Remain calm.

It's a phrase we've heard to the point of nausea, but we know from experience how easily such mantras turn into empty words.

These aphorisms are no different from a doctor telling a patient to quit drinking and smoking.

No one can deny that calmness is an important virtue, but in reality, staying calm on the battlefield is extraordinarily difficult.

What matters is how to practice it in detailed situations.

In the field, the word “calm” is often linked to impatience.

It’s when people rush to take action in a hurry and act before they're fully prepared that mistakes occur.

I paid attention to that impatience.

In other words, when judging a situation, simply deciding whether it requires urgency or not is enough to filter out a good portion of the mistakes caused by haste on the battlefield.

The method is simple.

When placed in a situation, calmly judge—as a third party—whether it truly demands urgency, or whether it's better to take your time.

Even now, that holds true.

Something clearly happened in Seoul.

You can see the ominous signs everywhere, without even having to ask anyone.

But I woke up near the Crack, having lost consciousness.

With no electronics, I have no way of knowing what day it is, and there’s no communication equipment.

Of course I'm curious about what’s going on, and I’m worried about my comrades—but that doesn’t necessarily mean I have to rush.

In the end, when fate puts a test before me, it’s me who has to solve the question.

In my case, I’ve passed those trials not with intellect, but with physical strength, a sturdy gallbladder, and the techniques I honed through relentless effort.

Spending time and energy to clear away corpses, get the boiler running, take a hot shower, wash my underwear, sleep soundly, and heat up some retort food to eat my fill—those things may seem like blissful laziness in the eyes of someone in a hurry, but for me, they’re the best course of action.

First of all, I need to be in fighting shape.

Thinking “what if I’m too slow” is, to put it bluntly, an extreme way of thinking.

That kind of judgment must be scrutinized with utmost rigor.

Of course, if by rushing I could save someone or dramatically improve the situation, I would hurry without hesitation.

But I’ve seen far too many times how rushing leads to bad outcomes.

Mostly because that kind of urgency often stems from subjective judgment.

Clatter—

Cooking a budae-jjigae meal kit slowly and at ease isn't slacking off.

Let’s call it rational recovery—restoring my condition after the fatigue accumulated from the Crack.

After a rough survey, this bunker seems to have enough food for about fifteen people to survive for a year. There's also a plentiful and varied supply of medicine.

However, there’s a lack of recreational material, and weapons and ammunition are scarce.

That may have been one of the reasons the former residents chose mass suicide.

The location is questionable.

It’s well-hidden, sure—but the problem is where it’s hidden.

North of Seoul.

If the Crack spreads, this place could turn into an erosion zone in no time.

Being underground may spare us from direct erosion, but that doesn’t mean much when everything above has already collapsed.

Proximity to Seoul is another issue.

I’ve seen a lot of people nearby.

When New Seoul was established, a brief moment of stability returned—but the world once again became a grim and blood-reeking battleground for survival like at the start of the apocalypse.

The terrain isn’t great either—this place isn’t elevated compared to the surrounding area.

Low elevation means it’s easy for others to spot me, and hard for me to spot them.

And in today’s world, “being spotted” is a phrase that weighs as heavily as life and death.

Overall Assessment.

Facility-wise, this bunker is top-tier, but the location is mediocre.

Kim Daram might like it, though.

Anyway, now that this bunker is my second base, I need to start looking for my comrades.

I haven’t found a walkie-talkie, but the computer room where the hanged corpse was had proper communication equipment.

For some reason, it wasn’t functioning—maybe the lack of communication is what led people to abandon this place in the first place.

At any rate, my priority now is to fix the communication gear.

I’m no mechanical expert, but as a doomsday prepper, I have basic knowledge of circuits and enough skill to build simple electronics.

The current issue with the comms gear is that it’s not getting power.

If it were a system-level failure, I’d be out of my depth—but if it’s just a power problem, even a half-baked technician like me might be able to fix it.

All over the equipment in the control room were those “Gov./Prop.” stickers you see on government-issued items.

There were two names listed as equipment managers. Since the same names were on all the gear, I’m guessing this bunker was run by two people.

If even one of them had survived, I could’ve asked them about the comms issue and resolved it quickly. Pity.

Another pity is that even after clearing out all the corpses and running the ventilation system at full power, a rotten stink still lingers in the bunker.

The door’s closed and it still smells like this.

Should I bleach the place?

I was thinking that when I discovered the source of the stench.

Thud—

Opening a cabinet standing awkwardly in the boiler room, a corpse slumped out in a crouched position.

