Jiyeon's veterinary clinic was on the second floor of a building in Dongdaemun that also housed a nail salon and a tax accountant. The building's elevator was broken. Had been for months, according to the handwritten sign taped to the doors with packing tape that had yellowed from clear to amber. They took the stairs.
Changwon carried Yeji. She'd protested — her legs worked, her spine was intact, the damage was neurological not structural — but the mana channel seizure had left her hands curled into fists she couldn't unclench, and the stairwell was narrow, and after the third step her balance failed because the inner ear on the right side had lost its connection to the vestibular nerve and the world tilted twenty degrees whenever she turned her head.
So Changwon carried her. The big man took the stairs with the careful, measured steps of someone holding something fragile, which was the wrong metaphor — Yeji wasn't fragile, she was damaged, and the difference between fragile and damaged was that fragile things broke along designed fault lines while damaged things broke wherever the force hit hardest.
Nari followed. Still visible. The ghost girl drifted up the stairwell behind them, her spectral form casting no shadow, her feet not touching the steps. She hadn't spoken since the parking structure. The single word — *noona* — was all she'd offered, and now she was silent again, the dormancy that had characterized her since the covenant reasserting itself but without the invisibility that had accompanied it. A ghost who wouldn't speak and couldn't be hidden. The worst of both conditions.
Jiyeon was waiting at the clinic door. Jihoon had called ahead — twelve words, the military compression that he used for crisis communication: "Yeji is injured. Not hunter-related. Can't use hospitals. Your clinic. Now." She'd responded with two: "Come up."
The clinic was small. Three examination rooms, a surgery, a recovery space with cages stacked against the wall. The reception area smelled like antiseptic and dog hair and the scent of a veterinary practice — medical sterility underlaid with animal warmth, the clinical mixed with the organic. A gray cat observed them from the top of a filing cabinet with the territorial suspicion of a creature that knew it owned the building and was merely tolerating the humans who paid the lease.
Jiyeon looked at Yeji. At the blood on her collar. At her hands, still curled. At the right ear, where the dried blood formed a dark crust along the ear canal and jaw.
"Put her in Room 2."
Room 2 had an examination table designed for large dogs. Changwon set Yeji on it. The vinyl surface was cold through her jacket, the table's scale clicking as it registered her weight, the machinery designed for Labradors now hosting a summoner with a ruptured mana channel and sixty percent hearing.
"I'm a veterinarian," Jiyeon said. She was assembling supplies — an otoscope, cotton swabs, saline, a penlight. Efficient. Her hands moved with the practiced speed of a practitioner who'd been treating emergencies since her residency, the muscle memory transferring from animals to humans without visible hesitation. "I treat dogs, cats, and the occasional iguana. I am not qualified to assess neurological damage in a human patient."
"You're what we have," Jihoon said. He was standing in the doorway, filling it. His sword was still strapped to his back. He hadn't changed out of his dungeon gear. None of them had.
"I understand that. I'm telling you so that when I give you my assessment, you understand the limitations of the assessor." Jiyeon tilted Yeji's head, the penlight in the right ear, the otoscope following. Her hands were warm. Her touch was the gentleness of someone who routinely examined creatures that couldn't tell you where it hurt. "How long ago did the bleeding start?"
"Forty minutes," Yeji said. Her voice was too loud on the left side and absent on the right. She was already compensating — turning her head to put the left ear toward whoever was speaking, the instinctive adaptation of a brain rerouting its auditory processing around the gap. "The ear canal rupture was secondary. The primary damage is the mana channel."
"I can't assess mana channel damage. I can assess the ear." Jiyeon's expression was focused. The grief that had characterized her in Café Onul was still there — present in the set of her mouth, the shadows under her eyes, the wedding ring she still wore — but layered under the professional competence that had existed before the grief and would exist after it. A woman with two identities: the widow and the doctor. Both present. The doctor running the show.
She examined for five minutes. Silent. Thorough. The otoscope moved from the right ear to the left, comparison assessment. The penlight tested pupil response. She checked Yeji's balance — had her sit upright, close her eyes, tilt her head — and made notes on a legal pad that she'd pulled from a drawer that also contained feline vaccination records.
"The tympanic membrane is intact," Jiyeon said. She put the otoscope down. Sat on the rolling stool across from the examination table. "No visible rupture to the eardrum. Which means the hearing loss isn't conductive — it's sensorineural. The nerve pathway."
