Two years ago (2070). Incheon International Airport, Neo-Seoul.

  Geuneul was going through immigration.

  On his phone screen, the message read: “Departure from Mirage Isle – Entry to Neo-Seoul.”

  It felt strange.

  He had never left Jeju Island before.

  Well, there had been that one time—back in his childhood, a group trip to Seoul organized by the orphanage.

  But that had been a domestic flight. Even though he boarded a plane, it felt more like relocation than a real trip.

  Should he count that as “international travel”?

  The absurdity of his own thought made him chuckle quietly.

  He looked up at the airport’s signboards again.

  Korean, English, then smaller text in Chinese and Japanese below.

  The chatter of tourists.

  The sound of wheels rolling over polished floors.

  Mechanical tones from overhead electronic displays.

  Everything felt both familiar and foreign.

  The smart city construction that began in the 2040s had changed the geography of cities worldwide, including Korea.

  AI and automation gradually took over economics, security, and administration, shrinking the role of central governments.

  By the 2060s, a wave of urban independence had begun.

  The central government still existed, but held no real power.

  “The nation is disappearing.”

  Geuneul had grown up amidst that change.

  Jeju Island—or now “Mirage Isle”—

  A tourism city and a haven for wanderers.

  It glittered on the surface, but that glimmer was fueled by pleasure, indulgence, and the energy of decay.

  Even orphanages had become part of the tourism industry.

  Geuneul had wanted to leave.

  The government support he received ended when he graduated high school.

  He had no choice.

  He had to change his citizenship.

  He had to go to Neo-Seoul.

  At the very least… there, basic income was guaranteed.

  “Next!”

  Snapped out of his thoughts by the airport worker’s voice, Geuneul stepped forward.

  And just like that, he entered Neo-Seoul.

  Life in Neo-Seoul wasn’t as stable as he’d hoped, but it was never dire enough to threaten his survival.

  Thanks to the city-state’s basic income, he could afford the essentials.

  But what he truly desired was something else.

  —He wanted to become a soldier.

  He couldn’t fully explain why.

  It pulled at him, irresistibly.

  Was it simple curiosity?

  Or was it an instinctive urge to be close to death?

  Even Geuneul didn’t know for sure.

  He attended a military recruitment seminar.

  The venue was the auditorium at the Seoul Military Academy.

  When Geuneul entered, it was already packed.

  People who looked smart, athletic, and purposeful filled every seat.

  Neatly dressed, sitting upright—

  They were competitors, but also potential comrades.

  Soon, officers in uniform entered.

  The highest-ranking among them stepped onto the stage.

  “Can anyone here tell me—what is a nation, and what is a soldier?”

  A few hands went up.

  Geuneul watched silently, then raised his hand.

  “You there, in the red shirt. Please speak.”

  Geuneul stood up.

  “A nation is a refuge, and a soldier is its gatekeeper.”

  The room fell silent.

  “People get worn down by life and long to lean on something.

  The nation is the last and greatest sanctuary they can rely on.

  But the nation isn’t perfect.

  It doesn’t shelter everyone.

  In the end, the nation not only provides a haven—it decides who gets to stay in it.

  A soldier guards that gate.

  If that gate collapses, people will have nowhere left to turn.

  That’s why a soldier doesn’t fight only for those who believe in the nation, but also for those who don’t.”

  A quiet hush followed.

  The officer on stage looked intrigued.

  “Thank you. That was a refreshing answer. Next?”

  Geuneul quietly took his seat.

  As he was about to leave the auditorium after the seminar, someone hurried up behind him.

  “That was an impressive answer.”

  Geuneul turned his head.

  It was a young woman, probably younger than him, with bright eyes.

  Her hair was neatly tied back, and she was fairly tall.

  But more than anything—

  She had a smile that just suited her.

  “Really?” Geuneul replied curtly.

  “Yes. I think the same way.

  The nation isn’t perfect, but it’s the last place we can depend on.”

  Geuneul didn’t respond, but she went on without pause.

  “I already submitted my application—for the military intelligence division.

  Still waiting for the final result, but I should hear back soon.

  Oh, I’m Saebyeol Lee, by the way.”

  He answered plainly.

  “I’m Geuneul Kim.”

  “Are you going to enlist too?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then we might end up comrades someday!”

  She held out her hand.

  Geuneul hesitated, then shook it.

  Her grip was soft, but confident.

  In that moment, he felt something unfamiliar.

  Can someone like her really become a soldier?

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The world was always full of people different from him.

