The distance from Kimchaek to Hamhung is roughly 250 kilometers in a straight line. On a map, it appears as a single, gentle curve winding along the East Coast. It is a path that runs parallel to the waves, a road stretching endlessly with the sea to its right.

  If this were the South, or a modern highway in any other country, the journey would take barely three hours. At a constant speed, one would arrive in about three hours' time.

  But this is North Korea.

  The road is merely "connected," not "cleared." The asphalt is cracked in places, and on unpaved sections, red dust rises with the wind. Military checkpoints appear without warning, and if a truck or military vehicle blocks the way, one is stranded for dozens of minutes. Depending on the fuel situation, speed is decided not by the heart, but by the needle of the fuel gauge.

  The coastline is beautiful. Silver sunlight spreads over the blue sea, and a single fishing boat floats like a dot in the distance. Yet, the luxury of admiring that scenery is granted to no one. This road is not a scenic route; it is a corridor of movement permeated by control and surveillance.

  Five hours have passed since departing from Kimchaek, yet the arrival in Hamhung is still far off.

  Major Min gazes at the waves of the East Sea flickering past the window. Like the ashen swells breaking and reconnecting, thoughts collide incessantly in his mind.

  The moment he told Vadim to save Natasha.

  That was not an impulsive judgment. Already, the starship’s intelligence room has calculated the probability of an R agent sniping Natasha. It wasn't a mere "possibility," but a set of data including the trajectory of the warhead, the wind speed, and the exact moment the trigger would be pulled. The coordinates and time of the sniper's strike, even the margin of error.

  And within that calculation, Vadim was included.

  What words Min would speak, the expression Vadim would wear upon hearing them, and how many seconds later he would throw his body. His weight, reaction speed, and emotional impulsivity were all plugged into the formula. Even the probability of Vadim being struck by a bullet and dying was organized as a single value.

  It is not a prediction of the future. It is not a prophecy.

  Lillik spoke coldly. "We need Vadim."

  Lillik considers the possibility that the officer droids might one day commit betrayal. To eliminate that variable, she deems a preemptive replacement necessary and determines that a humanoid droid is the most suitable fit.

  Vadim is not so much chosen as he is a being designed. From the moment he was chased by the U-army drones and his life was threatened, his trajectory was already drawn. The conclusion that he must be drawn to their side was reached then. There was a calculation that a human whose fear, anger, and survival instincts are pushed to the limit is the easiest to pivot.

  The starship notified Min in advance of the situation where Natasha would become endangered. That information was provocative enough to trigger Vadim’s impulses and drive his choices into a single direction.

  Major Min still gazes out the window with an expression of incomprehension. He cannot fathom why Lillik insisted on Vadim specifically, or what mission she intends to entrust to him. For a mere replacement humanoid droid, the resources, time, and risks invested in the calculation were far too great. Vadim feels less like an "expendable" and more like a variable harboring a deeper purpose.

  It is then.

  The car hits a deep pothole in the road with a violent jolt. The shock travels up his spine, shattering his scattered thoughts. Outside the window, the road trailing the coastline is growing dark. The sunset spreads long over the sea, and the waves shimmer, saturated with a crimson light.

  "Comrade Major. We will arrive in Hamhung shortly. Since it’s nearly evening, it looks like we’ll have to stay the night in Hamhung."

  Min’s aide, accompanying him to Pyongyang, speaks with a smile reflected in the rearview mirror. His tone is light, but fatigue is etched in his eyes—the result of driving this road for hours.

  "Let's do that. Let's head to the M-Invitation House at Majon Beach. We’ll spend the night there."

  It is known that in North Korea, there are no hotels in the general sense where anyone can freely come and go. Due to the extremely closed nature of the system, those who can use lodging facilities are also strictly limited.

  The doors of hotels open primarily to high-ranking state officials or personnel moving to other regions for official duties. Since travel or movement for personal purposes is not permitted in the first place, the very act of "staying overnight" lies within the realm of state control.

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  Foreigners are an exception and can use them. However, even they cannot choose freely. In most cases, itineraries must be approved in advance through designated travel agencies, and they can only stay within fixed hotels and routes. Even in a strange land, their footsteps are bound by invisible lines.

  In the outskirts of cities or in the provinces, lodgings called "inns" or "Invitation Houses" exist, but these too are far from being free spaces. The Invitation House, in particular, is a type of resort—a grand villa for military generals and high-ranking officials. However, it is said that to use such a facility, one must register with the local lodging allotment office and be assigned a room. It bears the name of a lodging, but in reality, it is more like another gateway that only the authorized may enter.

