Chapter 1: A Normal Family in a Fragile World
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South Korea was not a perfect country. In between luxury high-rises and neon-lit districts, there were neighborhoods like Haengwon-dong—simple, clean, but quietly struggling. Here, the Jung family lived in a three-room apartment on the third floor of a faded building with thin walls and rusting handrails.
It wasn't poverty. They had food. They had power—most of the time. They paid rent just before the deadline. But there were days when the fridge only had two eggs and some kimchi, and nights when the heater broke and they all slept in one room for warmth.
Still, they were together. And that made it feel like enough.
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Jung Ha-Joon, eighteen years old, sat cross-legged at the low table in the living room. A textbook lay open in front of him, surrounded by scrawled notes, two pens, and a worn-out eraser that had been broken and taped back together.
His black hair was slightly messy, and his eyes had that half-asleep, half-determined look of someone who studied late and woke early. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up. His head nodded for a second—then jerked up.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just one more chapter…"
From the kitchen came the faint sound of boiling soup and the gentle hum of his mother humming an old trot song.
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His mother, Mrs. Jung, was a full-time housewife, though the world rarely recognized that as work. She managed the entire household with sharp efficiency—bills, cleaning, cooking, neighborhood gossip—all while worrying quietly about money. She wore a pink apron with faded cartoon ducks and tied her hair back with a cheap elastic.
His father, Mr. Jung, worked the night shift as a security guard at a local electronics factory. He left at 7 PM and returned around 6 AM, just in time to drink cold barley tea, nod at his wife, and collapse into bed. He didn't complain, not even when his back stiffened or when his coworkers got raises and he didn't.
Then there was Ha-Joon's older sister, Jung Ha-Rin, 22 years old. She had once dreamed of becoming a pharmacist. Now, she ran a small snack shop at the corner of their block—fried chicken skewers, tteokbokki, kimbap, and fizzy drinks for school kids. It wasn't much, but it paid a few bills and let her pretend she was moving forward.
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Despite all this, they laughed together. Ate together. Watched old dramas late at night, wrapped in blankets and sharing tangerines.
They weren't poor enough to beg.
But they weren't secure enough to dream.
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That Friday afternoon, after Ha-Joon came back from school, he changed into his house clothes and sat back down to study. Midterms were next month. He couldn't afford private tutoring like his classmates. He needed good grades for scholarships. A scholarship meant a future. It meant helping his family, helping Ha-Rin close her shop, helping his dad retire.
His mother peeked from the kitchen doorway.
"Ha-Joon-ah."
He looked up. "Hmm?"
"Can you go buy soy sauce and green onions? I forgot to get them."
He blinked, a little tired. Then nodded with a smile. "Yeah, sure. Anything else?"
"No, just that. I'm making your favorite stew. Be quick. The water's already boiling."
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He grabbed a few coins from the blue plastic container on the shelf, slipped into his slippers, and stepped outside. The sun was starting to lower, casting long shadows across the neighborhood. Ha-Joon walked past the ajummas chatting outside the laundry building, past the alley where cats always fought at night, and down to the local convenience store.
He liked this walk. It was short but peaceful.
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As he entered the store, the familiar ding-ding sound greeted him. The air conditioning cooled his face. He went straight to the food aisle and picked up soy sauce and a bunch of green onions, neatly tied with a rubber band.
He placed the items on the counter and handed the clerk exact change.
Then, as he turned to leave—
The glass door slid open, and in walked a group of girls from a neighboring high school.
Ha-Joon immediately looked down.
They weren't bad people. In fact, they were just normal teenage girls—chatting, laughing, dressed in slightly loose uniforms, their jackets unzipped. One of them had dyed brown hair, another had glitter on her phone case. They were loud and relaxed, their laughter bouncing off the shelves.
Ha-Joon, in contrast, was quiet, shy, and invisible.
He stepped aside, clutching his small plastic bag. Avoiding eye contact, he quietly exited the store.
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Outside, he stopped on the sidewalk for just a second. The evening air smelled of rice and dust. He adjusted the bag in his hand and took a breath.
Then—
a sound like thunder underwater shook the street.
In front of him, just meters away from the convenience store entrance—
A swirling, glowing blue portal appeared midair.
Roughly two meters tall, elliptical in shape, and crackling with strange energy. It shimmered like water, its edges glowing brighter than anything natural.
Ha-Joon froze.
"What… is that?"
Behind him, the girls stepped out of the store, still laughing—until they saw what he was looking at.
One gasped. "Oh my god. What is that?!"
"It's a gate," one girl whispered. "Like in those news reports…"
"But it's real?" another said. "Why is it here?"
Then came the mistake.
One of the girls, the loudest, tilted her head with a playful grin. "Hey… what if that guy's secretly a hunter?"
She stepped up behind him.
"Should we check?"
Ha-Joon barely turned in time to see her foot.
Then—
she kicked him in the back.
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His body stumbled forward, arms flailing, plastic bag flying out of his hand—
Straight into the blue gate.
"NO—!" someone screamed.
But it was too late.
He was gone.
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The girls stood frozen in horror. The gate still hummed, unchanged.
"Wh… what the hell did you do?!" one girl cried.
"I was just… I didn't think—! I thought it would just push him! I didn't—!"
The portal swirled.
Then, one hour later, it vanished.
Leaving no trace.
Only silence.
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And in a home just blocks away, a mother stirred stew that was already starting to burn, wondering why her son hadn't come back yet.
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