  And now, he was walking into that world.

  They met a few more times after that and naturally shared their personal stories.

  Like Geuneul, Saebyeol hadn’t lived an easy life either.

  Since childhood, she had taken care of her mother.

  Her mother had lost her right leg and couldn’t stand for long or move freely.

  She also had some lingering health issues, but never told Saebyeol the details no matter how often she asked.

  One thing was certain.

  Saebyeol had to earn money.

  She skipped high school and went straight to work.

  Her earnings covered her mother’s hospital bills.

  And in her remaining hours, she studied for her future.

  That’s why she decided to become a soldier—because it came with medical support.

  Geuneul didn’t react much when she told him.

  He just thought to himself: She’s like me.

  A life sacrificed for someone else.

  And the way she accepted it so naturally.

  But unlike him, Saebyeol could still smile.

  Unable to grasp that difference, Geuneul accepted her invitation to visit her home.

  Saebyeol’s house wasn’t big or fancy.

  Its weathered walls and old furniture bore the marks of time, and household items were scattered about.

  But Geuneul felt no discomfort.

  It was small, but orderly.

  The dark flooring and warm-toned curtains filtered the light gently, and a fireplace hologram shimmered on one wall.

  A photo hung above it—Saebyeol and her mother together.

  Geuneul stared at the picture.

  This was where Saebyeol belonged.

  No matter how harsh the outside world, this place would take her back in.

  Geuneul had never known such a home.

  The orphanage was an institution.

  His old place on Mirage Isle was merely a roofed space.

  But this was different.

  This wasn’t just a space.

  It was a home.

  Here, Saebyeol grew up, laughed, and came back to when things got hard.

  And now, Geuneul had crossed its threshold.

  The smell of cooking wafted from the kitchen.

  Saebyeol’s mother, Seolhee Kim, was preparing dinner.

  “It’s been ages since my daughter brought a friend home.”

  She smiled warmly at Geuneul.

  “Your name was… Geuneul, right?”

  She wore her hair similarly to her daughter, soft waves tucked behind her ears.

  But unlike Saebyeol, a few strands of gray peeked through.

  Her face carried the traces of a long life.

  And like her daughter, she wore her smile naturally.

  Gentle, soft, disarming—

  But not just kind.

  Her smile held strength, earned through years of hardship.

  She wore a prosthetic leg, but it didn’t seem to hinder her much.

  She moved smoothly between the kitchen and dining room, her steps light.

  She must’ve grown used to it long ago.

  But occasionally, when she shifted her weight, Geuneul could sense how difficult her life must’ve been.

  He met her gaze and replied,

  “Yes, I’m Geuneul Kim. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Mom, Geuneul’s really polite. Don’t stare so hard at him.” Saebyeol chuckled.

  Seolhee gave a short laugh.

  “I’m not trying to be scary. Just… it’s been a while since we had someone over.

  How did you two meet again?”

  “Geuneul gave this weird answer at the seminar,” Saebyeol said, lifting a spoon.

  “He said, ‘A nation is a refuge, and a soldier is its gatekeeper.’”

  Seolhee paused and looked at Geuneul.

  “…That’s oddly sad.

  You must’ve had it rough too, huh?”

  Geuneul nodded quietly.

  “Yes. But at this point, it doesn’t matter.

  What matters is how I live from here on out.”

  She watched him for a moment, then smiled gently.

  “I see.

  Well then, eat plenty tonight.

  Our home can be your refuge too, at least sometimes.”

  From that day on, Geuneul was often invited over.

  Every time Saebyeol returned from work, Seolhee would have dinner ready—

  Soybean paste stew, steaming rice, a few neat side dishes.

  One day, as he ate, Geuneul found himself wondering:

  A refuge.

  Was this house a refuge for Saebyeol too?

  Or just a place of responsibility?

  He’d seen her take care of her mother countless times.

  She worked hard, ran the household—

  But did she truly find peace here?

  After dinner, when he picked up the dishes, Seolhee asked,

  “Geuneul, do you eat properly at your own place?”

  “Yes. More or less.”

  “More or less? That’s not good for a young man.”

  She rolled up her sleeves and looked over.

  “You’re in charge of taking out the recycling.”

  He blinked.

  “Me?”

  “Yup. My daughter’s been working all day. You help out.”

  “Mom, it’s okay,” Saebyeol said, flustered.

  “Geuneul’s probably tired too.”

  “Nonsense. Family helps family.”

  Geuneul flinched.

  Family.

