The interior of the black sedan smelled of expensive leather and the faint, sterile scent of anxiety. Lee sat in the back, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his knee—a nervous habit he had never quite managed to kick, despite his meticulously crafted public image. At twenty-five, he was a prodigy of ambition, a South Korean citizen who had traded the frivolities of youth for the cutthroat arena of local politics.

  Outside, the neon lights of the city blurred into long, electric streaks. He was minutes away from the climax of his young life.

  Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sharp trill of his smartphone. He glanced at the screen. Min-ah. He sighed, pressing the device to his ear. Before he could even utter a greeting, a barrage of sharp, resentful words pierced the speaker.

  "You’re late again, aren’t you? Or did you just forget entirely?" Min-ah’s voice was brittle, trembling with the kind of anger that only comes from repeated disappointment. "I’m sitting here in a restaurant, Lee. Alone. Again."

  "Min-ah, listen to me," Lee said, his voice low and practiced, the same tone he used for damage control. "I’m in the car. I’m heading to the debate. This is the big one."

  "Fuck you, It’s always the 'big one'!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "You are the most insensitive, self-absorbed person I have ever met. You don't have a heart, Lee; you have a campaign manifesto where your feelings should be. You never have time for anything that doesn't benefit your career."

  Lee looked at his watch. The seconds were ticking away. His patience, already thin, snapped. "Min-ah, stop. Just stop. This is the biggest night of my life. My dream is finally about to be fulfilled, and you're talking about a dinner reservation? I can't do this right now."

  "You’re right," she whispered, the coldness in her tone more jarring than the screaming. "You can’t. Don't ever talk to me again, Lee. I mean it. Lose my number."

  The line went dead. Lee stared at the darkened screen for a moment, then shoved the phone into his pocket. He didn't feel the sting of heartbreak; he felt a dull sense of repetition. Min-ah was the sixth girlfriend this year. Finding them was easy—he was young, handsome, and radiated the magnetic aura of power. Keeping them, however, required a currency he simply refused to spend: time. To Lee, a girlfriend was a demographic box to be checked, a silent supporter in a photo op. When they demanded more, they became a liability.

  "Sir, we have arrived," the driver announced, pulling the car to a smooth stop in front of the broadcasting station.

  Lee stepped out, adjusting his lapels. Standing by the entrance was a silver-haired man with a piercing gaze—the head of his political party. The veteran politician looked Lee up and down, a predatory smile touching his lips. He reached out and tapped Lee’s shoulder with a firm, heavy hand.

  "Tonight is the night we take this city, Lee," the man said. "Best of luck. Don't leave any survivors."

  Lee bowed slightly, his face a mask of youthful confidence. "Thank you, sir. I don't intend to."

  The debate hall was a gauntlet of blinding LEDs and the aggressive clicking of shutters. Media personnel were packed into the risers like sardines, their cameras aimed like heavy weaponry. Lee walked to his podium, his footsteps echoing on the polished stage. He reached for the microphone, the cold metal grounding him, and adjusted it upward.

  To his left stood Mayor Kim. Kim was twice Lee's age, with a waistline that suggested years of expensive lunches and a face that had grown soft with the arrogance of unopposed power.

  The moderator began the session, and for the first forty minutes, it was a standard dance of statistics and rehearsed rhetoric. But Lee was waiting for his opening. It came when a reporter asked about the stagnating local infrastructure.

  Lee turned his head slowly toward Kim. He didn't look at the camera; he looked directly at the man.

  "I would like to ask Mr. Mayor a very simple question," Lee said, his voice cutting through the room’s hum. "Where exactly did all the tax money go? The subsidies received from the central government over the last two fiscal years... where are they?"

  Mayor Kim stiffened, his eyes darting to the moderator. A bead of sweat formed at his temple. "That... that is a complex budgetary matter, Mr. Lee. But as I’ve stated, it goes to the welfare of the public, of course. Infrastructure, parks, social programs—"

  "If it goes to the public," Lee interjected, his voice rising in a calculated crescendo, "then why the hell are so many people sleeping in the subway stations? Why haven't school teachers and government employees received their salaries for four months? Why are the medical bills in this district the highest in the province while the clinics are falling apart?"

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  Kim’s jaw worked silently for a moment. He leaned into his mic, his voice muffled and shaky. "As I said... it goes to the public... there are delays in the banking systems..."

  "No," Lee snapped, slamming his hand onto the podium. "It doesn't go to the public. It goes to your pocket. It goes to your son’s overseas villas and your wife’s offshore accounts. You aren't a leader, Kim. You’re a parasite."

  The room exploded. Reporters scrambled to their feet, shouting questions, the camera flashes becoming a strobe light of chaos. Kim looked like a man watching his house burn down. Lee simply stood there, the victor, bathed in the white light of the media’s frenzy.

  The aftermath was a blur of victory. As Lee exited the studio, the party head met him in the hallway, clapping him on the back. "You did really well, Lee. That 'parasite' line? Genius. You've killed his career."

  "I only spoke the truth, sir," Lee replied, though they both knew truth was merely a tool.