  The car passes the checkpoint, entering the M-Invitation House as the iron gates open with a slow, heavy grind. Within the expansive grounds stretching along the coastline sit beach resort-style buildings, orderly enough to be presented to foreigners without hesitation. The sunset gradually stains the shore. A crimson light spreads along the horizon, warmly enveloping the exterior walls of the buildings. Yet, Major Min knows well that even beneath that light, invisible boundaries and surveillance cameras are densely concealed.

  As the car stops in front of the entrance, waiting staff quickly approach. The identity check is a mere formality; his arrival would have already been reported to the higher-ups. Major Min steps out of the car in silence. The sea breeze brushes against the hem of his uniform.

  Soon, room assignments are made. The aide is guided to an independent guest room, and Major Min is also assigned a separate room. Even within the same entourage, it is customary to be grouped in the same wing. Granting two separate rooms is rare. This is a space strictly partitioned by the number of occupants and their rank.

  Such treatment is hard to come by unless one is a high-ranking official. Specifically, being assigned a private room in an area capable of receiving external guests is not mere convenience—it is a mark of "status."

  Min enters his room. He pulls back the curtains of the window.

  "Once I reach Pyongyang tomorrow, I must hand the item over to the Party and meet my father."

  His father is a high-ranking scientist in Pyongyang, a nuclear physicist. It was his father who made Min who he is today.

  It was a winter day when Min turned ten. His father was unusually taciturn. The place he took Min by the hand was neither a school nor a hospital. It was a gray building with almost no windows; the interior was excessively quiet, and the air was permeated with the smell of metal. A space that felt like a laboratory, yet also like a military facility.

  There, Min met Jun-ho for the first time. The man standing under the white lights did not feel strangely unfamiliar. Though it was a face he had never seen before, an inexplicable sense of déjà vu brushed his chest. It felt as if he were encountering a relative in reality whom he had only ever seen in old photographs.

  "So this child is Min."

  Jun-ho’s voice was low and calm. Min does not remember the exact sentences exchanged that day. Only his father’s rigid expression and the breath-holding gazes of the researchers remain vivid.

  He learned only later. From that day on, Min was no longer "one person." He became a being who shared a memory file spanning 700,000 years and a specific core consciousness with Jun-ho. It was not simple genetic cloning. It was not a copying of the flesh, nor an overwriting of memory.

  Min’s ego remained intact. His emotions, judgments, and choices were still "Min’s." However, within them, another layer formed. It wasn't that Jun-ho’s memories were inserted like files to be opened when needed. It was a more subtle form. It was a structure where two consciousnesses coexisted in one space, quietly adding opinions to each other's thoughts.

  Facing a decision, an inexplicable intuition would surface first. Unfamiliar languages or ancient scenes would pass like flashes. Sensations of an era he had never lived through seeped in like dreams. It was neither an auditory hallucination nor a delusion. It was the advice of another "Self."

  Min was an independent human being. Yet, at the same time, he was a communal entity sharing consciousness with Jun-ho—like two wavelengths overlapping to create a single tone. In his childhood, he was confused. It was difficult to distinguish where his own thoughts ended and the shared memories began. But as time flowed, he came to understand.

  Gazing into the darkness outside the window, he thinks quietly.

  Am I a clone? Or an heir?

  The memories of 700,000 years breathe faintly within him. But how to use that breath is solely the task of the Min who lives in this era.

  Just then, a knock echoes in the quiet room. Min lifts his head as if emerging from his thoughts. The moment he turns toward the door, the handle rotates slowly, and the door opens.

  Through the gap, a woman enters cautiously. Her face still carries the traces of youth, likely just over twenty. With neatly tied hair and modest attire, her expression is noticeably taut with tension.

  Min is momentarily speechless.

  "Who... are you...?"

  The woman lowers her head slightly, her hands clasped together.

  "I came to ask if there is anything you might need."

  Her voice is small and careful. She sounds like someone reciting a memorized line. Only then does Min understand the situation.

  In the Invitation House, such "cooperative personnel" existed—an unpublicized practice. Most who visited here were men, specifically those with power. Young women selected for their convenience work at the Invitation House, tasked with serving them.

  Their official titles were managers or guides, but their actual roles were far more complex. Often, the women themselves "volunteered" for selection. Benefits for their families, rations, freedom of movement, or invisible protection—the time spent here was a form of trade and opportunity for them.

  Major Min stares at her in silence.