The cellphone, wrapped in used plastic, had a cracked screen and its battery was so worn out it didn’t last even three hours on a full charge—but it still worked.

It had clearly been taken care of with some reverence. Signs of repeated soldering were evident.

Inside the phone were several photos and videos.

The photo folder contained pictures of the deceased, their family, food, and scenery—everything from before the war. Not a single post-war image could be found, no matter how hard you looked.

More important were the videos.

Especially the ones recorded when death seemed certain—those came closest to my intended goal.

However, the camera had apparently been damaged long ago; the quality of the footage was poor. The final videos were just a black screen, with only the sound of a lonely monologue.

“Hayang is quieter than she looks, and she's loyal. I found her last winter, wounded and dying, and took her in. People freaked out thinking she was a mutation, but so what if she is? She’s this cute and lovable.”

“Hayang loves nutrition bars. Maybe it's because they're made from bugs? People are disgusted, but she goes crazy for them. Still, she's got class—doesn’t gobble them down but eats politely.”

“Hayang is shy. She doesn’t like people. But she’s smarter than me. Honestly. I can barely scrape together food thanks to her—cough, cough! Ah, I guess it’s time to prepare. So this video? Recording? Memoir? I’m making it for that. Ah, damn, the phone battery’s already dying. Next time!”

The deceased’s intent could be read from the filenames:

Take care of Hayang (1)

Take care of Hayang (2)

Take care of Hayang (3)

Untitled-23

Take care of Hayang (5)

...

...

At some point, the filenames had been edited.

The purpose was to entrust the mutation that followed them to someone else.

“You’re a real weirdo,” Sergeant Gil said curtly, watching me listen to the audio file with the phone hooked up to a capacitor.

As he checked the charging speed, I asked back, “You’re not exactly normal yourself, are you?”

I glanced around.

Gil’s Korean friends stood guard with guns.

“How’d you even survive and set up shop?”

Being fluent in Korean wasn’t enough to explain it.

Gil smirked and dropped a twist I hadn’t anticipated.

“You probably thought I was U.S. military—but I’m not.”

“...Really?”

“I’m from Pakistan.”

“Pakistan?”

Didn’t match the stereotypical image at all.

Gil, sharp as ever, explained immediately.

“My grandmother was European. Grandpa spent time in England. Believe it or not, I come from a noble family. Could slap those Joseon noble bastards back and forth with ease.”

“When’d you come to Korea?”

“Came over with my family when I was five. Lived in Korea for over 30 years.”

It’s true—language sticks better when you’re exposed young.

My classmate Lee Sang-hoon always bragged that his English was perfect because he had private tutors since he was a kid. But in reality, all he could do was mumble awkwardly in front of foreigners.

“What about the U.S. military gear?”

“I worked as a civilian contractor on base. Maintenance depot.”

Gil glanced back at his crew.

“They were all civilian contractors too. KWB, KGS, mixed bunch—but it didn’t matter much. Once the war started, the Yanks ghosted the base without even telling us.”

“I see.”

No need to ask about his life after that.

It’d be rude.

Asking how someone survived five years after the war—implies they needed some special reason to live.

You lived because you were qualified to.

“You seem pretty skilled. Military background?”

I hadn’t even shown my abilities. But he could tell. Must’ve seen a lot in his time.

After a pause, I nodded. “Something like that.”

“The friends you came with—they’re Skull Brigade, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“I recognized one of their faces.”

“Who? The good-looking one?”

“That’s company intel. We gotta eat too, you know. Mess with those guys and they’ll skin your face while you’re still alive.”

Definitely not the type to underestimate.

And the deceased woman probably wasn’t someone to be underestimated either.

The records proved it.

“Yeah. That’s right. I hit the daughter of the evacuation center director. So what? She didn’t treat me like a person. First like a maid, then like a servant, and eventually like a slave. But when they tried to parcel me off to some old man with acid-melted features—like I was some slave-bride—my blood boiled.”

“I eventually escaped and lived on my own. A few vagrants tried to mess with me, but luckily I had a gun. Shot one of them in the thigh to make an example—they never came back.”

The records only mention one firearm-related incident. The rest describe how she survived by stealing with the help of her mutation.

