“Your brother’s on the verge of death. What do you say? Should I save him?”

Irok didn’t know if ten years old was such a young age. By the time his and his brother’s lives were held hostage by Sarira, he had already booked a life of s*avery. In a world where “hello,” “good night,” “good morning,” and “good evening” had vanished, Irok faced a horrific eighteenth year.

“Right. You’re a spy now. Exciting, isn’t it? You get to leave this place.”

His life, which felt like hell, always had a twist. The targeted girl, the pretty one in the photo, held a branch with yellow flowers. Her chubby cheeks and old-fashioned striped hanbok, at four or five years old, were striking. His life, which felt like hell, always had a twist. A woman tied to him through someone’s scheme or malice showed Irok a different kind of hell.

“Irok!”

“Irok! Have you eaten?”

In a world where “hello,” “good night,” “good morning,” and “good evening” returned, what choice would Irok make?

If you die, I live; if I die, you live. Irok didn’t know if eighteen was an age worth dying for.