Mi-sook married young.
Her husband, Joon-ho, had a smile that could sell dreams. He was bold. Handsome. Reckless. Always chasing one business idea after another.
But dreams don't pay loans.
And when he died in a workplace accident—crushed beneath collapsed scaffolding—he left her nothing but funeral debt and a six-year-old boy.
She didn't cry much after that.
There was no time.
She sold everything except her son's school uniform and started over.
Borrowed money from people who only smiled while calculating interest. Set up a food cart near the construction zones—kimbap, rice balls, cheap soup. Rain or snow, blistering summer or freezing dawn—she showed up.
Every day.
For twelve years.
She watched her son, Joon-seok, grow up with secondhand shoes and rice for dinner. Couldn't afford high school tuition. Couldn't afford name-brand pencils. But she survived.
They both did.
And just as they were finally free—
The illness came.
Stage four, the doctors said.
She called it fatigue.
She hid the hospital letters. Tore off the return addresses. If Joon-seok ever saw the truth, he'd try to help. That scared her more than dying.
Because helping, in this world, meant one thing.
Becoming a hunter.
She'd seen too many mothers at her stall.
Waiting.
Weeping.
Staring into cold soup bowls while hoping their child's body would be recovered from a dungeon.
She prayed—prayed—her son wouldn't walk that path.
But one day... he awakened.
And not long after, he disappeared.
He left behind a crumpled note: "Don't worry. I'll just do support jobs."
She never saw him again.
Then came the news.
The Serpent Guild.
A dungeon.
A collapsed tower.
She didn't even get a body.
Just whispers. Just rumors.
And then—
He came back.
Same face. Same voice. But...
Something was wrong.
He moved like a stranger. Looked at her like he was learning how to blink. His eyes didn't match the ones she raised.
At first, she wanted to scream. To cry. To poison him.
What kind of monster wears the skin of her dead son?
But then Han Soo-yeon came.
A reporter who wouldn't let go of a story.
She dug deeper. Found records. Found names. And exposed what the Serpent Guild really did.
They didn't just lose Joon-seok.
They used him.
As bait.
And now... Mi-sook watches the thing calling itself her son.
He brings her tea.
He calls her "mother."
And somewhere, deep in her bones, she wonders:
Is it really a monster... if it's the only one who stayed?
Mi-sook sobbed quietly in the dark.
She didn't know what she was seeing anymore.
A dream? A memory?
Or just madness?
All she wanted—all she had ever wanted—was her son.
Just one more morning with him.
Just one more time hearing him call her Mom with that awkward half-smile of his.
Where are you, Joon-seok? Why won't you come back?
She cried until her chest ached.
But no matter how hard she screamed in that dream-like void—
He didn't come back.
And then...
She saw him.
Standing in the glow like a photograph caught in time—Han Joon-seok.
His real form.
The boy she raised.
Not the polite, perfect, too-strange creature sleeping beside her now.
Her son.
Her tears stopped.
Her lips trembled into a small, cracked smile.
I'll see you soon, Joon-seok... she thought, reaching out.
But her son didn't smile back.
He looked... angry.
Conflicted.
Pained.
She reached out to touch him—
But he stepped back.
And pointed.
Behind him.
To the light.
A barrier.
A line.
Telling her to stay away.
Telling her not to follow.
Telling her to live.
Her eyes flew open.
She gasped as her lungs filled again.
Her fingers dug into concrete.
The real world spun into focus.
She was lying on the floor of her ruined shop.
And someone was holding her.
"Mother! You're awake!"
She blinked up at the boy.
The fake Joon-seok.
No... maybe not fake.
Just not the same.
She sat up slowly, eyes sweeping the stall.
Smashed windows. Collapsed shelves. Burned rice.
She held her head.
"What... happened...?"
"Some monsters," the boy said quietly. "They came here."
His voice was tight with guilt.
"I'm sorry. I tried to stop them. But they broke everything."
She looked at him closely.
Not his body.
Not the eyes.
His expression.
The way his shoulders sagged—not in exhaustion, but in sorrow.
"Why are you sad?"
"Because... you're sad," he said, softly. "This place is important to you. So I wanted to protect it."
His voice cracked slightly at the end.
It almost sounded... real.
She stared for a long moment, then asked the question that had lived in the back of her throat since the first day he returned.
"Did you... protect him?"
His eyes widened.
He didn't answer right away.
Because he didn't know how.
Or maybe—because the truth was too complex to explain in a single human sentence.
She folded her arms and looked at him, gentler now.
"Can you tell me something, then?"
"Why are you so obsessed with protecting me?"
"I'm just a stranger to you."
That silenced him.
Joon-seok looked down.
As if searching his memory for a command or a reason or a script.
But nothing came.
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
Why am I protecting her?
What am I doing here?
Mi-sook exhaled and suddenly began to laugh.
Joon-seok blinked.
"Why are you laughing...?"
She sat on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest.
"Because we're both weirdos," she said with a small, broken smile.
"A mother who keeps a monster for a son... and a monster who's trying to act like one."
She looked up at him.
And for the first time since his return—her eyes weren't full of fear.
They were soft.
"I get it now... Why Joon-seok told me not to let me cross over."
Mi-sook's voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
"He wanted me to stay happy. Even if he couldn't."
She looked up at him again—really looked. Her eyes searched past the borrowed face.
"You're not him... but you act like an innocent kid."
Joon-seok's throat tightened.
He didn't understand what this feeling was—only that it was heavy, and unfamiliar.
Was this guilt? Or something worse?
He looked down.
"But... Mother, what about the shop?"
Mi-sook blinked, then let out a tired sigh. She reached up and gently patted his head.
The gesture made him freeze.
It was such a human thing.
So ordinary.
And yet... it made something inside him soften.
She smiled faintly.
"It's funny... you're acting like a real kid. Like someone who's never been through anything yet."
And maybe, she thought, maybe that's what you really are.
She stood up, brushing dust from her clothes and grabbing what was left of her bag.
"Let's go home. I'm sure there'll be more monsters coming soon."
Joon-seok tilted his head.
Monsters?
Then he remembered.
"Oh! Right—Mother, can you wait here? I forgot something. I left my knife with Soo-yeon."
Mi-sook paused. "Wait... Han Soo-yeon is around?"
He nodded. "Yes. Just stay here. I'll be back quickly."
She didn't ask more. She just waved him off like she would any teenage boy forgetting his schoolbag.
Joon-seok walked out of the stall, eyes adjusting to the outside light.
Up ahead, a crowd had gathered near where the crack used to be. Civilians, hunters, even a few drones buzzing overhead.
The dimensional gate was gone—erased.
He tilted his head and muttered to himself:
"Hmm... looks like she actually destroyed it."
He slipped into the crowd, searching for one person.
Han Soo-yeon.