Chapter Text
Everything was dark. His mind was quiet—an unusual state for someone who was always thinking. There was rarely time to rest, not with the world in its current condition. Not when you never knew what could go wrong, when a single mistake could turn fatal. Kim Rok Soo could not afford to rest.
His thoughts were muddled, which was never a good sign. His instincts never allowed him to fully disconnect from the world—not when doing so could cost his companions their lives.
He needed to orient himself, and quickly.
He drew in a deep breath, only then realizing he had not been breathing at all. It was… a strange sensation. Like surfacing from deep water—the relief and satisfaction of oxygen finally filling his lungs.
He coughed, violently, spitting water from his lungs. Damp ground pressed against him; he was curled on the floor.
Then the sounds returned.
The rasp of his own breathing. His heart pounding hard against his chest. A bubbling noise, like boiling water, like the echo of liquid dripping endlessly. Strange.
There were not many places with caves in Korea. The parks near the shelter had been destroyed long ago, and he did not remember ever being sent on a mission involving caverns.
The smell was… unbearable. Sulfur, mixed with something chemical and sharp, an odor that burned his nose.
He finally forced his eyes open.
A green glow flooded his vision, illuminating the entire cavern. There was water—green water—pooling and flowing nearby. It looked toxic.
He had no idea where he was.
A few more wet coughs wracked his body, clearing the wheeze from his chest. His eyes burned painfully. They were likely red and irritated.
He tried to think. To remember what had happened.
Nothing.
It was unsettling—his head felt hollow, as if something had been scooped out.
Rok Soo did not panic. He focused on his breathing instead. There was a process for situations like this. A list.
1. Get out—wherever this place was.
2. Identify his location.
3. Recover his memories.
4. Return to the shelter.
It was a simple list. He could manage.
With that in mind, he pushed himself up. His muscles felt stiff, weak, as though he had gone a long time without using them. That made no sense—his body had always been kept in peak condition. It had been necessary.
If it were up to him, Rok Soo would never train again. He would laze around and live like a bum.
A distant fantasy. Completely out of reach.
Something meant only as a joke to share with the group—a laugh, detached from the harshness of their reality.
He shook his head sharply, forcing his focus back where it belonged.
As he walked through the tunnel, the green light from the water slowly faded, leaving him swallowed by darkness. Only faint outlines remained visible.
He walked. And walked.
The tunnels twisted and branched endlessly, like a tangled maze. He memorized each path as he went, building a mental map. It came easily—too easily. He could store everything with perfect clarity.
And yet, his recent memories remained inaccessible.
It was unsettling. His ability, “Record,” was not supposed to fail. It had always been reliable.
He stopped when the tunnel opened into a brighter space.
The toxic green glow disappeared, replaced by dull yellow lighting. The walls were narrower, the air heavier.
A sewer.
The stench here was far worse than in the cavern. His stomach lurched violently. He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down. He could not afford to vomit and weaken himself further.
He remained still.
Something shifted in the water ahead. Large.
His instincts flared instantly.
Without taking his eyes off the shadow, he reached for his daggers. His fingers closed around a handle at his waist, and he pulled it free.
A dagger.
No—wood?
He crouched low against a curve in the wall, blending into the shadows, watching.
The creature rose from the water.
It was massive. Brutal. Thick green scales covered its body, rough and uneven. Reptilian eyes gleamed under the dim light, sharp teeth visible as it moved. Claws scraped against stone. Its posture was hunched, animalistic—far removed from anything human.
A monster without classification?
An ability user?
It did not matter.
If it was hostile, the outcome would be the same.
Rok Soo preferred to avoid confrontation, especially when operating with incomplete information. He did not know its weaknesses, and that wooden blade would never pierce scales like those.
So he waited.
Ten minutes passed.
The creature shifted, then moved deeper into the tunnel before plunging back into the sewer water.
Rok Soo watched until it disappeared around a bend. He remained hidden a little longer, listening, before finally moving.
He slipped away with careful, measured steps, heading in the opposite direction. Risking an encounter here would be foolish.
As he advanced, the sewer revealed its inhabitants.
Rats scurried along the walls. Cockroaches scattered beneath his feet. At one point, he even spotted an alligator—or a crocodile. He could not tell. He had never been to a zoo long enough to learn the difference.
The farther he walked, the more certain he became.
This was not Korea.
The decay was too severe. The neglect too obvious. The infrastructure far too degraded.
Not that it mattered.
He would leave this place soon. His legs were already aching.
