He did exactly what I wanted.

Well, he was picked by the Sniper, after all.

Still, Kim Daram isn’t someone to be taken lightly either.

"But it’s dangerous out there, isn’t it? What’s the point of seeing someone else’s patient? There’s nothing in it for us, right? What if something goes wrong while you’re out? Forget me, what about Dongtak? After everything we’ve done to survive."

She made a very reasonable rebuttal—though it came with a heavy dose of emotion.

If it were me, I probably couldn’t push back against those words.

But a husband of twelve years is built different.

"...I’ll be honest. I don’t want to lose to Jong-chul."

Stubborn, as always.

And yet, there was something warm and powerful in his gaze that could melt even his wife’s resistance.

"You know me, right? I absolutely hate losing."

Kim Daram looked at her husband quietly and let out a short, breathy laugh.

It looked like she was going to give in.

To be honest, I’ve thought this before—but these two, as people, rank somewhere below average. Still, they’ve managed to raise one hell of a kid.

"Go ahead."

Their son, who had been silently watching, finally spoke.

Dongtak.

Gone was the sulky, chubby boy from before. Now he stood tall like his mother, lean and confident, yet wore the same friendly smile as his father. A teenager now, probably just about middle school age.

Time flies.

"I’ll keep watch here."

Both parents looked at the fruit of their labor.

They might’ve felt different things individually, but if I had to sum it all up in one word—it would be pride.

"I can handle myself, you know? You’re aware of my ability, right?"

Dongtak said, looking at his parents with eyes that glowed subtly.

They raised him well.

Well, considering how obsessively Kim Daram raised him—like some upgraded version of the classic “move house three times for a good education”—this wasn’t a surprise.

It’s a bitter thought, but in the end, it might’ve been better that I didn’t raise him inside my bunker.

If he’d spent his childhood there, he might’ve turned into a combo of internet meme lord and beatbox master.

And yeah, I’ll admit, that kind of upbringing probably wouldn’t have been good for him.

I’m a little jealous, honestly.

Having a kid like that.

I had the chance once.

But I probably couldn’t have raised them like this.

This might be one of those great things about Kim Daram and her husband I never wanted to look at too closely.

"I’m going too."

Click!

Kim Daram loaded her firearm with practiced hands.

She looked over at me and gave a slight nod.

I smiled in return.

"With an army at my back."

*

Even if a civilian is tagging along, surviving to this point means they’ve got some instincts.

I led the way.

I moved up front, checking for threats, validating with my own eyes whether my judgment held up or not.

Kim Daram followed behind with the eyes of a hawk, watching me and our surroundings—ready to correct any mistakes I might make.

When your companions are competent, the journey gets exponentially easier.

Even if the group we were joining had been weakened and nearly wiped out, this was still a mission to escort a doctor sent to treat the leader’s daughter.

They’d find strength they didn’t even know they had to help us.

Bzzzt—

The radio crackled on the cold riverbank wind.

"If you’re someone Dr. Heo called, you should know what to do."

I flashed the lantern at the water in the agreed-upon pattern.

Not long after, a faint light rose from the dark river.

Our contacts.

"Three people. Which one’s the doctor?"

The armed men looked us over.

They glanced at Kim Daram briefly, but didn’t stare for long.

Female combatants might be rare, but when someone’s her height and build, they get a nod of respect.

Bodies are all basically the same, but there’s still a difference between someone who looks good and someone who doesn’t.

Kim Daram was the combat type.

Her stance, her center of gravity—just a glance told you she was built for violence.

There’s a reason she reminded me of a black panther.

Of course, her face was completely covered.

Being greedy, brazen, and with no shortage of enemies, the last thing she needed was anyone recognizing her.

"Hop on."

Our contact had prepared a boat.

We crossed the Han River.

No one spoke, until one of their soldiers finally said something disturbing.

"There’s talk of a dolphin mutation roaming around."

"A dolphin mutation?"

"Might be a whale. Someone claims they saw a massive shadow swimming beneath the river."

I have no idea why someone would bring up something like that on the river.

If something like that showed up, even the great Professor Skelton wouldn’t have an answer.

We’d all be water ghosts together.

