Rin slipped out of her apartment building, the fire exit door clanging shut behind her with a hollow, metallic echo that reverberated down the empty stairwell.
The lead pipe felt heavy in her hand, its cold, pitted surface grounding her as the night air slammed into her lungs—sharp with the acrid tang of smoke and something sour, like spoiled meat left too long in the heat.
Seoul stretched out before her, a city she'd once navigated by instinct, its rhythms as familiar as her own pulse. Now it was warped, twisted into something unrecognizable, a shadow of itself under a sky choked with haze. The neon signs that once bathed the streets in electric life flickered weakly, their buzz swallowed by an eerie quiet that pressed against her ears like a physical weight.
She tightened her leather jacket, the sketchbook a hard, unyielding edge against her ribs—Hana's last gift, a tether to a life that felt further away with every step.
Her boots crunched on shattered glass as she moved forward, the sound too loud in the stillness. Figures moved in the dark—slow, jerky silhouettes lurking at the edges of her vision. Too far to make out, but close enough to raise the hairs on her neck.
She kept low, darting past a row of collapsed food stalls that lined the street like broken teeth. Their bamboo frames lay splintered, woks overturned, spilling congealed grease onto the pavement in dark, glistening pools.
The smell hit her hard—burnt oil, rancid and cloying, mixing with the undertone of decay that hung in the air, thick enough to coat her tongue.
A cracked radio dangled from one stall, its cord swaying faintly, spitting static in bursts—
"ECHO… ECHO…"
—before cutting out with a sharp pop.
Rin froze, her breath catching in her throat. That word again. The same one from her apartment, gnawing at the edges of her mind.
She shook her head, shoving the unease down.
Just static. Just noise.
She pressed on, sticking to the shadows. Her boots scuffed against debris—shredded flyers, a child's lost shoe, a cracked phone screen still glowing faintly with a missed call alert. The hum from her apartment lingered, a low thrum she could still feel in her chest, vibrating through her bones.
A burnt-out neon sign dangled above a shuttered shop—Happy Noodle House, its once-cheerful pink glow dimmed to a sickly, stuttering flicker. It cast long, jagged shadows across the storefront.
She paused, peering through its cracked window, the glass spiderwebbed from some unseen impact. Inside, an old man slumped over a table, his head resting on folded arms, a bowl of cold ramen tipped beside him.
Dead, she thought. Her cynicism kicking in—another casualty of whatever had torn through here.
Until his lips twitched. A faint shudder ran through his frail frame.
"They're… listening…"
His voice rasped—thin and dry as old paper, barely audible over the hum.
Then his head lolled to the side, lifeless again. Eyes staring blankly at the wall.
Rin's grip tightened on the pipe, her pulse spiking, a cold sweat prickling her skin. She backed away, glass crunching louder underfoot, each step a deliberate effort to keep her breathing steady.
The street stretched on, a graveyard of Seoul's pulse—scooters tipped over, their tires slashed and leaking air. A K-pop billboard loomed overhead, its screen dark save for a single flickering pixel that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
She reached for the small radio clipped to her belt—a relic she'd grabbed from her apartment in the chaos—and thumbed the dial with shaky fingers.
Static hissed through the speaker, a wall of white noise that scratched at her nerves. Then—
"Rin… where…"
Hana's voice. Soft. Pleading.
Clear for a heartbeat before dissolving into distortion.
Rin's stomach dropped. A sick lurch left her dizzy. She fumbled the radio, nearly dropping it, her fingers trembling as she clutched it tighter.
Not real. Couldn't be.
Hana was in Busan. Safe. Far from this mess—
Unless she wasn't.
Unless ECHO had reached her too.
Her mind raced, cynicism warring with a flicker of hope she couldn't afford.
She jammed the radio back onto her belt, jaw tight.
"Get it together," she muttered. Her voice rough, barely audible over the hum.
A low moan echoed down the street, snapping her back to the present.
She crouched instinctively, peering around a tipped-over scooter.
One of those things—mimics, she'd started calling them—shambled closer. Its waxy skin glinted under the faint glow of a streetlamp. Its head twitched side to side, like a puppet on frayed strings, dark veins pulsing faintly beneath sagging flesh.
Its mouth hung open, a drooping gash revealing jagged, uneven teeth that caught the light with a wet sheen. Its pale, unblinking eyes—cloudy like spoiled milk—fixed on her with eerie stillness.
It didn't scream. Didn't lunge.
Just watched.
Its limbs bent at angles that made her skin crawl.
"Rin…"
It buzzed, her name a distorted hum from its throat, layered with static like a broken recording.
Her stomach twisted. But she didn't hesitate.
She swung the pipe. A hard arc that connected with its skull in a wet, splintering crunch.
It crumpled to the pavement, a marionette with cut strings. But those pale eyes stayed locked on her, unseeing yet piercing, even as it fell.
She ran. Breath ragged. The hum growing louder in her ears, a relentless drone that seemed to seep from the city itself.
Broken speakers dangled from poles along the street, crackling to life as she passed—
"ECHO… ECHO…"
—a looped chant that burrowed into her skull, insistent and maddening.
She stumbled into an alley, its narrow walls closing in, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and something fouler.
Graffiti smeared the bricks—LISTEN scrawled in red. The paint still wet, dripping like blood.
Her chest heaved as she leaned against the wall, the pipe slick with sweat and mimic blood. Its weight a small anchor in her shaking hands.
Hana's voice lingered in her mind, a ghost she couldn't shake, threading through the static and the hum.
Her fingers brushed the sketchbook in her jacket. A reflex she didn't question.
Whatever ECHO was, it wasn't just a lab leak.
It knew her.
It knew Hana.
And it wasn't done.
She straightened, wiping the pipe on her jeans, dark eyes scanning the alley's end.
The mimics weren't random.
Something was driving them.
Something tied to that word.
And she'd be damned if she didn't figure out what.