Relief washed over him when he spotted a rusty ladder leading up to a manhole cover. It was bolted into the wall, with several rungs missing, but it looked sturdy enough.
Worth a try.
He stepped onto the first iron bar.
He felt unnervingly light.
The ladder did not even creak beneath his weight.
That was troubling—either the ladder was extremely well secured, or—
His hands pressed against the metal. They felt… soft.
He froze mid-climb.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, barely stopping himself from covering his mouth.
His hands were thin. Too thin. Like they had been when he was twenty years old—no, worse. Almost malnourished. There were no calluses. No scars.
His skin was pale, just as he remembered.
But his voice—
That startled him the most.
It was wrong. His voice had not sounded like this at that age. It had barely changed over the past five years.
Rok Soo inhaled slowly.
Now was not the time to panic.
If he truly was in his twenty-year-old body, then it explained why the ladder supported him so easily.
He climbed the rest of the way up and reached the manhole cover. It looked heavy. He tried to lift it with one arm.
It barely budged.
“How am I supposed to get out?” he murmured.
Then he remembered the dagger.
It might work as a lever—if it did not snap.
He slid the blade into a narrow gap. The cover shifted slightly. Pushing was easier than lifting.
Bracing his legs against the ladder, he shoved harder until there was enough space to wedge his hands through.
After that, it was simple.
White daylight flooded his vision.
He blinked rapidly. The sky above was overcast—unchanged, familiar in its own way.
Rok Soo pulled himself out of the manhole.
He looked around.
What a strange place.
It had nothing to do with anywhere he recognized. An empty street stretched out before him, lined with decaying houses. They did not look like the aftermath of restrictions or evacuations—they looked old. Worn down by time rather than disaster.
There were narrow alleys branching off the street. Graffiti covered brick walls and cracked surfaces. The smell lingered heavily in the air—urine, alcohol, sulfur. Only marginally better than the sewer below.
It stirred unpleasant memories from his past.
He shook his head and straightened.
The place did not seem entirely abandoned. A trash can overflowing with garbage stood nearby. A black cat slipped silently across the street. Somewhere in the distance, horns blared—cars.
Cars.
That alone felt wrong. Resources had been scarce for years. After the cataclysm, normalcy had collapsed. He had been grateful simply for the fact that electricity still existed.
Society was still rebuilding. Safe zones had grown livelier as people regrouped and adapted.
“Where am I…?” he murmured.
Rok Soo was lost. Completely.
He had no idea where he was, or how he had ended up here.
After a moment, he began moving toward the busier area ahead. Blending into a crowd was safer—staying unnoticed was always preferable.
He would figure things out later. Drawing attention now would only invite trouble. Especially in unfamiliar territory.
The farther he walked, the more uneasy he felt.
Shouts echoed from somewhere nearby. Gunshots rang out in the distance. Car horns blared. Police sirens wailed.
He frowned.
Where exactly was this place? And what was happening here?
The people around him were clearly not Korean. Their features were distinctly European or American. He did not stare for long—everyone carried a dangerous, worn-down look. Depressed. Hardened.
He recognized that look.
It reminded him of the people in the shelter. Those who lived without hope, fully aware of the dangers surrounding them and the cruelty of their circumstances.
But here, it felt heavier.
He could not explain why. Only that he did not like it.
Rok Soo listened closely as he walked, tuning in to low murmurs and fragmented conversations. He caught a few words here and there.
English.
But spoken with a strong, unfamiliar accent.
His English was terrible. Barely functional. There had never been much reason to learn it.
His gaze flicked to the walls.
Graffiti sprawled across brick and concrete, thick with curses and bitter messages condemning the place itself. One phrase stood out.
“Crime Alley.”
That was not an inviting name.
He had no idea how he had crossed into the Americas. If he had to guess, he would place himself somewhere in the United States.
He had never known what the rest of the world looked like. Survival in Korea had consumed everything he had—there had been no time to worry about other countries.
Occasionally, fragments of news circulated. Mentions of global guilds, foreign powers. But his group had never been a proper guild, and they avoided public affairs.
Right now, none of that mattered.
He needed to get oriented.
He was cold. His clothes were still damp from the green water, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He could feel eyes on him—too many eyes.
He scanned the area discreetly.
Several men were watching him. Following him.
His eyes narrowed. They looked dangerous.
Rok Soo adjusted his path, slipping between people until he ducked into a narrow alley.
A dead end
The wall at the far end was too high for an average person to clear. There were no ladders. No dumpsters. Nothing to climb.