"The mana channel," Yeji said.
"I can't verify that with veterinary equipment. But the presentation is consistent with acute sensorineural hearing loss — sudden onset, unilateral, associated with neurological trauma." She paused. Her pen tapped the legal pad. "In animals, this kind of damage is usually permanent."
The word sat in the room. Permanent. Not a prognosis — a condition. A new fact about Yeji's body, as fixed as her height, her blood type, the color of her eyes.
"I know," Yeji said.
"You know because the ghost healer told you?"
Yeji looked at her. Jiyeon's expression hadn't changed — the same professional focus, the same clinical engagement — but her word choice had. She'd said "ghost healer." Not "spirit" or "entity" or the technical terminology that hunters and the Bureau used to maintain professional distance from the supernatural. Ghost. The word a civilian used. The word that meant she was engaging with the reality rather than the framework.
"Eunsoo assessed the damage from inside my mana channels. Healer's perspective. The nerve pathway is severed — not inflamed, not compressed, severed. There's no regeneration mechanism for mana-based nerve tissue."
"Then we manage the limitation." Jiyeon made a note. "I can prescribe a course of corticosteroids — the veterinary equivalent, but the compounds are identical. They won't restore the hearing but they'll reduce inflammation in the surrounding tissue and prevent secondary damage from swelling. I'll also give you something for the vertigo. The vestibular disruption will be worst in the first forty-eight hours."
She stood. Opened a cabinet. The medications she pulled were in bottles labeled for canine use — the dosages noted in milligrams per kilogram, the species listed as CANINE on the pharmacy label. She calculated the human-equivalent dose on the legal pad, crossing out numbers with the focused frown of someone adapting a familiar process to an unfamiliar patient.
"Dongwook used to come home with injuries the hospital couldn't treat," she said. Not looking up from the calculation. Her pen moving. The mention of her husband dropped into the conversation the way a stone dropped into water — a disruption that the surface absorbed, the ripples spreading and diminishing but the stone remaining on the bottom. "Mana burns. Spiritual residue contamination. The kind of damage that hunter medical facilities could handle but that generated records. He'd come here. I'd treat him on this table. Same table." Her pen paused. "He sat where you're sitting."
"Jiyeon—"
"I'm not telling you to feel guilty. I'm telling you because you should know that this clinic has treated hunters before. Not officially. Not documented. The medications work. The equipment is adequate for field-level assessment. And the veterinarian who runs it has had practice lying about what happens on her examination table."
She handed Yeji two bottles. Canine corticosteroids. Canine anti-vertigo medication. The labels featured a cartoon dog that was offensively cheerful given the context.
"Take three of the blue ones now, two every eight hours for five days. The white ones are as-needed for vertigo episodes. They'll make you drowsy — they make Rottweilers drowsy, so you can expect significant sedation."
"Thank you."
"Thank me by explaining why there's a child ghost in my waiting room."
---
They sat in the reception area. All of them. Jihoon against the wall, arms crossed, the operational stillness of a man processing a situation that had exceeded his planning but not his composure. Changwon on the floor beside the reception desk, his new shield propped against the wall, his hands resting on his knees with the exhaustion of a man who'd carried a hundred-and-eighteen-pound summoner up two flights of stairs after clearing two dungeon floors. Junghwan in the client chair, his mana reserves still depleted, his fire reduced to the faintest warmth in his fingertips.
Nari sat on the filing cabinet. Next to the gray cat. The cat had not moved when the ghost child materialized beside it. Had not hissed, arched, or shown any recognition that a thirteen-year-old specter was sharing its territorial perch. Cats and ghosts, apparently, coexisted with the mutual indifference of creatures that both considered themselves too important to acknowledge the other.
Jiyeon sat in the receptionist's chair. She'd changed out of her lab coat. The quilted jacket was back — Dongwook's jacket, the dead husband's garment, worn like armor. Her phone was on the desk, screen down.
"Forty-seven thousand views was twenty minutes ago," she said. "The current number will be higher. By how much depends on the algorithm and whether any verified accounts have shared the clip."
"We need to see the video," Jihoon said.
Jiyeon turned her phone over. Opened the browser. The video was already on the trending page of three platforms — the social media ecosystem's capacity for distribution outpacing any individual's capacity for damage control. She pressed play.
