside him.
"That's what being human means."
Seo-Jun looked at him.
And for the first time, he didn't smile.
"Then I'd rather be nothing."
Ji-Hyuk stood.
"So would the Fold."
Later, Maeryn sat beside the unconscious body, watching the stream room flicker with residual thought.
"He's not the last," she said.
Ji-Hyuk nodded. "There'll be more."
"Some will follow you."
He looked out at the city.
"They shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not trying to save the world."
He tightened his grip on his blade.
"I'm trying to stop it from being replaced."
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