Luckily, the ghost story stayed just that—a story.

The boat reached the floating dock on the far side safely.

A familiar face was waiting.

Cheon Young-jae.

He was holding a rifle in one hand and a machete in the other, eyeing us with a sour expression.

He looked a little surprised to see Kim Daram, but as agreed, he didn’t acknowledge us.

Both she and I were too well-known. Nothing good would come from being recognized.

Today, we were just the escorts for a plastic and hand surgeon—Dr. Kwon Gi-ryong.

Today’s lead actor was Kim Daram’s husband.

Far in the distance, we could see what was once New Seoul.

It used to be like a second home. Now it’s a land beyond reach.

Boom! Boom!

Muted explosions echoed from the other side of New Seoul, and faint flashes lit up the edge of the horizon.

Skirmishes were breaking out in various spots.

The general situation wasn’t great either.

On our way to the clinic, we passed refugees lining the roads, their faces drawn and hollow, watching us with wide eyes. Others lay in rows, dead or wounded.

There were no gunshots, but we saw plenty of men hauling carts or wheelbarrows—armed with rifles, mortars, and machine guns—rushing through the streets.

This was exactly what I built a bunker to avoid.

Suppressing a bitter laugh, I looked up at the modest clinic bathed in moonlight.

A two-story building—40 beds by Korean standards.

That such a place could be designated a national hospital is a brutal metaphor for how shrunken postwar Korea has become.

Heo Jong-chul, the man running this hospital alone, was already waiting outside.

Gone were the Western suits of old—he now wore blue scrubs and a surgical cap. He looked far more like a real doctor than before.

He welcomed Kwon Gi-ryong.

"Senior!"

For a moment, I felt a strange emotion.

He was my junior.

Graduated from our now nearly-extinct school.

But right now, him calling someone else "senior" felt completely appropriate.

Yeah.

He left our path a long time ago.

Most of our school’s survivors were born from hatred and fear, and nearly all ended up in the vague, deadly classification of "Hunter."

Even someone like Kim Daram, considered successful, still carried a gun.

But Heo Jong-chul was different.

He’d chosen a blade instead of a gun.

A blade that saved lives.

"Let’s go."

Even Kwon Gi-ryong, who had been looking down on Heo until now, gave him a pat on the shoulder and headed for the operating room.

From here on, it was their stage.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like we’d get to watch the performance.

"They’re coming!"

A man on the lookout tower shouted sharply.

Almost before the words left his mouth, the hum of a drone filled the sky.

The propeller sound told me it was a small drone.

It couldn’t get close, but it was also hard to shoot down from our side.

Small drones are hard to spot, and flying them is always trickier than crawling on the ground.

Fortunately, in the dark like this, we weren’t so visible to the pilot either.

"Lights off! Now!"

True to the post-apocalypse aesthetic, everyone moved fast.

All the softly glowing bulbs were extinguished, and blackout curtains blocked every trace of light from the windows.

The drone’s hum faded away.

But deathly silence took its place.

The Han River, once reflecting Seoul’s greed and prosperity, no longer gleamed or sparkled.

Beside the dark waters, amid reeds swaying in the wind, countless people crouched low in their respective spots—awaiting fate’s test.

"Dongtak’s dad."

Kim Daram spoke, still lying low and watching the front.

"He lost a finger riding a bike when he was little."

A story from the past, out of nowhere.

I kept quiet and listened.

"His mother-in-law wrapped the severed finger in a cold towel and went hospital to hospital, but no one would take them. Even now, no one wants to do complicated surgeries. Doctors react to liability more sensitively than anyone else."

"Finger reattachments are tough."

I’ve had comrades lose fingers.

Even with China sending their best medical teams for us, successful reconnections were rare.

You need to reattach not just bones, but nerves packed into that tiny area.

Even when it’s successful, the foreign-body feeling and tingling often prevent people from ever holding a gun again.

"An old neighborhood doctor did the reattachment."

"Yeah?"

"There’s a scar if you look closely. But it moves fine. He can even perform surgery just fine."

"That’s good."

"That’s when he decided to become a doctor. He originally aimed for hand surgery because of that. Though his parents made him do plastic surgery first, and he eventually settled there... sometimes he still talks about the old days."