If he had his usual body, this would not have been a problem.
But right now, he was five centimeters shorter—and painfully light.
“But muscle memory stays, right?” he muttered under his breath, exhaling slowly.
It was either this, or go back.
He did not have time to hesitate.
Rok Soo inhaled deeply.
His reflexes were still sharp. Now was the moment to trust them.
He sprinted toward one wall, planting his foot against it and pushing off hard. His body twisted midair as he rebounded off the opposite wall, redirecting his momentum—
Almost perfect.
Pain exploded through his knee as it slammed into the top of the alley wall. The impact knocked him off balance.
He managed to land in a crouch on the other side—but not before shards of broken glass pierced his palms.
He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan.
Voices echoed from the alley behind him.
“I saw her go in here.”-Her?Serious?
“It’s a dead end.”
“Tsk… we lost sight of her,” another voice muttered.
“Search the area. She has to be nearby.”
Rok Soo stayed completely still, crouched low, until the footsteps gradually faded away.
Only then did he move.
He bit down on his lip as the pain caught up to him. His knee throbbed fiercely—there would be a dark bruise forming already. Swelling was inevitable.
Blood dripped from his hands.
He frowned and carefully removed the larger shards of glass. Taking care of these wounds was going to be a hassle.
He sighed.
He could tear the sleeve of his shirt—but he was certain he had felt something in his pocket earlier.
Rok reached inside.
There were handkerchiefs. And other items.
One of the handkerchiefs bore a neatly embroidered golden turtle. A strange design choice. Something about it felt familiar, though he could not place why.
Below it, stitched in gold thread, was a name.
“Cale Henituse.”
Rok Soo stared at it.
Where had this come from?
It sounded like a noble’s name. Something out of a book. Or a film.
He pushed the thought aside and used the handkerchief to wipe the blood from his hands, then tied one around each palm. Crude, but functional.
Improvised bandages were better than nothing.
Once finished, he finally took a proper look at himself.
He was wearing black trousers that fit perfectly, the fabric smooth and unmistakably expensive. His shirt was just as refined—long sleeves covering his thin wrists, ruffled cuffs at the ends.
He frowned.
Pink stains marred the white fabric.
Blood.
Bloodstains were notoriously difficult to remove. If soaked too long, white cloth often turned pink.
He must have been submerged in that green water long enough for the dried blood to wash away, leaving the fabric permanently dyed.
There were splatters along the collar, as if blood had run down from his neck. On his chest, there was a small tear—like the mark left by a dagger.
That area was the darkest shade of pink.
No wonder he was attracting attention.
As he tilted his head, he felt a slight shift at the nape of his neck.
His hair was longer.
He pulled a black ribbon from his pocket—there were several—and tied his hair back into a ponytail.
He hoped it looked passable.
His fingers brushed against something else.
Gloves.
Two white gloves.
A chill crept up his spine. Something about them unsettled him—as though they were tied to a dangerous memory he could not quite reach.
He ignored the sensation and pulled them on. At least they would help keep the bandages in place.
Standing up, he surveyed the alley.
Broken glass littered the ground. Used syringes were scattered carelessly. A black hoodie lay draped over a trash bin.
He approached and picked it up.
The smell was awful—sweat, alcohol, grease. There were stains he could not identify. Blood darkened the hem.
That, at least, he recognized immediately.
The hoodie was at least two sizes too big.
Rok Soo grimaced, then pulled it on anyway.
It was that, or freeze.
“What kind of god did I piss off to end up here?” he thought.
He pulled the hood up and stepped back onto the street.
This time, he moved with greater caution, his posture guarded. He probably looked strange—but here, that seemed to be the norm
~•~
After walking for some time, he eventually reached a park. The area felt less dangerous than the one before it. More people were gathered there—families with children, people walking their dogs, others simply enjoying someone else’s company.
Still, it was not true calm.
Everyone remained cautious. Mothers constantly scanned their surroundings, eyes flicking in every direction every few moments, never letting their children out of sight. Others behaved the same way.
This city was strange.
Rok Soo gathered a bit of confidence and decided to ask for information. He approached a pair of people nearby, but they quickened their pace and ignored him entirely.
“Maybe the hood doesn’t make me look very approachable,” he thought.
He was still wary of drawing attention to himself, but it was necessary. If people kept avoiding him, he would get nowhere.
He chose his next target carefully—a middle-aged man walking two dogs. As Rok Soo approached, the man noticed him almost immediately.
Rok Soo lowered his hood.