“Hayang’s a spirit. Smarter than me. What’s the word? Waloo? She’s like Lupin. A classy little thief. Can’t steal big stuff ’cause she’s small, but bullets? That’s another story. Everyone buys bullets. And when some bastards come at you, she can shoot them right back into their bodies.”

I can piece together the rest.

She survived by stealing bullets.

But business isn’t fair.

Before the war, you had the rule of law—freedom of contract, fair competition. Now? The one with power sets the price and terms.

One gun wouldn’t get you a fair trade.

The mutation risked its life to steal bullets, and they were probably sold cheap. Her body and spirit must’ve worn down, day by day.

When the end came, she sought this sanctuary of the dead to die—but even as her body rotted, the mutation probably continued stealing for its master, not realizing she was gone.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I can’t hand over the goods until that thing is dead.”

Gil began to pack up.

His men followed.

I stared at him. “Say... what if.”

“?”

“What if I take it with me?”

“Do what you want. But can you? Doesn’t seem like something you could bring back alive.”

Gil and his group left.

Only Cheon Young-jae and I remained.

“That brute was right. That little rat’s vicious.”

“Yeah.”

Definitely a feisty one.

And loyal.

“So what are you gonna do with it? Train it to steal for you?”

I shook my head.

“You said it looked kinda human, right?”

“Kinda. Oh—”

Cheon Young-jae finally caught on.

“You’re planning to fool guys like me with it?”

“There’s more than one sensory type out there. Rather than risk suspicion, it’s better to have some insurance.”

“Fair enough. But how are you gonna take it?”

“I’m working on that.”

The answer’s in the phone.

But first, there’s a stop I need to make.

*

The ‘cellphone guy’ was someone you'd find in nearly every community even before Seoul split into evacuation shelters.

As the name implies, he had knowledge of cellphone repair, as well as the tools and parts to maintain the devices that remained a necessity, war or no war.

Even as man-made signals gradually faded from the air, he set up shop with doctors, quietly responding to the needs of a crumbling society.

“Where’d you pick this up? Smells awful.”

He grumbled while expertly disassembling the phone and examining the motherboard.

“Ah yeah. Camera’s toast. Transistors too. Hey, mister—see this burnt patch? Mainboard’s dead. Can’t fix it. Sell it to me instead. I’ll pay for whatever salvageable parts it’s got.”

“The phone’s fine. You can keep it.”

Greed flickered in his eyes.

“But I have a favor to ask.”

I asked him to recover and transfer the data.

With his equipment, it wouldn’t be difficult—just a bit annoying.

After all, one of his money-makers was restoring old photos and videos of dead loved ones from phones.

“Hm. The videos should be recoverable. But ones from a dead camera? Impossible. There’s no input to work with.”

“That’s fine.”

“Just a moment. Hmm... oh?”

The phone guy tilted his head as he scrolled through the images.

“Hey. This girl—she was in the shelter next town over.”

“You know her?”

“Nope. Don’t know her personally. But I keep tabs on all the lone young women nearby. No guys around, y’know?”

He looked at me.

“She’s dead?”

I nodded.

“I see. That’s the world we live in.”

He flicked his tongue and typed away.

“Alright, done. Audio’s synced too. Looks like there’s plenty of space left—want me to load it up with anything? Porn, movies, games? I’ll fill it up.”

Selling content was another source of his income.

“No thanks.”

I took the phone and headed back to the one-room apartment on the mountain slope.

It was getting dark.

All around was quiet, drowned in heavy darkness—but the Gwangjang Market area shimmered like a night festival, full of people and vehicles heading there with lanterns.

Meanwhile, the one-room district was pitch black.

Uuuuuuuuuu—

A chilling zombie chorus echoed—one I hadn’t heard during the day.

With my bat resting on my shoulder, I found the apartment.

The small creature was still guarding the corpse.

I stood at the doorway and played the videos on my phone.

Unlike the final, black-and-white recordings, the ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) earlier footage—even with noise—was in full color.

“Hey, you okay? Whoa, look at that wound. You’re wrecked.”

The first meeting with the mutation had been recorded.

As the voice played, the once-snarling creature tilted its head.

Reacting to the voice of its former owner.

