Episode 18 – "Two of Me, One of Him"
Back in the apartment, high above the neon-washed alleyways of downtown Seoul, Kim Do-hyun (김도현) stood barefoot on the cold, creaky floorboards of his one-room rental. The dim light from the ceiling flickered like a dying star, but he didn’t care. Not tonight.
He was laughing. Not the kind of laugh you toss at a bad joke or when your friend slips on ice. No. This was belly-deep, bone-hollow, maniac-in-the-making laughter.
"Hahaha! Cloning is the best," he said aloud, arms stretched out like a stage actor soaking in applause. "I’m literally... unstoppable now!"
Across from him, two perfectly identical copies of himself stood tall, both wearing that same smug grin. Number 1 leaned against the kitchen sink, flipping a spoon with one hand. Number 2 was on the bed, nodding to a beat only clones could hear.
Their presence felt surreal. Solid. Realer than the air conditioning that sputtered in the background or the ramen packets stacked beside the sink. This was no illusion. These weren’t shadows. These were him. All of him. The system had leveled up, and the upgrade wasn’t just numbers.
It was liberation.
"Y’all saw that?" Do-hyun whispered, staring at his own clones. "Level two, baby. Because I kept using you. Because I believed."
His system had rewarded him for practice. For pushing. For summoning Number 1 in training, in quiet halls, in secret stairwells of his life. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even dramatic. But it worked.
He flexed his hand and felt mana ripple under his skin like silk caught in a breeze.
One of the clones—Number 2—mimicked him perfectly. Every tendon, every vein, every flicker of energy. It was like watching yourself in a mirror, except the reflection could fight back.
He held the WN Agency card in his palm, eyes scanning over the name.
Han Jin-woo.
Recruitment Specialist, WN Agency
Access. Gear. Dungeons. Support.
A corporate promise dressed up in fancy ink. A lifeline... or a leash?
"Guess I’m not completely alone anymore," Do-hyun said, tilting the card toward the ceiling. Then he looked at his clones. "Now we’re ready to become real hunters."
The air around him shimmered faintly as he dismissed the clones. They bowed like theater actors at curtain call before dissolving into faint blue light, fading into the ether like mist scattered by wind.
Do-hyun collapsed onto his bed with a quiet sigh. The mattress squeaked in protest.
Outside, the city buzzed. But inside that small room, filled with dusty dreams and new beginnings, silence reigned. The silence of a storm gathering its strength.
Then—
Scene flips.
Like a screen gone black, like a punchline pulled too soon, like a memory you don’t want but can’t avoid.
We jump.
A car engine hums into the night.
A dark sedan drifts quietly down an empty street. Neon lights smear across the windshield in streaks of pink, green, and blue. Inside the car sits a man—back straight, jaw clenched. His name is Han Jin-woo (한진우), but on the streets, they call him Jo Mo.
Not a nickname. Not a brand. Just something people started calling him after all those networking events, handshakes, and awkward calls. Jo Mo. The face of the agency. The smiling puppet of WN’s recruitment arm.
Slicked-back hair, slightly greasy at the roots. Cheap cologne clings to his suit like regret. His tie is loose. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled halfway up his arms, exposing ink smudges and faded scars.
The night stretches ahead of him like a tunnel. The tires glide over wet pavement as rain begins to whisper against the glass.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping nervously.
Click. Click. Click.
He glances down at the dashboard. Taped beside the GPS is an old photo. Five faces stare back, smiling.
Four of them are scratched out. Deep, hard gouges right through the eyes.
Only his face remains untouched.
"Still here," he mutters.
His eyes are bloodshot. Not from tears, but from exhaustion. From too many nights on the road, chasing kids with potential, handing out cards like candy, praying one of them will say yes.
Praying one of them will survive.
"Just one," he whispers. "Just one who’ll stay."
Then the car’s speakers crackle.
A voice slithers through the Bluetooth like smoke through a vent.
"Still no recruits?" the voice hisses. Cold. Uncaring. "You disappoint."
Han Jin-woo stiffens.
"This guild’s not patient. Get to the point."
He opens his mouth to respond, but his throat closes. His hands tighten around the steering wheel.
"One more failure," the voice continues, "and you’ll be done."
The final word lands like a weight on his chest.
"You know how this ends, Jo Mo. Run."
The call ends. A tiny red light on the dash fades into black.
Han Jin-woo doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. The car drifts into the next lane. He jerks it back. The tires squeal.
He pulls over, slamming the gear into park. The street is dead silent, except for the hum of streetlamps and the soft drizzle tapping the roof like fingers.
He presses his forehead against the wheel.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to keep from breaking.
His mind races with memories. The kids he scouted who never called. The ones who did, only to vanish into dungeons they weren’t ready for. The teammates he once had. The promises he made to the guild. The weight of it all pressing down on his spine like sandbags on a drowning man.
And then...
He looks up.
Out the window, across the parking lot, a billboard glows.
"Become a Hunter. Be the Future."
A smiling family of three. Dad in armor. Mom holding a magic staff. Their kid floating with telekinetic bubbles around his head.
He chuckles.
Soft at first. Then bitter.
A chuckle that tastes like copper and loss.
"Come on," he whispers to no one.
"Someone... someone care."
The rain falls harder now. Tapping faster. Sharper. Like the world itself is trying to rush him toward something.
But inside the car, it’s still.
Han Jin-woo lifts the team photo from the dash and runs a thumb over the last unsmudged face.
His own.
He puts the photo back, starts the engine, and drives into the dark.
Somewhere, he hopes... maybe someone will call him.