Twenty-three seconds. Shot from a phone camera held at shoulder height, the angle slightly upward, the framing unsteady. The parking structure's third floor. The gate collapsing. Parties emerging. Dust, light, injured hunters being carried.
Then Yeji.
The camera found her because the blood made her visible — the red on her ear, her collar, her hands. She was being half-carried by Changwon, stumbling, her body listing right from the vestibular damage. Behind her, the dust parted, and Nari was there.
The ghost girl was unmistakable in the video. Not the subtle translucence that Yeji saw through [Requiem] — the camera captured something else, something the human eye would rationalize but the digital sensor rendered without rationalization. A figure. Semi-transparent. Child-sized. Glowing faintly in the parking structure's afternoon light, the spectral form visible in the way that thermal signatures were visible to infrared cameras — a presence that occupied a frequency the naked eye could debate but the lens could not.
The video's comments were already a war.
*@dungeon_hunter_kr: WHAT IS THAT BEHIND HER*
*@mapo_news: Is that a child? Is that a GHOST?*
*@guild_shadows_official: We're aware of the situation. No comment at this time.*
*@skeptic_seoul: CGI. Phone cameras can't capture spiritual phenomena.*
*@former_b_rank_057: Phone cameras HAVE captured spiritual phenomena in at least three documented cases. The 2023 Busan Gate Break. The 2024 Incheon Containment Failure. And now this.*
*@concerned_citizen_84: Is the Hunter Association going to address this? There's clearly a bleeding woman being carried out of a dungeon with a supernatural entity following her. Public safety question.*
Jiyeon paused the video. "The clip was uploaded by four different accounts simultaneously. Two are anonymous. One belongs to a local news stringer. One belongs to a content creator with two hundred thousand followers who was live-streaming the evacuation."
"Can we get them to take it down?" Changwon asked.
Jihoon looked at him. The look said everything Jihoon's voice didn't need to: *Two hundred thousand followers. Four uploads. Trending on three platforms. You tell me how to put that back in the box.*
"We can't suppress it," Jihoon said. "It's public. The question isn't whether people have seen it. The question is what happens next."
What happened next was already happening. Yeji could feel it — not through [Requiem], but through the ordinary human capacity for pattern recognition that her psychology training had sharpened. The video's existence changed the landscape. Before the video, [Requiem] was a Bureau-level secret — known to Dohyun, suspected by the Association, witnessed by a handful of party members who had professional reasons to stay quiet. After the video, [Requiem] was public. Not the ability's name, not its mechanics, not its limitations — just the visible evidence that a woman could walk out of a dungeon with a ghost following her.
The guilds would come. The big ones — those with recruitment departments and intelligence divisions and the financial resources to acquire unusual assets. They'd watch the video, identify the bleeding woman, trace her to Jihoon's party, and extend offers that were invitations and threats wearing the same suit.
The government agencies would come. Not just the Bureau — the broader apparatus of state power that monitored hunter activities for national security purposes. The Ministry of Defense. The National Intelligence Service. The agencies that didn't announce themselves.
The media would come. Reporters who covered the hunter beat, the dungeon beat, the supernatural beat — the journalists who maintained sources inside the Association and published stories that the public devoured because the existence of hunters and dungeons was still, twenty years after the first awakening, endlessly fascinating to a population that lived alongside the miraculous and the deadly.
And Dohyun would come. Faster than any of them. Because the Phase 2 orientation was in three days, and the video meant that Dohyun's careful, controlled acquisition strategy had just been accelerated by an uncontrolled variable. His target was public now. Other institutions would compete for access. The Bureau's exclusive claim on Yeji's abilities was no longer exclusive.
Dohyun would not wait three days.
"Jihoon," Yeji said. "The Bureau—"
"I know." He was already on his phone. Texting. His thumbs moving with the speed of a man sending messages to the network he'd built over fifteen years of B-rank operations — contacts in the Association, in the independent guilds, in the semi-legal information market that existed between the official hunter infrastructure and the shadow economy that ran beneath it. "Dohyun's going to move tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. The video forces his hand. If he doesn't secure you before another institution does, the Bureau's strategic advantage disappears."
"What's his move?"
"Formal designation. He'll have you classified as a strategic asset under the Hunter Bureau's authority. It's a legal mechanism — once you're designated, other institutions need Bureau clearance to approach you. It's never been used on an active hunter before. It's designed for artifacts and dungeon resources."
