By this hour, the city had completely died down. Wires stretched outside the window, and the wind, catching on them, produced a dull metallic sound, similar to the breathing of a sleeping machine. The server block behind the wall was idling—a steady, lulling hum that contained something alive.
Ryeon sat in front of the monitors, barefoot, a mug of cold coffee in his hands. Digits and scrolling lines of code were reflected in his eyes.
Since the system reported the error, he hadn't been able to sleep. The heat inside his body had subsided but hadn't left, as if it had hidden beneath his skin, waiting for the moment to remind him of itself again. He stared at the screen and caught himself feeling that he was waiting—not for a signal, not for an order, but for something else, something nameless.
The panel blinked: a notification from a private channel. A darknet forum where only verified contacts were admitted. He wasn't expecting anything important—but the message was marked with a sign he remembered: "J.Sohn."
Ryeon held his breath. Jisohn's nickname.
He opened the post. Lines slowly emerged on the black background:
Name: Hunter.
Category: Elusive Courier.
Route: Unconfirmed.
Distinguishing Features: Always alone, always in the shadows.
Author's Note: "I've seen how he moves. Like the city's breath. Not a person—an impulse. And yet—alive."
Ryeon leaned closer. His fingers instinctively found the scroll key. Jisohn wrote like a photographer, but the lines sounded like an admission: smooth, slow, as if he were touching not keys, but skin.
"He always goes where the cameras are blinded. His stride is steady, without unnecessary sound. Sometimes it seems he doesn't step, but flows through the air. I don't know his name, so I call him—Hunter. The one who moves against the net, but breathes in its rhythm."
He felt goosebumps rise on the skin of his neck. The words were too accurate. Too much about him.
He scrolled further. There wasn't a single photograph in the text—only descriptions: angle, light, movement—but everything matched. Even the way he holds his head when listening to Min Ki's voice in his earpiece.
You were watching me, he thought, and the strange warmth under his ribs returned, soft, enveloping.
He wasn't angry. Not surprised. It felt as if someone had finally touched him from the inside—not physically, but with attention.
There was no threat in the article. No hint of exposure. Only observation, down to the smallest details—as if the person was writing not about a target, but about someone he was afraid to lose sight of.
He read to the end: "If this person reads this, let him know—his existence is real. I saw him. And now the city doesn't seem dead to me."
Ryeon closed his eyes. These words were like a touch. It had been a long time since he felt that someone saw him as he was—not as a tool, not as a shadow, but as a living being.
He ran his fingers over the screen, as if touching the text. The heat flashed beneath his skin again, echoing in his chest. He didn't know what he wanted—to erase the article or reread it one more time.
The incoming call indicator blinked on the panel. Min Ki.
Ryeon exhaled, touched his headset. — You're awake? — The voice was quiet, without command, just weariness. — Checking the network. — I see. The jump logs are coming from you. — I see the publication. Author—J.Sohn. — You read it? — Yes.
A pause. On the other end, he could hear breathing and the hum of servers—the same as in his room, as if they were sitting on opposite sides of the same screen.
— Don't react, — Min Ki said. — He's just writing. — He's writing about me. — Possibly. But don't call the name. It's his way of catching shadows. — I'm not a shadow.
Min Ki fell silent. Then softly: — I know. That's why I'm telling you—don't look.
He disconnected the channel without waiting for an answer. But the connection still glowed in his ear, like residual heat after a touch.
Ryeon turned back to the screen. Jisohn's words were still open, the soft light of the letters illuminating his fingers. He ran them over the glass, slowly, almost tenderly, as if over someone else's skin.
Something responded inside—not fear, not desire, but recognition. As if in this text he had finally heard his own name. Not the one he was given, but the one that revealed itself: Hunter.
He sat there until morning. Listening to the servers breathe. Every impulse, every sound merged into a single rhythm—like a heartbeat, only slower. When the first light touched the glass, he still couldn't tear himself away from the line: "And now the city doesn't seem dead to me."
He didn't know where Jisohn was now, but he felt—he wasn't writing out of curiosity. It was a call. And he had answered.
He closed the panel, but the screen reflected his eyes for a long time—green, tired, filled with something new. The city was waking up, but for him, the night wasn't over. It had simply changed form. Now it was inside.
***
The night in his apartment was always longer than for others.
Jisohn was used to it—to the cold light of the monitors, the empty mugs on the table, the rustling of keys that had become his only voice. He hadn't slept for days, but fatigue didn't set in. Only his fingers moved across the keyboard with measured precision, as if every movement held a meaning.
The screen glowed pale blue. On it—the article. The one he had just posted. Name: Hunter.
He reread it not to edit—but just to feel the text breathe again. He chose every word as if touching something fragile: not a person, but a trace. All he had were short fragments: a silhouette in the fog, green eyes, a movement reflected in the camera lens.
He remembered that encounter—a flash, an instantaneous discharge, a moment when his body responded faster than his mind. He wasn't scared that Ryeon had vanished. He was scared by how quickly he realized—he didn't want him to disappear completely.
That's why he wrote. Not an article. A confession. Invisible to most, but precisely calculated for one reader.
The cursor blinked. The screen showed a notification—ten thousand views in an hour. He knew it was impossible. The tags were closed, the publication was only in the encrypted zone. But the statistics grew.
He smirked.
— So, you read it, — he said quietly.
For a moment, it seemed as if the room replied—a light click in his headphones, as if a short impulse had passed through the communication line. Not a voice. Not a word. Just an echo of breathing.
He leaned back in his chair. The phrase blinked on the screen: "And now the city doesn't seem dead to me." It resonated in his head like a repeating chord, as if the text had begun to live its own life.
He knew he had done a dangerous thing. Named him. Gave a name to someone who had always been nameless. In the darknet, this meant one thing: opening a hunt.
But Jisohn wasn't thinking about consequences. When he wrote those lines, he felt he was connecting not data, but breaths. That every phrase contained a touch.
He closed his eyes. Inside—fatigue and a strange, hot excitement. His fingers still felt the warmth of the keys.
If he exists, he will feel it. If not—I was just speaking into the void.
The server behind him emitted a short signal—one of the trackers caught an external access to the publication. He looked at the log. The IP address was encrypted, but the time matched. Ryeon.
— Well, — he whispered. — We are breathing the same route after all.
He stood up, walked around the room. His camera lay on the desk, still smudged with drops of old rain. He ran a finger over the lens, as if stroking someone's skin.
You knew I was filming you, he thought. You looked right into the camera, and you didn't look away. Even through the fog. Even with the mask.
He caught himself smiling. Rarely, almost painfully. The light from the window touched his face in cold strips, but inside, the same strange feeling still lingered—as if the contact hadn't ended.
He sat down again, turned on the console. Entered a short code — the coordinates of the route where they met. The system showed a grid of streets, the flickering dots of cameras, disconnected since midnight. And among them — an empty zone, without a signal.
— So, you're still there, — he said. — Or you just want me to think you are.
He leaned back. For a second, it seemed as if a slight current emanated from the wall, as if someone inside the wires was touching him. He rubbed his temples.
It's not a coincidence, he thought. He is reading. And he feels it.
The room grew warmer. He turned on the microphone recording and quietly spoke, almost a whisper:
— Hunter.
The name hung in the air. Simple, short, but when it left his lips, everything inside clenched. As if the word itself had found the one to whom it belonged.
Ryeon wasn't sleeping. The servers were still humming, and through the thin vibrations, he heard— someone far away saying that name. His name. Hunter. It felt as if the word passed through the air like an electrical current. He pressed his palm to his chest. His heart responded, as if accepting the call.