I played the next video.

“Hey, can you eat this? Hm?”

“You’re eating it well. You like it?”

“Look at that poop! Jeez! Wait a bit, I’ll clean it up.”

The mutation slowly crept toward me.

“...”

Yeah.

That voice belonged to someone dear.

A voice from better days—never to be heard again—echoed through this foul-smelling room. How could it not get the creature’s attention?

I sat down among the stink, tilted slightly so it could also see the screen.

Rustle—

It reacted.

Still wary of me, yet drawn to the familiar figure.

“...”

There once was a research question: How do intelligent mutations perceive the world?

Most scholars argued that animals, no matter how smart, were ruled by wild instinct and couldn’t escape beastly thinking.

I disagree.

It depends.

Just like no two people are alike, no two high-IQ mutations are alike either.

It comes down to individual, environment, experience—and how much love they’ve received.

Some might see the world through eyes not so different from ours.

Even if they’re just a rat.

“Tada! Today’s special dish is a nutrition bar mousse mixed with assorted nuts. The key is mashing the bar into a smooth mousse. But wait! We also grind peanuts for a crunchy kick, and fresh-from-nature—”

Rustle—

It approached again.

Each time the cherished voice echoed in this death-stenched room.

Someone coughed outside.

It was Cheon Young-jae.

The rat glared out for a moment, then resumed its crawl toward the screen, black eyes reflecting the person it could never meet again.

Its mouth opened slightly.

No sound.

Probably a greeting—at a frequency I couldn’t hear.

The video moved into its later part.

“Hayang, I think I’m dying.”

The name made the rat shiver slightly.

“If someone shows you this video, it’s okay to go with them. I don’t know if you understand, but yeah. You’re smart. Smarter than me. You’re Lupin.”

A long cough-filled silence followed.

Then the dying voice said:

“Say the word ‘Hayang.’ If you do, she’ll probably follow. It’s the name I gave her.”

I looked at the rat.

Spoke to it.

“Hayang.”

It looked at me.

Then silently climbed up my arm.

“...”

The final part of the video began—her last steps.

“I’m done. I’m dying. Can’t see anything. It’s summer but I’m cold. Shaking. So alone. I should’ve opened the fridge before I left.”

And the last recording:

“There’s probably still food Mom made in the fridge. Dad’s favorite beer. The cola Piggy Oppa hid. Yeah. In our fridge...”

The video ended.

Silence returned to the room, thick with the stench of decay.

I looked at my arm.

The hefty rat sat still, eyes fixed on the screen, unmoving.

Yeah.

The deeper the thoughts, the heavier the burden.

Gently, I offered it something.

It sniffed—nutrition bar.

The kind the deceased often gave it.

It glanced at me, then began to eat.

Slow at first, then frenzied.

When it finished, I stood.

“Hayang. Want to come with me?”

Without a sound, it climbed onto my shoulder.

“...Time to do what needs doing.”

I gathered bullets around the corpse.

Formed a circle—like a blessing.

Then I set it on fire.

The flames spread slowly, sluggishly—like her miserable, unlucky life.

Together with the silent mutation, I watched.

Then left the building.

“Oh, hey, sunbae.”

Cheon Young-jae greeted me, bat in hand.

Then he noticed.

“Oh? What’s this?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Bang!

A bullet in the flames exploded.

Bang! Tatatatatang!

A fireworks send-off—for someone who feared loneliness more than death.

*

“Amazing,” Sergeant Gil said, staring at Hayang.

When he reached out with a large finger—

“Screeeeech!”

The little animal bared her usual hostility.

A familiar face stood beside Gil.

The same sensory-type who’d been observing me earlier.

After a long look, he tilted his head and left.

“As promised, here you go.”

Gil lifted a large wooden crate and set it before me.

'Thunk.'

Prying it open with a crowbar revealed gleaming equipment.

“LBX-32 Gauntlet. Kills Hunters.”

Made in the U.S.—exo-skeleton gear.

Pretty solid haul.

Of course, the biggest gain was still in my pocket.

My new friend.

She stared at me.

Hayang.

Cute name.

But not quite right for my partner.

She needed a name.

“...John.”

Yeah—John-nae-non will do just fine.