Like the others, it had dried out into a mummy—but maybe because the cabinet acted like an Egyptian pharaoh’s stone coffin, the preservation was noticeably better.

It was murder.

Blunt trauma to the back of the skull, deep enough to cave it in.

Likely a grudge killing.

The corpse’s name tag matched one of the “Gov.” equipment managers.

I dragged out the last body and dumped it outside.

If it rains heavily, I’ll throw it in the creek that cuts through the golf course, along with the others.

I’ve never tried it myself, but apparently if you remove all the internal organs and dump a body in water, it won’t float.

Got that info from the English board of Viva! Apocalypse!

I wasn’t particularly looking for it, but as I went through the utility room, I started piecing together what had happened here.

The haves and the have-nots, status games inside a cramped little basket, the struggle of one person to break that structure, and the subsequent annihilation of the whole community.

It’s the common way societies collapse—eerily reenacted inside a tiny bunker.

This I learned from the diary left on the computer by the man who hung himself.

– The sewer broke, and I spent all day fixing it covered in shit water. The only thing I got in return was “Rejoong, you stink, wash up again.”

– They keep gaslighting me. “You were chosen. Compared to those left outside, you’re lucky.” Sure, it’s safe here, but why, as a citizen of Korea, am I being treated like a slave by other citizens?

– I want to go outside. But I’m scared. Gunshots keep ringing out. Did the looters catch our scent?

– Section Chief Park, that fucker, is he brain-dead? Why does he just laugh it off every time they treat him like shit? Oh, maybe that’s why they picked him—because he just takes it. If so, then kudos to whoever chose him.

– I think looters played golf above our heads. No doubt about it. Even underground, I could hear “Nice shot!” and some insane screaming.

– I figured it’d happen. They’ve started discriminating over food. I can put up with nagging over every little thing, but screwing with our meals? No way. I think they want me gone. Fine, then.

I’m not leaving quietly.

Even after filtering out the curses, sarcasm, and bits of hatred, it’s this bad.

The hanged man resented everyone in the bunker and tried his version of revenge.

He didn’t leave a direct clue, but it’s clear: the facility manager held a grudge, carried out a form of terrorism, and that’s what caused the downfall.

Clunk—

I checked the electrical box behind the circuit panel, where wires were sprawled everywhere.

Saw a fat centipede scurry away from the light, then found the cable for the comms device.

Sure enough, the wire had been cut clean with a sharp wire cutter.

If I had to guess, the young man who wrote the diary bludgeoned his superior to death, hid the corpse, and severed the comms line.

He didn’t touch any of the other devices—probably because he wanted to wipe out the other residents and claim the bunker for himself.

His plan was exposed, and it ended with a noose.

Already exhausted by the depression of bunker life, the residents found that even communication was cut off—and they pressed the “happiness button” called mass suicide.

The result: nothing survived in this diseased tomb.

I reconnected the comms device.

“······.”

I’ll be different.

No—we will be different.

It’ll take time and luck to make that “we,” but I won’t just wither and die like the former residents, without even trying.

Bzzzzzzzt—

First, I turned on the TV monitor to check the usual government broadcast.

Only gray noise and a warped, flickering screen appeared.

The government had shut down TV broadcasting.

I tried tuning in [N O V E L I G H T] to shortwave radio frequencies.

It was one of the official bands the Korean government used in the past.

Music played.

Classical.

I didn’t know the name of the piece, but it was grand, somber, and symbolic of collapse. The same catastrophic passage played on loop.

I listened for about ten minutes—it wasn’t the whole piece, just the most depressing and destructive part, repeating.

That was all I got from broadcast channels.

Still, it was enough to confirm that something was happening in Seoul.

Next, I tried the radio.

I tuned into the public channel and listened to any chatter in the vicinity.

Unlike the broadcast, the public frequency was full of chaotic chatter overlapping each other.

“Hey! Hey! Whether you’re a boss or a goddamn king, just cut it out, alright? We’re just passing through. What are you gonna gain from this power trip, huh?”

“Trading meds for ammo. Got a Judge Killer and handmade pistol. First come, first served.”

“Watch out for the red Porsche-cloaked custom mutt. Fuckers sold me what looked like rice, but it was just styrofoam beads underneath.”

“Bullshit. ‘Just passing through’—then they open fire and kill everyone. You think we don’t know that?”

“Anyone seen a woman in her 30s wearing purple with glasses? Shoulder-length hair, wearing Marauder training pants?”