  To him, that word had always been abstract.

  “Mother Superior” at the orphanage.

  The words “no parents” on his records.

  He had never had a place to return to.

  Geuneul quietly stood up.

  “Alright.”

  Seolhee smiled softly.

  “Good. Now you feel like part of the family.”

  After taking out the recycling, Geuneul returned to find Seolhee peeling tangerines.

  “Come sit, Geuneul.”

  She handed him one.

  “Do you like tangerines?”

  “Yes. I grew up in Jeju, after all.”

  “These might not be as good, but they’re sweet.”

  They ate in silence.

  On the TV, a documentary about families played.

  Seolhee murmured,

  “Funny how people think they know family, but don’t really.”

  Geuneul, tossing away the peel, spoke without thinking:

  “Mom, where do I throw this?”

  Then froze.

  Mom.

  At the orphanage, he’d used that word before.

  But only as a title, not with feeling.

  Now…

  He looked at Seolhee.

  But she simply replied without pause.

  “Just leave it in the bowl. I’ll throw it out later.”

  Geuneul nodded, a strange feeling stirring inside.

  Saebyeol emerged from the shower.

  “You two done with enlistment prep?” Seolhee asked.

  “Almost. But Geuneul’s been acting weird lately,” Saebyeol said.

  “Weird how?”

  “He eats more. Smiles more.”

  Geuneul raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s weird?”

  Saebyeol nodded seriously.

  “Yeah. You didn’t used to smile.”

  Geuneul didn’t answer.

  But inside, a strange feeling welled up.

  He didn’t yet know what to call it.

  Whenever Geuneul left Saebyeol’s house to return to his rented room, he was filled with mixed emotions.

  He’d come to Seoul for simple reasons—

  Basic income, better opportunities, future prep.

  But deep down, there was a more important reason.

  He wanted to live anonymously, hidden.

  To fade into the crowd, unnoticed.

  No expectations. No curiosity.

  But things hadn’t gone to plan.

  After being invited to Saebyeol’s home, he’d unintentionally become involved in someone else’s life.

  Eating meals there, talking to her, receiving Seolhee’s gentle scolding—

  He experienced what “family” felt like, however briefly.

  It was warm.

  But it also scared him.

  Will this warmth last?

  No. Of course not.

  He wasn’t someone who could have such things.

  A whispering anxiety gnawed at him.

  He knew from experience—

  The more warmth you expect,

  The more you believe in a refuge,

  The deeper the wound when it vanishes.

  Geuneul had learned that during his time on Mirage Isle.

  There, orphanages weren’t shelters.

  They were tourism attractions.

  The world’s largest orphanage.

  Promoted by international NGOs and government campaigns as “a warm haven for children.”

  But in reality?

  There were too many people.

  Tourists came daily.

  Peering through glass walls, strolling the manicured gardens, sometimes even interacting with the kids.

  They picked up adoption forms.

  Of course, they had no real intention of adopting.

  It was just curiosity.

  A trendy “experience.”

  Visit a fancy orphanage.

  Talk to the kids.

  Try filling out an adoption form.

  Just another tourist activity.

  Geuneul remembered their expressions.

  —Eyes filled with pity and fascination.

  —Faces pretending to understand a life they never lived.

  —Smiles of self-satisfaction, like they were saviors.

  It disgusted him.

  They lived in a completely different world.

  And they came to watch his.

  The number of children only grew.

  When politicians visited, new buildings were added.

  When sponsors donated, the facilities expanded.

  The nuns bowed to officials with practiced ease.

  Even as a child, Geuneul thought it was wrong.

  “They could’ve just avoided needing expansions in the first place.”

  “Then they wouldn’t need to bow.”

  Who was that place really for?

  A haven for kids?

  Or a PR tool for sponsors and bureaucrats?

  At one point, watching the nuns and staff chase tourists with adoption papers, he held a glimmer of hope.

  At least they’re trying for the children.

  But he soon realized—

  The tourists always left.

  Nothing changed.

  They always left.

  And what remained behind were the children.

  So he chose to live quietly.

  Expecting nothing.

  Hating no one.

  Geuneul unlocked the door to his rented room.

  —A tiny space.

  —Cold air.

  —A hollow silence.

  It was nothing like the warmth of Saebyeol’s home.

  He shut the door and sat quietly on the floor.

  His plan to live in anonymity had faltered.

  Unexpected feelings stirred inside him.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Is this just another place I’ll have to leave someday?”

  That thought lingered as he became alone again.