Late spring. Four months had passed since “Alize” had appeared in Wide-NEWorld and then vanished.

On the outskirts of a quiet provincial city in South Korea, an old five-story goshitel stood at the end of an alley.

Its gray outer walls had faded with time, and the concrete still carried the traces of rain and dust. The building sat naturally among the detached houses and small shops around it, as if it had long since become part of the landscape.

Nearby were a small convenience store, a chicken place that had just finished the lunch rush, and an auto repair shop with its shutter half raised and tools scattered inside.

At a glance, it was the kind of ordinary neighborhood that could be found anywhere in Korea.

But the world was changing, little by little.

A small delivery robot cart rolled past the mouth of the alley, threading its way through the day’s routine traffic. Across the street, translucent advertisements flickered across a shop window, analyzing the age and tastes of passersby before dissolving again. Beside the convenience store entrance, an unmanned AI checkout terminal waited quietly for the next customer.

The city did not look all that different on the surface.

But quietly,
and unmistakably,
something unfamiliar was seeping in.

The goshitel itself, though, seemed slightly removed from that change. Rust had crept across the metal emergency staircase bolted to the outer wall, and on some of the windows, sheets of plastic and old curtains stirred faintly in the breeze.

Above the entrance, a faded sign still hung in place.

Monthly-rent goshitel — Affordable rooms available.

A white NexLink service van was parked on the street in front of the building.

Third floor, Room 311.

The room was cramped.

A bed, a small desk, a thin wardrobe against the wall. The space left between them was barely wide enough to count as a passage.

Things were piled up everywhere. Delivery boxes, bundled cables, plastic bags. On top of a cheap plastic storage bin sat a half-finished cup of instant noodles and several empty energy drink cans, left exactly where they had been set down.

The room belonged to Kim Jimu, twenty-five.
Like someone long accustomed to life in a goshitel, he had filled the narrow space in his own way.

Behind the desk, in an even tighter gap, another man was twisted sideways, checking the cables.

Park Minjae. Thirty-eight.
A field technician for NexLink.

Tablet in one hand, he bent halfway over and checked the cable connection again.

Minjae’s gaze shifted to the desk.

A pair of newly released VR goggles sat there.

They had wide curved lenses and thick blackout padding around them, designed to shut out outside light completely. Hidden inside the frame running toward the ears were immersive audio modules. Small speakers and vibration pads created spatial sound without fully covering the ears.

It looked less like a headset than a device built to pull someone into another world.

As if he had been waiting for the question, Jimu broke into a smile and nodded.

They were the exact device Minjae’s son had been talking about nonstop for weeks.

WNW’s virtual content had been multiplying by the day lately.
Home-VR devices were now everywhere—on street billboards and in advertisements alike.

Even so, the newest models were still expensive enough to make most households think twice.

He lives in a goshitel and bought something like that?

People said WNW service had gotten a lot cheaper these days, but even so, it still wasn’t the kind of money you paid lightly every month.

I guess this is how things are now. The world kept changing, and the course of people’s lives seemed to shift with each generation. Minjae knew that. Still, the values of younger people these days felt hard to understand.

His thoughts stalled for a moment, and a quiet sigh slipped out. Maybe I’m the one who made the choice that no longer fits the times. Married early. Had kids early.

Jimu nodded.

But the look on his face said he still had not completely let go of his doubts.

That was when Minjae’s tablet gave a short vibration.

A notification appeared on the screen.

ORANGE ALERT

Below it was a code Minjae didn’t recognize.

At that same moment,

outside the convenience store, at one of the small terrace tables,

the lunch hour had just passed, and the area was quiet. Seongmin and Joon, two NexLink field staff in their thirties and twenties, sat across from each other over a late lunch.

In front of Seongmin sat a cup of instant noodles he had just filled with hot water. He kept a hand on the lid, waiting for it to finish cooking.

Across from him, Joon opened the homemade lunchbox he had just warmed up in the store microwave.

Seongmin watched the steam rising from it for a moment, then spoke.

Without looking up from his lunchbox, Joon answered.

Just then, Seongmin’s phone gave a short buzz.

Joon, who had just lifted a spoonful of rice toward his mouth, stopped halfway.

Seongmin hurriedly peeled back the lid of his cup noodles. A rush of hot steam burst out. He lifted a big clump of noodles with his chopsticks and started blowing on them in a hurry.

Third floor, Room 311.

Minjae scratched his head as he read the reply from the office on his tablet.

Jimu’s face stiffened at once.

Jimu’s mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.
For a moment, even his gaze seemed to lose its place in midair.

Minjae could not quite bring himself to look at that expression, so he dropped his eyes back to the tablet.

Jimu let out a breath, picked up the VR goggles beside him, and dropped onto the bed.

Looking half dazed, Jimu gave a faint wave of his hand.

Minjae quickly lowered his gaze to the tablet again.

Jimu let out a small sigh and pulled the VR goggles over his head.

Minjae moved his lips as if he were about to say something, then lowered his gaze to the tablet again.

It was another code Minjae didn’t recognize.