There was no dramatic change in the man’s posture, but Rok Soo caught a faint spark of curiosity in his eyes.
“How can I help you, my boy?” the man asked. His accent was distinctly British.
Rok Soo straightened slightly, drawing on every bit of courtesy and restraint he possessed. Something about this man felt sharp, perceptive. He reminded him of someone—though he could not place who.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m a bit lost,” he said calmly.
His English carried an odd accent, an unfamiliar blend—usually it leaned more clearly toward Korean.
“It’s no trouble at all, don’t worry,” the man replied warmly. “You’re currently in the square near Park Row. Or, as most people call it—Crime Alley.”
The names meant nothing to him. Rok Soo did not recognize them.
“Thank you. Could you tell me where I might find a library?” he asked. Places like that usually had more people willing to answer questions. And, if he remembered correctly, public computers were often still available.
“A good library is located in the Diamond District. If you take the subway, you’ll arrive before two o’clock. Robinson Park has a larger city map and the train lines,” the man explained.
Rok Soo nodded, committing the information to memory. Getting oriented was a priority. He asked for a few more directions to Robinson Park.
With his curiosity satisfied, the Korean man thanked him. His gaze dropped to the dogs—one was a Great Dane, the other looked like a German Shepherd mixed with a breed he could not identify.
Rok Soo was not particularly fond of animals, yet he felt a strange sense of familiarity toward the two canines. He raised a hand slowly, letting them catch his scent—hoping they would not react to the lingering smell of blood beneath his gloves.
The dogs sniffed him one at a time, cautious at first. Then their tongues lolled out, tails wagging.
Rok Soo smiled and glanced at the man, silently asking for permission. The older gentleman gave a small nod of approval.
“This is Titus, and this is Ace,” he said, introducing them.
Rok Soo crouched slightly and scratched behind their ears. After a brief moment, he stood back up.
“Well, thank you, sir. My name is Cale Henituse.”
The name left his mouth far too easily. It surprised him. As if he were already accustomed to answering to it. He had not intended to use the name from the handkerchief—but it felt right.
“It’s a pleasure, my boy. I’m Alfred—Alfred Pennyworth,” the man replied, offering his hand.
The handshake was light. Far lighter than expected. Odd.
“Thank you again,” Rok Soo said with a polite smile. He gave a slight bow of his head before stepping away, pulling his hood back up.
It had been an informative conversation.
Rok—no, Cale—felt certain that the man was not as harmless as he appeared. He reminded him of someone dangerous, though he still did not know who.
“Was he bothering you, Pennyworth?” a young voice asked from behind.
“No. He was merely a polite young man asking for directions, Master Damian,” the older man replied calmly.
Rok—Cale shook his head and continued on his way.
He had a library to visit.
~••~
Alfred watched the young man walk away.
There was something about his manners—so polite, so composed—that reminded him faintly of Master Timothy. Someone raised within high society. Calm. Controlled. It only made the boy more intriguing.
His appearance had surprised the butler as well.
Earlier, the black hood had obscured his features. When he lowered it, it revealed a young and handsome face. A kind of beauty reminiscent of autumn—delicate, restrained, quietly striking.
His hair was red. Blood-red, to be precise. What drew the eye were the white strands on one side of his head, gathered into a small ponytail. It looked intentional, like a fashion choice.
The young man had said he was lost. His clothes—despite that awful hoodie—were of good quality. Even the gloves looked like silk.
Perhaps a young master who had strayed too far?
What unsettled Alfred slightly was the care with which the boy handled his hands. It reminded him of Master Bruce, always careful not to aggravate an injury. Ace and Titus had noticed it as well, judging by how carefully they avoided bumping into the young man’s hands.
Then there were his eyes.
Predominantly hazel-brown, but ringed with green around the iris.
They reminded Alfred of Master Jason.
Perhaps he was simply missing his boy. When one had lived as long as Alfred had, it was easy to project familiar faces onto strangers of the same age.
Still… one should always question such things.
Was it really just coincidence?
“I’ve never seen Ace be that friendly with a stranger, Tt,” he heard the young master mutter.
Alfred shook his head lightly as he held Ace’s leash. Ace was a good dog, but he had grown withdrawn after Jason’s departure.
It had taken weeks before the dog warmed up to Damian. The boy had tried hard—treats, toys, patience, every method he could think of. Master Timothy, on the other hand, had not even attempted to win him over when he first arrived at the manor.
At the time, Ace had been deeply unhappy.
Eventually, he had adjusted to Timothy’s presence.