"He's going to classify me as an object."
"He's going to classify you as whatever gives the Bureau legal control." Jihoon looked up from his phone. His expression was the quiet version — the most dangerous version, the expression he wore when every calculation pointed to a conclusion he didn't like but couldn't change. "We need options. Before tomorrow."
"What options?"
"Guild protection. If you're under contract with a major guild, the Bureau's designation becomes a jurisdictional dispute instead of a unilateral action. It doesn't stop Dohyun — it slows him. Forces him to negotiate instead of dictate."
"I'm not joining a guild." The statement came out harder than Yeji intended. The right ear's silence made her left ear overcompensate — every sound louder, closer, her own voice resonating inside her skull with a new intensity that made declarative sentences sound like shouted ones. "The guilds will want the same thing the Bureau wants. They'll want [Requiem] deployed for their operations. They'll want me clearing dungeons on their schedule with their observers recording data for their strategic planning. A guild contract is the same cage with a different lock."
"A cage with a lock you hold is different from a cage with a lock someone else holds."
"It's still a cage."
"Yeji." Jihoon's voice dropped. Not in volume — in register. The sound of a man who was about to say something he'd been holding for a long time and had decided the holding was no longer strategically justified. "You are twenty-two years old. You have an S-class ability that was classified as theoretical until you manifested it. You have three spirits covenanted in a capacity framework that maxes at three, and you already blew past the maximum and paid for it with nerve damage that a veterinarian diagnosed as permanent. In three days, the most powerful intelligence apparatus in the Korean hunter infrastructure is going to legally designate you as property. And now the entire country has a video of you walking out of a dungeon with a ghost."
He paused. Let the summary settle.
"You don't get to be uncaged. That was gone the moment you walked into that morgue and heard a dead man talking. The question is which cage lets you keep working. Which cage gives you enough room to find more spirits, develop your ability, and figure out what [Requiem] actually is before someone else figures it out for you."
The clinic was quiet. The gray cat on the filing cabinet was cleaning its paw. Nari sat beside it, the ghost child's form steady now, the involuntary manifestation stabilized into a persistent visibility that Yeji's damaged channels couldn't retract. Through the window, Dongdaemun's evening traffic moved in patterns of light and sound that Yeji could only hear from the left.
*He's not wrong,* Eunsoo said. The healer's voice from inside. Careful. The clinical framework back in place, the core schema's vulnerability sealed behind the professional mask, the composure restored to operational parameters. *The strategic situation has changed. The video eliminated the possibility of anonymity. Your options have narrowed.*
*Options,* Minwoo said. *We're talking about options while the kid's bleeding from her ear and can't store Nari and the whole country's going to be looking for her by morning.* The dad voice. The frustration of a parent watching adults discuss strategy while a child needed sleep and medicine and twenty-four hours of nothing happening. *She needs rest. She needs RECOVERY TIME. Not another plan. Not another calculation.*
*Both things,* Eunsoo said.
*STOP saying "both things." Not everything is "both things." Some things are one thing and the other thing can wait.*
"Minwoo." Yeji pressed her palms against her temples. The left side throbbed with compensatory overload. The right side was silent. "He's right and you're right. Rest tonight. Plans tomorrow. Jihoon, can your contacts buy us twenty-four hours?"
"I can try. No guarantees. Dohyun isn't the type to wait when waiting costs him advantage."
"Try." She slid off the examination table. Her balance was wrong — the vestibular damage making the floor tilt when she moved her head, the world operating on a slight angle that she'd need to learn to live with. She caught herself on the doorframe. Changwon's hand appeared at her elbow. She took it. "Jiyeon. Can I stay here tonight?"
Jiyeon looked at her. The veterinarian who'd lost a husband to a dungeon, who'd offered her clinic to a woman who talked to the dead, who'd treated hunter injuries on a table designed for German Shepherds. The pregnancy was showing more than it had at the café — the curve visible beneath the quilted jacket, the physical evidence of a future that Dongwook had helped create and would never see.
"The recovery room has heated cages," Jiyeon said. "Some of them are large enough for a person. It's not comfortable."
"I've slept in worse."