  A few days later, the results were televised. Lee sat in his campaign headquarters as the numbers climbed. When the final tally was called, he had won by a landslide. At twenty-five, he was the youngest Mayor in the country's history. His dream—the power, the influence, the sheer weight of a title—was finally his.

  The inauguration was a grand affair. He took the oath, feeling the weight of the ceremonial sash, and spent the day submerged in the adulation of the elite. He was the man of the hour, the savior of the city. He partied until the early hours of the morning, basking in the realization that he had finally arrived.

  The following morning, Lee woke up with a slight headache but a heart full of triumph. Wanting a moment of normalcy to savor his new reality, he decided to walk to a small breakfast shop near his new residence. He went without his security detail, enjoying the crisp morning air and the way people looked at him with newfound respect.

  He sat at a corner table, ate a simple meal of rice and soup, and called for the check. As he stood to leave, he pulled out a generous tip and handed it to the young waiter.

  "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," the waiter said, bowing deeply, his eyes wide with awe.

  Lee smiled, a genuine sense of accomplishment washing over him. "Keep up the hard work."

  He stepped out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. The sun was warm on his face. He began to plan his first executive order in his head.

  Vroom.

  The roar of a high-powered motorcycle engine tore through the quiet street. Lee turned his head toward the sound. He saw a flash of chrome and a dark visor.

  CRACK.

  The sound was like a whip snapping right next to his ear.

  Suddenly, the world tilted. Lee felt a strange, jarring sensation, but no pain—not yet. He found himself lying on the cold pavement, staring up at the sky. He tried to move his hand, but his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. A warm, thick liquid began to pool under his head, soaking into his collar. He didn't realize he had been shot in the temple; he only knew that the sky was starting to dim.

  A woman nearby began to scream—a high, piercing sound that felt miles away. A man’s voice, frantic and panicked, rose above the din: "Someone killed the mayor! They shot the mayor!"

  Lee wanted to tell them it was okay, that he just needed to get up for his meeting. But the darkness rushed in, cold and absolute, swallowing the city he had worked so hard to conquer.

  Lee’s eyes snapped open.

  His first sensation was the smell. It wasn't the sterile scent of a hospital or the metallic tang of blood. It was the smell of dry earth, heavy incense, and something sweet.

  His head throbbed with a rhythmic, agonizing pulse. But his body felt heavy, his muscles uncoordinated. He realized he was standing.

  He looked around and his breath hitched. He wasn't in South Korea. He wasn't even in a world he recognized.

  He was in the middle of a massive, somber gathering. In front of him, on an elevated stone dais, lay the body of a woman. She looked to be about thirty-five, her features sharp and noble even in death. The crowd surrounding the dais was enormous—thousands of people, their heads bowed in grief.

  She must be a celebrity, Lee thought, his mind struggling to process the scene. A queen?

  Then he looked at the people. They weren't wearing suits or modern dresses. They were draped in heavy, flowing fabrics—garments that resembled Middle Eastern attire, but with strange, intricate patterns woven into the hems.

  Lee looked down at himself. He wasn't in his bespoke suit. He was wearing a thobe—a long, white Arabic-style robe—but the fabric felt like a shimmering, synthetic silk he had never touched before.

  To his right, a woman. She was completely covered in black garments, a veil obscuring every inch of her face. She was draped in gold and jewels that caught the light with a dull, orange glow. In her arms, she cradled a baby boy who was crying softly.

  A man stood at the front of the crowd, his arms raised toward the sky. He began to speak, but the words that came out of his mouth weren't Korean. They weren't English or Arabic. It was a rhythmic, guttural language, filled with clicks and melodic shifts—a language that felt entirely alien.

  Lee’s heart hammered against his ribs. He slowly lifted his head to look at the sky, hoping for the familiar blue of a Seoul morning.

  What he saw broke his mind.

  The sky wasn't blue; it was a bruised, hazy purple, choked with swirling clouds of orange dirt and dust. And hanging in that choked firmament were two moons. One was massive and cratered, a pale bone-white; the other was smaller, a jagged shard of deep crimson.

  High above the crowd, silent, dark shapes glided through the dust. They weren't birds or planes. They were sleek, metallic vehicles with no visible means of propulsion, leaving faint ripples in the air behind them.

  The sensory overload was too much. The sharp pain in Lee’s head intensified, turning into a searing white heat. His stomach churned. He leaned over and began to vomit onto the dusty ground, his body shaking with violent tremors.

  The woman in the black veil turned toward him. Her movements were frantic. She reached out a jewelry-laden hand and gripped his shoulder. Her voice came through the veil, muffled but sharp with a desperate, maternal terror.

  She cried out. The word meant nothing to him, but the inflection was unmistakable. It was the cry of a mother seeing her child collapse. "Son!"

  Lee tried to look at her, to ask where he was. But the pain peaked, a black curtain falling over his vision. As he slumped forward, the last thing he felt was the woman’s silk-covered arms catching him, and the distant, alien chan

  t of the funeral dirge rising into the twin-mooned sky.