It sounds common, but we know it’s not.

Everyone follows the money.

There are even med school prep courses for elementary school kids now.

Even our school got swarmed by people chasing profit.

That’s the world it was.

So maybe someone like Kim Daram’s husband deserves a heartwarming story.

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

Kim Daram glanced at me.

I knew what she meant.

She was going to help her husband do what he wanted to do.

Our job was now clear.

Protect this area until the surgery ends.

A few silhouettes loitered in the distance.

In fights between civilians, the goal is not to cause casualties unless you’re going all-in.

That may sound strange, but fights have levels.

There’s the “test the waters” phase, the real skirmish where both sides expect damage, and the deathmatch aiming for total annihilation.

What pushes a fight to the next level isn’t profit, but hatred.

The more people die, the more vengeance builds, and the fiercer the retaliation becomes.

Whatever else you say, Koreans react fiercely and emotionally to the moment.

Even the infamous Rebecca mother-daughter pair held off killing until the final deadline. Most preferred to intimidate and let people go.

Bang!

A warning shot.

In Hunter terms, a step below actual intimidation.

"Whoa! Fuck!"

A panicked shout came from across the way.

Kim Daram took aim and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Aaagh!"

No one was hit, but it scared the hell out of them more than I ever could’ve managed.

They didn’t come any closer.

But there’s always that one guy who crosses the line.

"Hey! What are you doing? Don’t go!"

"Come over here!"

One man was running toward us with a bundle of grenades.

Even if these fights feel like pro-wrestling matches sometimes, there are lines you don’t cross.

Crossing the line deserves punishment.

Of course, there’s no hard law about where that line is, so no one can say what’s right or wrong.

But everyone has the right to defend themselves.

I looked at Kim Daram.

She was waiting for my command.

Just like # Nоvеlight # the old days.

I nodded at her.

"Shoot."

Before the word was even finished, Kim Daram pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The man with the grenades dropped, motionless.

I scanned the area.

Had his death escalated this into a full battle? Or worse?

Waiting in the dark, I looked toward the hospital.

Those two doctors were likely fighting their own battle inside, giving it their all.

Soon, the conclusion arrived.

Bang! Bang! Ratatatatatatat!

Gunfire tore through the night sky.

It sounded wild, but everyone here knew—

Those bullets were nothing more than celebratory fireworks shot up toward those vain little stars.

The fight wouldn’t escalate.

At least not tonight.

"Senior."

Cheon Young-jae called over the radio.

"Looks like it worked."

I smiled.

"Of course."

"...?"

Feeling Kim Daram’s gaze beside me, I added:

"Two famous doctors are in there. Of course it worked."

Kim Daram let out a snort.

*

Just like Cheon Young-jae said, the surgery ended in success.

Despite limited resources and a crap environment, Kwon Gi-ryong perfectly reattached the organization leader’s daughter’s severed finger.

The leader didn’t show, but a woman standing in for him came to express gratitude.

To Kim Daram’s husband, of course—not me.

For once, we weren’t the leads.

We were off in a corner, just supporting characters listening to other supporting characters talk.

"Jong-chul says he’s staying."

Cheon Young-jae said.

"Yeah?"

"Looks like he’s found a place to stick to."

He glanced over at Kim Daram and her husband.

"Guess that makes sense."

"Tell me about it later. What happened."

He lowered his voice and looked around.

I nodded without hesitation.

"Of course."

"Oh, one more thing."

He lowered his voice even further.

"Any word on Jung-ho?"

I shook my head, glancing around.

Cheon Young-jae gave a hand signal.

The meaning:

[Alive. Location unknown.]

Staring into the air, I asked quietly.

"How’d you find out?"

"Jong-chul. He still works the radio. Got a short message."

"I see."

An unexpected gift.

Defender. And Da-jeong.

My friends were alive.

The Han River was still dark.

It probably wouldn’t ever reflect humanity’s greed and brilliance again.

But maybe that river could still carry us to a place where we could survive the winter.

The men who brought us here were returning.

I pulled my collar tighter.

The air was cold.

Time to prepare for the next battle.

The one called survival.