"I don't doubt it." Jiyeon stood. The legal pad was in her hand, the notes on Yeji's treatment — corticosteroids, anti-vertigo medication, neurological observations — written in a veterinarian's shorthand on paper that also contained notes about a Pomeranian's dental cleaning. "The ghost girl. Can she sleep?"
"I don't know. She's never been visible long enough for me to find out."
Jiyeon looked at Nari. The ghost child on the filing cabinet, her translucent form casting no shadow, her eyes — the eyes of a thirteen-year-old who'd died in a dungeon and been silent since — watching the gray cat clean its paw with an attention that was the first non-dormant behavior Yeji had observed from her.
"I'll leave the lights on in the recovery room," Jiyeon said. "In case she's afraid of the dark."
---
At 11 PM, Yeji lay in a large animal recovery cage in a veterinary clinic in Dongdaemun and listened to her spirits argue.
Listened. From the left. The right side of the world was dark and silent, the absence already normalizing, the brain adapting to its reduced input with the ruthless efficiency of an organ designed to compensate for loss.
*—the guild route gives temporary cover but long-term dependency,* Eunsoo was saying. The healer had been analyzing strategic options for forty minutes, her clinical mind treating the crisis the way she'd treated the dungeon — as a system with identifiable variables and optimal paths. *The Bureau route is worse — complete institutional control with no exit mechanism. The third option—*
*The third option is we leave Seoul,* Minwoo said. *Take the kid, drive south, find a place where nobody knows her face and no Bureau has jurisdiction and she can SLEEP without three dead people debating strategy inside her skull.*
*Running doesn't work. The video is national. Her face is—*
*Her face is not clearly visible in the video. I watched it. The blood obscures her features. It's the ghost girl that's recognizable, and the ghost girl is—*
*Sitting on a filing cabinet being watched by a cat. Yes. I've noticed.*
The bickering. The constant background noise of three covenanted spirits who'd known each other for hours and were already developing the interpersonal dynamics of roommates in an apartment too small for three — Eunsoo's clinical analysis clashing with Minwoo's protective instinct, both of them orbiting the silent center of Nari's dormant presence.
Yeji's hands had unclenched. The mana seizure's effects were fading — the corticosteroids working or the inflammation subsiding naturally or both. She could move her fingers. Could close them around the thermal blanket that Jiyeon had draped over her, the clinic's version of bedding, the fabric printed with a pattern of cartoon bones that was designed to comfort anxious dogs and was, against all reason, also working on an anxious summoner.
Her phone was under the blanket. She'd turned off notifications after the view count hit two hundred thousand. The trending hashtag had spawned twelve sub-hashtags, three of which were conspiracy theories and one of which was a surprisingly accurate analysis by a former Association analyst who'd pieced together Yeji's identity from the party registration database.
Her name wasn't public yet. But it would be by morning. The former analyst's post was gaining traction, the comments filling with corroborating details — party affiliation, operational history, the Mapo-gu gate's Association records — and the internet's collective intelligence was converging on her identity the way a search algorithm converged on a result: iteratively, relentlessly, with no regard for the subject's preference for anonymity.
By morning, the country would know her name.
She should plan. Should strategize, calculate, prepare for the Bureau's move, for the guilds, for the media. Should do what Jihoon did — build contingencies, identify leverage points, construct a framework of options that turned a crisis into a manageable problem.
Instead she thought about Eunsoo. About the moment in the hive wall when the healer's mask had cracked and the real regret had been visible underneath — not the freezing, but the competence. The knowing. The woman who'd been right about the beetles and would carry that rightness as a wound because being right when everyone else was dying was the cruelty of expertise.
She'd touched that wound. Hadn't tried to heal it. Had formed the covenant on the basis of acknowledgment rather than resolution, a bond built on the shared understanding that some problems weren't solvable, only holdable. The partial resolution. The core schema identified and left open, like a surgical incision that needed to breathe before it could close.
Was that enough? Was acknowledgment a stable foundation for a covenant, or would the unresolved schema erode the bond the way Jinseo's sealed surface had eroded the consciousness beneath it? She didn't know. Nobody knew. The resolution protocol didn't come with a manual because the resolution protocol's designer — Baek Sunhee, Project Threshold, the woman in the USB drive's forty-seven files — had modeled it on CBT, and CBT was designed for patients who came back next week.