“It must be the calm aura he gives off,” Alfred commented. “He seems like a gentle young man.”
Damian clicked his tongue in mockery—not out of malice, but skepticism. He did not fully believe the older man’s assessment.
They continued walking through the park together.
~•~
Cale’s legs were already aching from walking so much. He paused to study the map the man had mentioned. One quick glance was enough to memorize it. Apparently, he was in a city called Gotham.
The name meant nothing to him. Not even a hint of familiarity.
Next, he examined the subway lines.
He remembered using the metro before the cataclysm. He was accustomed to public transportation systems, though this one was slightly different. Two lines were apparently closed for gas decontamination. The notice posted beside the maps offered no details about what had happened. Perhaps they simply did not want the citizens to panic.
It was a strange city.
The subway car he boarded was half empty. He wondered if that was because of the maintenance. Honestly, it was better this way. Fewer eyes to notice him jumping the turnstile—he had seen another young man do the same. Cale did not like crowds, especially when he was alone, with no one to distract him.
He sat quietly in a corner, avoiding eye contact. His fingers fidgeted in his pockets, curiosity gnawing at him. He had not yet had the chance to check what he was carrying.
There was a small brown pouch, crumpled against his leg. He still had the dagger at his waist, just in case it was necessary.
Looking at the pouch, he thought there was nothing remarkable about it. It looked simple. When he slipped his hand inside, however, he could not feel the bottom. He was certain his fingers should have reached it.
Strange.
He pushed his hand deeper. His fingers brushed against something damp. He pulled his hand back immediately. It smelled sweet—apple pie.
How did he know what it was without seeing it?
He should have been more surprised by the fact that the pouch had no bottom at all.
His hand fit perfectly inside it.
He could not test the object’s capabilities in such an open place. Drawing attention was the last thing he wanted.
Cale stayed still.
It was unsettling how quiet his mind was. Normally, he appreciated silence. Now, it felt as though something was missing.
When he finally reached the library, he stopped to observe the structure. It was impressive—beautiful and massive—yet he had the vague sensation that he had once visited a place even larger.
His gaze drifted upward to the gargoyles along the roofline. They were everywhere in this city. A bizarre aesthetic choice.
Without judging another culture, he stepped inside.
There were staff members walking around and several patrons, mostly students. He thought it would be good to find an English book. Improving his English would help; he had struggled to fully follow his earlier conversation with that man—Alfred.
But would there be Korean translations?
The people inside were still wary, but less so than in Park Row. He approached a staff member wearing a badge. The dark-haired woman guided him to the literature section and beginner English materials. She asked where he was from.
He answered Korea immediately, though another name lingered on the tip of his tongue.
The woman looked surprised but did not press further. He appreciated that. Once left alone, Cale sat at a secluded table to read.
He finished the book in seconds.
To anyone watching, it looked like he was merely flipping through pages, but his mind absorbed every word. He felt a faint warmth as he used the ability.
He exhaled and paused to process the information.
Good. At the very least, he could now read English without issue.
To be safe, he skimmed through a few dictionaries. Slang would probably still be a problem, but there was little he could do about that. A computer would be useful.
With that thought, he stood and asked another employee about the computers.
There was a time limit for guests. If he registered for a library card, he could stay longer. For now, he settled for the first option.
The computers were outdated. Even the system date was wrong. The library itself was elegant, yet they had not invested in newer technology.
He logged in.
He did not recognize the search engine, but as long as it worked, that was enough.
The first thing he searched—the most important question—
Is Gotham a safe zone?
He had expected something about ability users or monsters in the sewers. He did not want to worry about invasions.
The results surprised him.
High crime rates. Murders. Kidnappings. Terrorist attacks. Robberies. The list went on. Cale absorbed everything like a sponge.
He froze, organizing his thoughts.
1. This city is broken.
2. The greatest danger is humans.
3. Ability users here are called metas.
4. There are vigilantes—bat-themed ones, bird-themed ones—which he found ridiculous.
5. The main vigilante, “Batman,” does not like metas in Gotham.
6. He is not in his own universe.
He knew he should be panicking.
Instead, after gathering all the information, he felt more prepared.
Cale ruined his own composure. The stress finally caught up to him.
He spent ten minutes staring at the screen, barely blinking. His face was probably red and damp with sweat.
“Are you okay?”
The voice was female—and in Korean, with what sounded like an American accent.
He opened his eyes and looked at the owner of the voice. The wheelchair made him think of someone, but that was not what caught his attention the most. It was her posture—firm, gentle, confident.