...

...

Nothing particularly useful.

I could broadcast a question myself over the public frequency, but I didn’t try.

Everyone’s already lost their minds just trying to get this far—asking “What’s going on right now?” would only make me stand out. And if someone recognized my voice, that’d open another can of worms.

Let’s try using personal ID codes to make contact.

First attempt: Woo Min-hee.

Personal ID: RED_MASK

Beep—beep—beep—

“······.”

No response.

Though, knowing her, she might just ignore unfamiliar numbers.

But Cheon Young-jae should be different.

He’s got a good-natured side. He always picks up calls from personal ID codes.

He didn’t want to be tracked, so he refused both the K-WalkieTalkie and ID code—but I gave him a walkie anyway, just in case.

Personal ID: 803_LL

Beep—beep—beep—

No response.

The worry I felt when I first tried these codes turned out to be valid.

When I reach out and someone doesn’t answer—it weighs heavy on you, whether it’s before or after the war.

The two people I trusted and was closest to not answering means my plans have taken a serious hit.

But I can’t contact Defender.

Right now, Defender is at the center of the chaos in Seoul—and that means countless comms specialists are surely monitoring him.

I might even get him in trouble.

I know Da-jeong has a walkie-talkie with a personal ID, but I don’t know the number.

Back when things were still running smoothly in Seoul, we just called via cellphone—and the communicator felt closer than any walkie-talkie.

But from here, it won’t reach Seoul. And the communicator is a modified U.S. military device, which means you need a similarly tuned device for the same frequency.

I tried contacting others I remembered.

Seven—the guy who built my gear—has a K-WalkieTalkie.

If anyone would get my message, it’d be him. But, well, the world isn’t so easy.

Beep—beep—beep—

No response.

The ominous feeling only grows stronger.

And at the same time, my unease about Jeon Si-hoon intensifies.

He couldn’t have... killed everyone, could he?

I know he has darkness in his heart, but would he go that far?

What he hated was the Jeju Committee.

He declared his disdain for Awakened elitism—but to be part of the elite, you need underlings to serve you.

Which means he wouldn’t kill everyone.

I wasn’t too keen on it, but I tried contacting Gong Gyeong-min.

Personal ID: DRAG

Beep—beep—beep—

No response.

Didn’t expect much, so I’m not disappointed.

But somehow, I still believe he’s alive.

Anyway, no one I thought of can be reached.

One last person remains.

For reasons similar to Defender, contacting him is a little risky—and honestly, I don’t want to. But if push comes to shove, he’s the most trustworthy person left.

Personal ID: DARAM2

Kim Daram.

I’d been saving this guy as a last resort.

Well, can’t be helped.

He is the closest junior from school. But man, this guy changed so much.

The most pathetic—no, the most realistic one among us.

Even our internet styles are polar opposites.

I prefer witty, polite, intellectual friends and staying entirely inside the community. For me, the internet is a self-contained world.

Kim Daram? He always keeps one foot in reality.

Just look at this old post she wrote:

DaramDaram: Lately, I’m so disappointed in my husband.

He does all the chores just fine, but when the weekend comes, he just lazes around all day.

You’d think he’d take the kid out on weekends or something. Ugh.

I know he’s a doctor, but still—is it okay to be this lazy?

...

...

That this person used to be my soul-partner back in China is honestly shocking to remember.

But the biggest reason I hesitate to contact her?

If she does answer, she might actually come here.

Out of all people, Kim Daram and her family are a no-go.

They bring bad luck.

Her husband’s just like her—loud, messy, and shameless.

I used to think he was some older, smart guy—but the way Heo Jong-chul used to bitch at him at the hospital, they’re clearly a match made in hell.

Their kid, Dongtak, seemed calmer and had lost weight, but still. I don’t want to live with that kind of overbearing family.

But what can I do?

She’s the only one I can reach now.

I gave it a try, without high hopes.

BEEEEEP—

“Goddammit.”

She picks up.

“Who is this?”

Of course.

Persistent as hell.

She would be my best partner.

And hearing her voice again—what do I even say.

There’s this tight, aching feeling deep in my throat.

Yeah.

“It’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Your senior.”

Fate is...

“Senior?! You mean that old virgin Park Gyu?!”

“?”

“You’re alive?!”

“Uh... yeah.”

The warm feelings lasted all of five seconds.

Soon enough, the old irritation and tension creep in—but what can I say?

You don’t always get to hang out with the people you like.

“Got a few things to ask you.”

That’s how the world works.