The spirits continued arguing. Eunsoo's analysis against Minwoo's protective instinct, the healer and the father, the clinical and the emotional, the two frameworks that had defined Yeji's life since she'd first heard a dead man in a hospital drawer talking about his wife.
She let them argue. The bickering was the sound of people who cared about the same thing disagreeing about how to care about it, and that sound — even heard from one ear, even at 11 PM in a veterinary recovery cage — was better than the silence that would replace it if Dohyun got what he wanted.
The heated cage was warm. The thermal blanket with cartoon bones was soft. Through the clinic's window, Dongdaemun's lights moved in patterns that Yeji could see but only half-hear, the city's nighttime frequency reduced to its left-channel component, the right channel gone.
Nari drifted into the recovery room. The ghost girl settled on top of the cage — not inside it, on top, the spectral form folding into a seated position with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, the posture of a child sitting on a roof. The gray cat followed, jumping onto the adjacent cage and curling into a ball with its tail over its nose, apparently unbothered by the proximity of the dead.
*Noona,* Nari said. Second word. Same tone. The voice of a child who had a question but wasn't sure the question had an answer.
"I'm here."
*Are people going to come for us?*
"Yes."
*Are you scared?*
Yeji looked up through the cage's metal grating at the ghost girl sitting on top of it. Nari's form was steady in the clinic's left-on lights — Jiyeon's thoughtfulness, the illumination maintained for a dead child who might be afraid of the dark. The girl's face was young and translucent and earnest in the way that thirteen-year-old faces were earnest before the world taught them to be otherwise.
"I'm not scared of the people who are coming. I'm scared of what I might do to keep them from taking you."
Nari considered this. The ghost child processing the answer with whatever cognitive framework death had left intact, the thirteen-year-old's understanding of the world filtered through the permanent lens of having left it.
*That's a grown-up answer.*
"I'm a grown-up."
*Minwoo says you're a kid.*
"Minwoo says everyone younger than him is a kid."
Nari's form flickered. Not instability — expression. The spectral equivalent of a facial movement, the ghost girl's features shifting into something that might have been amusement if ghosts could be amused.
*The cat isn't scared of me.*
"Cats aren't scared of anything."
*I used to have a cat. Before. His name was Bori. Brown tabby. He slept on my backpack every night and mom said he was getting hair on my school uniform but I didn't care because he was warm.*
The most words Nari had spoken since the covenant. More words than Yeji had heard from her in total — the dormant child waking, the silence breaking, the ghost girl offering a fragment of the life she'd lived before the dungeon had ended it. A cat named Bori. A school uniform. A mother who noticed the cat hair.
The ordinary details. The ones that mattered.
"Nari. When the people come — the Bureau, the guilds, whoever — I'm going to keep you safe. You and Minwoo and Eunsoo. All of you."
*You already got hurt because of me. Your ear. Because I manifested and you couldn't put me back.*
"That wasn't because of you. That was because I pushed past my limit. The manifestation was my channels failing, not your choice."
*It looked like my choice. In the video. It looked like I came out on purpose. People are going to think you made me do it.*
Yeji closed her eyes. The left ear picked up the clinic's ambient sound — the refrigerator's hum, the cat's purring, the traffic outside. The right ear picked up nothing. The asymmetry was going to be her new normal. Every sound, every conversation, every alert and alarm and spoken word, arriving from one direction only.
"Let them think what they think. We'll show them what's real."
Nari's form settled. The ghost child's posture relaxed — shoulders dropping, hands loosening in her lap, the spectral body mimicking the physical release of tension that the living body would have performed. The gray cat purred beside her.
Yeji pulled the thermal blanket tighter. The cartoon bones grinned at her from the fabric. The corticosteroids were making her drowsy — or the veterinary anti-vertigo medication was, or the combined weight of a ruptured mana channel and sixty percent hearing and three spirits and a public exposure and a Bureau that was coming for her in the morning.
She slept. One-eared, medicated, in a cage designed for recovering Great Danes, with a ghost child on the roof and a dead healer monitoring her vital signs from inside her own nervous system.
The video hit four hundred thousand views at midnight. By 2 AM, a journalist from MBC had published her full name. By 4 AM, Kang Dohyun's office had issued a formal request to the Hunter Association for immediate strategic asset designation of Ahn Yeji, party member of Park Jihoon's B-rank operational unit, holder of the unregistered ability [Requiem].
By dawn, everyone knew.
