During the day,Doyoon worked at factories.
That was where he learned industrial safety—with his body.
Beside conveyor belts.In front of warning signs.In moments just before accidents,when no one made a sound.
Every danger he saw, heard, and survivedbecame a record.
Industrial accident cases.Broken workflows.The reasons people get hurt.
Those records piled up,line by line,inside Doyoon's proposals.
At night,he drove as a substitute driver.
The city showed a completely different face.
From downtown to the outskirts.From apartment complexesto industrial zones and rural roads.
The city revealed its own borders.
Every time he crossed one,Doyoon opened his laptop.
Places where people had been pushed out.Roads that stopped.Streets where hospitals never came.
Between those gaps,
the city he was designinggrew denser inside his files.
It did not exist yet—
but it was already being bornin reality.
That night again,
when he turned on the driving app,the city revealed yet another face.
"Hey, just go where I tell you."
"It's my car. I'll smoke if I want—you're the driver, right?"
"Turn the music off, fucker.You're killing my mood."
Insults were always ready.
Apologies were always Doyoon's job.
The city had grown crueler.
Between nights like that—
he was hungry.
Not metaphorically.His stomach was empty.
That was when he saw it.
A small light blinkingin an empty lot by the road.
A food truck.
"Are you still open?"
When Doyoon rolled down the window,a woman leaned out from inside the truck.
"Yes. Eat before you go.""You'll regret it if you don't."
Her tone was strangely composed.
Not salesy.Not desperate.
Doyoon parked in front of the truck.
The menu was simple.
But the smell—it made no sense.
"What is this?"
"Ragù Bianco. Today's special."
"From a truck?"
"Yes. I cook it at home too."
He laughed.
Then he took a bite—and stopped.
"…This."
"I know," she said first."It's strange, right?"
Instead of answering,Doyoon nodded.
"What did you do before this?"
"I was a chef."
His chopsticks froze.
"I was mentioned once in Michelin."
"Once?"
"Yes. And that was the end."
She introduced herself.
Hong Raon.
"What about your restaurant?"
"I don't have one."
"Why not?"
"To survive."
The words stayed with him longer than expected.
Raon continued.
"A restaurant's fixed costs kill people."
"And a truck?"
"It's hard," she said."But at least you can run."
As she washed her hands, she added,
"Business and cities—if they can't move, they're finished."
Doyoon wanted to write that down.
No—he already was.
"Sir," Raon said.
"You're a substitute driver, right?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yes. It's written all over your face."
Doyoon smiled.
"I was pushed out too,"Raon said.
"That's why I'm here."
Beside the truck,there was nothing.
No commercial district.No crowd.No protection.
But—
there was a person.
One person, here and now, eating.
As he paid, Doyoon said,
"Isn't this city strange?"
"How so?"
"People this goodall getting pushed to the edges."
Raon thought for a moment, then said,
"That's why this is a market."
"A market?"
"Yes."
She tapped the side of the truck.
"For the abandoned city."
That night,
Doyoon didn't open his laptop.
Instead, one sentence stayed in his head.
A citybegins againwhere people are pushed out.
And for the first time,he thought—
This truck.This woman.This taste.
This could become a city.