Yoon Jisoo
The phone alarm blared its painfully familiar, hated tune.
7:00 AM
Jisoo groaned wearily and opened his eyes reluctantly.
For a split second, as the screen flickered, it seemed to him that it was 3:00 AM - the hour of bad dreams. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was still asleep... and when he looked again, the time was the normal 7:00 AM.
He swiped at the screen to silence the alarm and cast a half-asleep glance at his notifications. Then he lay there, staring at the ceiling above, while thoughts of the upcoming workday began to rush at him.
There was no avoiding work today. Not when Hyunwoo’s ghost still lingered in every corner of the office.
He tossed the covers aside and sat up. He’d read somewhere that getting up too quickly could cause dizziness, so he stayed seated on the edge of the bed, gazing at his own reflection in the mirror across the room. He looked like hell. The exhaustion from the last few days at the office had piled up dangerously, threatening to take a toll on his health.
His feet found the soft slippers on the floor. Running his fingers through his disheveled black hair, he realized he needed a shower. After giving his face a quick massage to shake off the last of the sleep, he finally stood up.
A three-minute cold shower washed away the final traces of drowsiness. Still wearing only a towel around his waist, Jisoo turned on the TV and opened the fridge. The cold banana milk hit his palate with a flavor that sparked childhood memories.
Then he reached for a can of coffee—his apartment was always stocked with industrial quantities of the stuff.
The sweet, creamy milk clashed with the bitter chill of the coffee. Jisoo shivered from the odd mix. He was the kind of person who enjoyed experimenting with weird drink combos. Calories didn’t matter to him—he just ate and drank when he had the time. During heavy workloads, food took a back seat.
He smacked his lips in satisfaction and opened the fridge again, this time grabbing a samgak-gimbap—his favorite store-bought triangular rice snack from the shop nearby. He unwrapped it and bit in, cold. Eating on his feet, he wandered into the living room, eyeing the TV. Two names on the headline crawl grabbed his attention: KoryoSec Solutions and Haetae.EYE.
Jisoo froze, mid-chew.
There it was again—polished into a marketing pitch, dressed in clean fonts and glowing graphics. Haetae.EYE. Nobody actually knew what she was capable of. Not the reporters, not the partners, not even the ones who built her. Not really.
He turned up the volume, not because he needed to know more, but because he wanted to hear how they’d spin it for the public.
“KoryoSec Solutions, South Korea’s leading innovator in cybersecurity, has announced the launch of Haetae.EYE—a threat-tracking autonomous system inspired by myth and modern science. Combining deep learning, adaptive forensics, and quantum-encrypted telemetry, Haetae.EYE promises to redefine digital surveillance and anomaly detection.”
Jisoo kept chewing, now listening more intently.
“Named after the mythical unicorn-lion Haetae—said to see through lies and punish injustice—Haetae.EYE continuously learns from encrypted network streams to detect threats invisible to conventional systems.”
“We designed Haetae.EYE not only to respond but to anticipate,” said a man in the next segment. The caption on screen read: Chief Technology Officer, Jin Minseok.
Jisoo slumped onto the couch, still chewing, watching with mild amusement. He chuckled at the man’s serious expression, mentally making a note to tease him about his tie choice when they met at the office later today.
“In a world where threats mutate daily, the ability to spot deceit at its digital core is essential.”
The camera cut to the reporter interviewing the polished-looking man.
“KoryoSec claims that Haetae.EYE has already prevented major breaches during closed testing within South Korea’s metropolitan transport systems and national research centers. Selected international tech and defense partners are currently reviewing integration proposals.”
“That’s correct. Naturally, I can’t share further details. What I can say is that Haetae.EYE will be on par with a scientific breakthrough—immensely beneficial to society.”
Oh, if he only knew...
“And for our non-technical audience—what exactly is Haetae.EYE and what does it actually do?” asked the reporter, microphone poised.