He thought of someone he knew.
But who?
Why was he having these reactions?
“Yes. I just got a little emotional,” he replied calmly. “I’m very far from home, you know?” He offered a polite smile.
The red-haired woman nodded and handed him a bottle of water, still sealed.
“There’s a restroom over there if you want to wash your face,” she continued, switching back to English.
“Right, thank you…?” He leaned slightly to read the badge around her neck.
“Barbara. But you can call me Babs.” She smiled and extended her hand.
Her handshake was firm. Strangely, his hand did not hurt—even though it should have been injured.
“Cale Henituse,” he replied, smiling with a bit more confidence.
“That’s a unique name for a Korean,” she remarked.
“Well, it’s not my fault,” he said lightly. “I grew up my whole life in Korea.”
Half a truth. And one that confused him. He did not need to lie—he had lived in Korea. And his name was not something he had truly chosen.
Barbara laughed and nodded. Talking to her felt pleasant, but unease lingered in the back of his mind. The same feeling he had had with Alfred.
Maybe that was just how people in Gotham were.
You could not trust anyone.
She went on her way after he entered the restroom. He stood still for a moment, staring at his reflection.
It was not him.
But it was him.
That felt like the correct way to describe it.
“Why do I look like a character from a novel?” he muttered, running a hand through his red—no, blood-red—hair.
Despite all the strangeness, what truly bothered him was the white streak at the side of his head and the green-ringed hazel of his eyes.
Something about them felt wrong.
Cale washed his hands first, wanting to check the wound. When he removed the bandage, he froze.
The cut that had once been there was healing.
His other hand was the same. And yet, it still did not feel right. He was certain the scar should have already disappeared.
He rinsed his hands, watching the blood swirl down the drain. He put his gloves back on anyway. He felt more comfortable not touching anything in Gotham.
Even the air felt polluted.
Taking advantage of the moment, he checked his leg. He rolled up his pant leg and examined the bruise on his knee. It was not swollen.
His regeneration was clearly prioritizing more severe injuries.
He lifted his shirt and stared, horrified.
As Kim Rok Soo, he had accumulated countless scars over the years. Using his other ability—Instant—had left his body covered in fine cuts. Scars were inevitable.
But the one on his chest was different.
It was ugly.
Not superficial. Deep—like a knife or dagger had pierced straight through him. The dried blood around it only made it look worse. He was no longer bleeding, but the skin around the wound was irritated.
He could feel it.
Two energies were fighting to heal him.
The result was that neither could function properly without interfering with the other.
He wiped the blood away with his handkerchief. It stung slightly, but it was only discomfort. He cleaned every trace of blood from the sink.
Something about his mind felt wrong.
There was a whisper there—foreign, wild, impulsive. Not something he recognized.
He looked into the mirror.
He needed to remember what had happened. Urgently. Too much was missing from his memory.
At least his thoughts were a little clearer now.
He knew there was something to eat in his pouch. He had some money—he was sure of it.
First things first.
Food. Water. Shelter.
He was in survival mode now.
~••~
Barbara was calmly doing her job when someone mentioned that there was a handsome young man in the library. She did not care much for that—she was working, after all. But then the gossip became more interesting. Apparently, the young man was a foreigner. He spoke English with an accent and, according to the whispers, did not quite match what people expected of a Korean.
There were many possibilities. That, in itself, was intriguing.
She checked the reception cameras to see where he had gone after some time. The young man was at the computers, switching between websites at remarkable speed, as if he were only giving each one a brief glance before closing the tab.
His face looked flushed. Maybe he had a fever.
She felt a twinge of concern and decided to offer him a bottle of water. If he was feeling unwell, she would ask someone to help get him home.
Talking to him, she felt unexpectedly at ease. Lowering her guard was never easy for her. Even so, her gaze remained sharp, cataloging every peculiarity she noticed about him.
He really was Korean. He spoke fluently. Apparently, he had been raised in Korea. Glancing at the computer screen, she noticed he was searching for apartments in the city.
His manners were impeccable.
He reminded her of Alfred.
Babs decided she would keep an eye on the young man.
His hair did not look dyed. The red seemed natural. She found it hard to believe anyone could have hair that red—maybe a meta? Or maybe not. Sometimes the Bat’s paranoia rubbed off on her more than she liked.
Still, the white streaks in his hair and the green-ringed hazel of his eyes were enough to warrant caution.
She watched him leave through the library doors.
Cale Henituse.
Who are you?