To be brutally honest, the chances of me taking these kids in are slim to none.

    This isn’t a matter of morality—it’s about survival.

    Even when it came to the sniper and her daughter, with whom I share a long-standing bond, I hesitated to bring them into my circle. Taking in these pitiful children would be a betrayal of the principles that have kept me alive until now.

    “Freeze.”

    Just because they’re kids doesn’t mean I’m about to let my guard down.

    I’ve seen raiders use children as bait, and even these kids might not be as innocent as they seem.

    Click.

    I raised my rifle, and the children froze in their tracks.

    “Turn around. Hands in the air.”

    Even a child can kill someone if they have a weapon.

    The ages of the children in front of me ranged from lower to upper elementary school.

    If they know how, taking down a careless adult is no big feat.

    The kids in my sight didn’t appear to be armed.

    “There.”

    I aimed a warning at the railing leading to the second floor.

    “I know you’re hiding. You’ve got ten seconds.”

    I watched the children’s reactions closely as I aimed my rifle.

    The youngest looked utterly lost, unsure of what to do.

    The two older ones exchanged glances, silently communicating.

    Bang!

    I fired a warning shot at the children’s feet.

    They screamed and either crouched down or dropped flat on the floor.

    “Eight.”

    I shifted my gaze to the railing and began counting aloud.

    “Seven.”

    A white handkerchief fluttered out from behind the railing.

    “Alright, alright! I’m coming out.”

    An adult’s voice—a raspy, phlegmy tone, more middle-aged than youthful—called out.

    The owner of the voice soon emerged from the railing.

    A man with long, disheveled hair and a dark complexion limped into view.

    “Come down. Hands in the air.”

    The man slowly descended the spiral staircase to the first floor.

    But he wasn’t alone.

    Trailing behind him, like ducklings following their mother, were several small children.

    It was immediately clear that these kids weren’t his.

    “Whose kids are these?”

    The man smirked bitterly, shaking his head.

    “Picked them up. They’re beggar kids.”

    “Beggar kids?”

    “I took them out of there.”

    The man spread his arms wide, his voice growing more fervent.

    “I brought them out of that hell!”

    *

    The man didn’t reveal his name, but the children called him Sergeant Jang.

    I hadn’t intended to exchange words with him, but he insisted on a conversation, so we spoke briefly outside the house while the children looked on.

    He got straight to the point.

    “Do you need kids?”

    “No.”

    “If you do, take your pick. A little food will do.”

    “I said I don’t need them.”

    When he pressed too hard, I had no choice but to aim my pistol at his stubbled chin.

    Between the wiry hairs of his beard, I noticed small, white worms wriggling.

    Lice.

    I immediately took a step back, putting distance between us, and spoke coldly.

    “Is that all you wanted to say?”

    “You need a boiler, don’t you?”

    Sergeant Jang smirked.

    “I saw you checking out the wood-burning boiler next door. You planning to take it?”

    I had been.

    At least until I encountered these people.

    “No. I was considering it, but I didn’t know you were here. I’ll leave it.”

    Wood-burning boilers are everywhere. I could find another one elsewhere. Or I could ask Defender for help.

    “We’ll help you take it. You just need to load it onto that motorcycle, right?”

    “...”

    “Come on, just give us a little food. You can see the kids’ condition, right? They’ll starve to death like this.”

    I didn’t look at the children.

    It was intentional.

    I didn’t want to develop any unnecessary pity.

    I wasn’t going to take them in or care for them anyway.

    Sergeant Jang fixed his gaze on me and continued speaking.

    “You don’t have to do anything. Just give us some food. Not much. We’ll load the boiler for you. The kids aren’t useless. They’re not just sitting around—they can work. You’d be surprised how sharp they are.”

    Before I could respond, Sergeant Jang turned and barked orders at the hollow-eyed children clustered behind him.

    “What are you standing around for? Get ready to dismantle that boiler! Grab tools! Bring the cart!”

    While he groveled before me, he roared at the children like a tyrant.

    “What about the ones inside?”

    I gestured toward the house with the muzzle of my rifle.

    At my question, Sergeant Jang’s lips twisted into an awkward smile.

    “What are you talking about?”

    “There are two more inside.”

    “...You’ve got good instincts, huh?”

    Click.

    I raised my rifle.

    I usually prefer to resolve things through conversation, but something about this situation—the strange vibe of the abandoned neighborhood, the unsettling presence of so many unfamiliar children, and Sergeant Jang’s crass, filthy demeanor—put me on edge.

    “Who are they?” I asked irritably.

    Sergeant Jang’s eyes darted around nervously.

    “Well, uh...”

    “This conversation is over. Go back inside. Take the kids with you.”

    “No, wait! Listen to me! Look, they’re kids—well, not exactly kids anymore. They’ve grown. They’re... what do you call it? Teenagers! They’re in their rebellious phase or whatever. They don’t listen to me anymore!”

    The way he cracked open the soju bottle and downed it in gulps without so much as a bite of food made that clear.

    “Ahh! This is it. This is the stuff!”