Minseok paused briefly to collect his thoughts, then summarized:
“Think of Haetae.EYE as a digital sixth sense for security. It’s an intelligent system built to monitor, identify, and prevent threats across the internet and computer networks—even ones so well-hidden that regular programs can’t detect them.”
A dreamy smile appeared on his face as he continued:
“That’s why we were inspired by the mythical creature Haetae—it senses falsehood and punishes evil. But Haetae.EYE doesn’t watch people—it watches the digital realm: network traffic, data, servers, systems managing everything from city transit to scientific labs.”
“So, it’s based on artificial intelligence?”
“Yes. Haetae.EYE uses AI to constantly learn, foresee problems before they occur, and protect critical infrastructure and institutions—without needing continuous human oversight.”
The camera returned to the reporter, who nodded and wrapped up the segment:
“Founded in 2018, KoryoSec Solutions specializes in AI-driven digital protection, ethical data forensics, and zero-trust architecture. Its cutting-edge technologies support financial institutions, citywide surveillance, and sensitive infrastructure across East Asia. Whether Haetae.EYE will deliver justice—and to whom—remains to be seen.”
The program ended, giving way to short commercials. Jisoo stuffed the last bite of gimbap into his mouth and started getting ready. Somewhere in the background, a traffic update began. A few words caught his ear, freezing him mid-motion, still in his underwear:
“...Service on Seoul Subway Line 9 will resume its regular schedule following last night’s signal error between Dangsan and Seonyudo stations...”
A flicker of unease crossed his face. Whatever had happened must’ve been after he got home. He used that very line every day.
He glanced at the digital wall clock.
7:45 AM
He needed to hurry. Work officially started at 8:30 AM, but he liked to arrive 10–15 minutes early to avoid the traffic chaos. Looks like he’d have to check his emails on the go.
With hurried steps, Jisoo returned to the bedroom, yanked out a clean outfit, threw it on like a man in a panic, and left. The matte navy-blue door clicked shut behind him. The digital lock beeped once, confirming it was sealed. A small silver plaque on the apartment door read: 301.
Racing against time, Jisoo skipped the ancient elevator and took the narrow stairwell down to the building’s lobby. The hallway lights were still on, flickering faintly as he flew down step after step. He passed through the glass sliding doors and merged into the stream of commuters outside.
The small cafés and corner stores were still closed, but the bigger chains were open—glowing and busy, filled with customers gulping down quick breakfasts or clutching coffee to-go. Neon signs and ad panels slid past him as he walked, another fast-moving figure in the crowd.
He didn’t have far to go. It was pure luck that he’d found this apartment so close to Dangsan Station—his main stop for catching the train to Yeouido.
The station sat on the southern bank of the Han River, in Yeongdeungpo-gu. It was a transfer point between Line 2 and Line 9 of the Seoul Metro. But the two lines couldn’t have been more different. Line 2 was older, raised above ground. Line 9 was newer, sleeker, and ran underground.
Jisoo climbed the covered stairs and entered via Line 2’s entrance, bypassed the ticket machines, and headed for Line 9. He walked the long transfer corridor, his eyes again drifting to the digital ad displays.
The crowd moved like a tide. Neon ads flickered, brighter than they should have been. One panel glitched as he passed, pixels breaking into static. For a moment, the words bled into something he swore wasn’t an ad at all:
DON’T RIDE
He blinked. Gone.
Was this her again? Don’t worry, honey, I will be all right. I promise.
Finally, he reached the Line 9 platform. The display board read:
8:03 AM
Just in time for the express train arriving at 8:06. He’d be in Yeouido four or five minutes later. While it wasn’t far, taking the subway saved him from walking across Dangsan Bridge—something he’d done before, especially after nights of drinking with coworkers. He’d trudge through the cold to the office early in the morning. It wasn’t fun, but it sobered him up.