    Drunk or sober, his behavior and expression didn’t change much.

    He remained jittery, insecure, and constantly glancing over his shoulder at the teenagers behind him.

    I’d known from the beginning what haunted him.

    After a few drinks, he started to open up more candidly.

    “I should never have taken in those kids. I should’ve just left them behind.”

    The kids.

    “Couldn’t you have abandoned them halfway?”

    “It’s not as simple as that.”

    “You seem to hate them enough.”

    “If I left them, they’d all be dead. Last winter, only two of them died because I was there. If I hadn’t been, they’d all have frozen to death. Every single one of them!”

    I couldn’t understand his feelings about the children.

    They seemed to be a chaotic mess of contradictions—he pitied them but despised them, they feared him but also seemed to scare him in return.

    Soon enough, I identified the source of my unease.

    There was no clear purpose behind his actions.

    What was driving him to live such a contradictory life?

    I asked, “Why are you doing this?”

    Sergeant Jang licked the neck of the empty soju bottle and gave me a strange smile before murmuring:

    “I don’t know. But when I came to my senses, I was stuck with this damned burden.”

    Then his eyes gleamed.

    “No, I think I do know,” he said with sudden conviction.

    “To avoid going to hell.”

    “Hell?”

    “I’ve done so many bad things. Doesn’t doing at least one good thing keep you out of hell? I know there’s no such thing as hell, but I can’t just die as a piece of shit, can I?”

    I still didn’t understand.

    Was it some form of atonement?

    That was as far as my comprehension could stretch.

    Sergeant Jang’s view of the world and mine must differ greatly in many ways.

    I shifted my focus to a more immediate issue.

    “What about those older kids? The boy and the girl?”

    The ones he seemed so afraid of.

    They were dangerous.

    If left unchecked, either Sergeant Jang would die, or they would.

    “You planning to kill them?”

    In a similar situation, I would.

    “No.”

    Of course, Sergeant Jang wasn’t like me.

    “If you don’t, you might be the one who gets killed.”

    “Then so be it.”

    “Is that part of your atonement too?”

    “Atonement? Nah, it’s not that grand. But if I kill them, the rest of the kids are as good as dead too. You can see I’m not long for this world, right?”

    “...”

    “I’ve taught those ungrateful brats how to survive, at least a little. They’re shitty kids, but the others like them more than they like me, and those two care about the others more than I ever could.”

    Sergeant Jang, who had been grimly reflecting on his dire reality, suddenly broke into a boyish grin.

    “Got a K-walkie?”

    “I do.”

    “You know CQ?”

    “Of course.”

    CQ is the universal call signal for open frequency communication on walkie-talkies.

    Most people skip it, but by-the-book protocol requires starting with CQ when broadcasting to random listeners.

    “I told them to use ‘C8.’ When they get their hands on a walkie-talkie, they’ll just go ‘C8, C8!’ over and over.”

    Sergeant Jang chuckled, his flushed face lit up with amusement.

    I wasn’t just here to listen to his drunken ramblings or life story.

    I handed him another item I’d brought along—a sheet of vinyl from Woo Min-hee.

    I explained how to use it.

    “If you find anything white or close to white, contact me on the walkie-talkie. I can’t help everyone, but I might be able to ensure at least one of those kids has a chance at a decent life.”

    That concluded our conversation.

    With his flushed face and a mix of reluctance and gratitude, Sergeant Jang waved me off as I prepared to leave.

    “Hey, you bastard!”

    He sent a farewell signal that only we survivors understood, but I didn’t respond.

    *

    Sergeant Jang never contacted me again.

    To be honest, I completely forgot about him—and even the wood-burning boiler.

    The summer was oppressively hot, and chaos unfolded in the north as yet another monster eruption plunged the region into turmoil. Meanwhile, in Incheon, an unprecedented disaster turned the entire city upside down.

    I only remembered Sergeant Jang when the early chill of August began to cool the ground.

    While others on the forum rejoiced over the cool, autumn-like weather, I hurried to retrieve the wood-burning boiler. I decided to test it out.

    Whoosh.

    The flames roared to life, and the boiler’s performance was impressive—no malfunctions, no repairs needed.

    Even then, Sergeant Jang didn’t cross my mind.

    Not until my K-walkie suddenly picked up a signal on the public frequency.

    “Shibal.”

    A young girl’s voice echoed over the walkie-talkie, spewing an unexpected curse.

    Why on earth?

    As I listened, the same curse repeated over and over, ringing through the static.

    “Shibal, shibal.”

    It was then that I remembered Sergeant Jang.

    These must be his kids—the ones who had especially hated him.

    “Is anyone there? Please, someone respond.”

    The fact that this voice was coming through likely meant one thing: Sergeant Jang was no longer alive.

    A question crept into my mind.

    Had the kids killed him?

    Or had he succumbed to his illness?

    “Hello? Is no one there? Shibal, shibal!”

    There was no way to know the answer.

    After all, I wasn’t about to respond to that signal.

    “Hello! Is anyone there?!”

    At least that bright, innocent voice still carried a faint glimmer of hope.