KoryoSec Solutions occupied the top two floors of a sleek glass-and-steel building in Yeouido—Seoul’s financial heart. The building was discreet, with a small plaque at the entrance barely hinting at what lay inside. KoryoSec didn’t rely on flash or marketing. Clients always found them—usually when it was too urgent and too late. They were known for quietly cleaning up after data breaches and large-scale cyberattacks. Not the biggest name in the business, but they handled the sensitive jobs others avoided.
Access to the office floors was strictly controlled—only those with authorized passes could enter. Jisoo had one: a gray plastic badge with a chip and his name etched on it:
KORYOSEC SOLUTIONS – AUTHORIZED ACCESS
Yoon Jisoo - 윤지수 – Senior Systems Analyst
The security gate recognized his ID through biometric and RFID scanning. As he approached, the door clicked open.
“Open sesame.”
He smirked at his own private joke, glancing at the surveillance cameras above—he never tired of it. Then, more seriously, he considered the layers of security. No doubt, every move he made was being monitored.
KoryoSec’s lobby was sterile and silent, with dimmed lighting and matte black flooring. No receptionist. No smiling secretary… unfortunately. It would soon fill with staff, so Jisoo headed to his office, hoping to make coffee in peace at the small kitchen on the floor.
As he passed through the sliding glass door, the embedded screen greeted him:
“Welcome, Analyst Jisoo.”
KoryoSec wasn’t like other tech companies with colorful beanbags and ping-pong tables. Here, professionalism reigned—gray walls, low LED lights, ergonomic chairs, and silent machines. Everything was built for focus.
At the heart of the floor lay the Operations Center—a circular hall with a raised central podium where senior analysts monitored the digital landscape. Dozens of screens showed live network traffic, threat alerts, and system statuses.
The Incident Response Department was his domain. Cybersecurity operations and digital forensics—his specialty. Jisoo worked alone, in isolation, due to the sensitivity of his tasks. The quiet purring of the security systems was music to his ears. Surrounding him, the screens pulsed with code, graphs, and system logs. In the corner, a whiteboard displayed sketches and handwritten notes. His desk still bore the remnants of last night’s rushed dinner. His black coffee thermos sat unwashed. Feeling slightly guilty, he cleaned up the mess. As others began arriving, he grabbed the mug and brewed fresh coffee—without bothering to rinse it.
Years of night shifts had made him casual.
Jisoo often worked overnight or on weekends—when threats were most likely to strike. He liked the solitude. Dimmed lights. Fewer people. It gave him space to focus. He preferred the glow of the monitor to the buzz of crowds.
Whenever a notification like
“Unusual outbound traffic detected – Core Node D5 – Action required.”
popped up, he was in his element. Jisoo was the guy they called when an attack happened—the one who traced intrusions, restored systems, and figured out what went wrong.
To most, the minimalist office would seem cold, even dystopian. Sterile. Controlled. Silent. Even the silence felt designed. No laughter, no yelling. Conversations were short, direct. Everyone knew that one missed signal, one slip-up, could cost millions…
or worse—your life.
Park Hyunwoo was proof of that.
Hyunwoo had managed a client account—one that collapsed after a major data breach. The client lost millions, and KoryoSec’s reputation took a hit. No one was surprised when they found him dead in his apartment three days later.
Everyone knew which “incident” people meant when it was whispered.
In the end, they lost a client and a colleague. Hyunwoo left no note, no explanation—he probably didn’t see the point. The official report called it suicide: an overdose of sleeping pills, no signs of forced entry.
His work laptop was wiped clean. Not a single line of code remained.
Some said he cracked under the pressure. That he couldn’t bear the shame.
But Jisoo wasn’t so sure.
Hyunwoo never ran from problems. He had just begun developing a new application—it was already in the QA phase. He would never leave his code unfinished.
Jisoo knew this.
Because Hyunwoo had been his best friend.
Next on Line 9:
Two friends. An impossible phone call. And a dead man.
