Chapter Text
In Ghost City, the sky never dawned. Not because the sun had disappeared (although many swore it had), but because time itself had stopped moving in a linear way.
Nights stretched, folded in on themselves, and began again, as if someone had left the universe’s clock stuck on a loop. Sometimes the horizon was stained with a hazy red, a deceptive glow that some demons mistook for sunrise. But it was nothing more than the reflection of the factories in the northern district, where the smelting furnaces never went out.
Ghost City was a metropolis that pulsed in perpetual twilight, a living body made of smoke, iron, and the sighs of exhausted souls. The rooftops—sharp and curved like those of ancient imperial cities—were coated in a layer of reddish dust that fell from the sky like ash. Neon lights, all in varying shades of crimson, flickered with a constant buzz, and cables hung over the narrow streets like electric spiderwebs.
The air always smelled of coal, spicy soup, and bureaucracy. That unbearable mix of industrial smoke and office sweat was the first thing one noticed upon waking… if anyone in hell truly slept at all.
At the heart of the city, between administrative towers and markets overflowing with shouts, rose the Ministry of Revenue and Spiritual Control, a building so tall it seemed to be reaching for a sky that no longer existed. At its entrance, two statues of winged demons held a broken scale; beneath them, a plaque read with irony: “Work dignifies the damned.”
That was where Seonghyeon worked—a desk demon. He had been in the same position for three hundred and fifty years, though he had long since lost track of the exact count. His time in the underworld often surprised others, as few demons spent so many years paying for their sins in hell.
For Seonghyeon, every workday was identical to the last: stamping reports, calculating unpayable taxes, signing documents with ink that smelled of sulfur, and listening to department heads repeat the official mantra: “Every sinner pays their debt, even if it takes an eternity.”
By the seventh toll of the infernal clock—a massive structure that marked the hours with screams instead of bells—Seonghyeon was already seated at his desk.
His office was an endless room of identical desks, each one with a buzzing red lamp, a stack of documents that never seemed to shrink, and a filing cabinet that devoured papers like a starving beast. The walls oozed dampness, and sometimes muffled laughter could be heard, though no one knew where it came from.
Seonghyeon leaned over his desk and signed the one hundred and fifteenth document of the day.
“Moral debt report… subject number 732,” he murmured as he filled out the forms with precise handwriting. Every word he wrote was automatically engraved onto a floating tablet that archived the taxes. The system, according to the supervisors, was “more efficient than the celestial network.”
On his desk, a cup of tea—cold for the past three hours—rested beside a small red paper crane. He couldn’t remember who had given it to him. In fact, he barely remembered anything from before his first day at the office. But that didn’t trouble him much; no one remembered their earthly life before arriving in hell. It was one of the few rules everyone accepted without protest—or at least without being heard.
From time to time, Seonghyeon lifted his gaze toward the window. From the fourteenth floor, he could see the city stretching out like a mass of red lights. In the streets below, workers marched toward the factories, peasants descended from the mountains with coal-laden carts, and children played among the steam-filled sewers. The shouts of various protests echoed in the distance, like a persistent chorus blending with the noise of the underground trains.
“Another strike…” he murmured, twirling his pen between his fingers. “What a surprise.”
No one on the fourteenth floor bothered to look down. Strikes were common in a city overflowing with social inequality.
His coworker, Mr. Kim—a demon with a kind expression and permanent dark circles under his eyes—peeked over the desk divider.
“Did you hear that the Ministry of Immigration lost thirty percent of its soul records?” the man asked.
“Again?” Seonghyeon replied without looking up. “They must’ve filed them in the wrong limbo.”
Kim let out a short laugh.
“No, this time it seems serious. They’re reviewing the numbers. They say they vanished without a trace.”
“Well, if hell can lose souls, then we’re officially bankrupt,” Seonghyeon said, taking a sip of his iced tea. “Let me know when they start refunding taxes.”
Mr. Kim laughed, then lowered his voice. “There have also been disappearances in the southern slums. Children, they say.”
“Children?” Seonghyeon raised an eyebrow. “It’s rare to see disappearances in the underworld. Even more so children.”
Mr. Kim nodded and added, “It’s been weeks without any news. And the police aren’t doing anything.”
Seonghyeon let out a dry chuckle. “The police never do anything, except fill out repression forms.”
Silence settled back over the office, accompanied by the sound of hundreds of pens writing in unison. Suddenly, Mr. Kim spoke again.
“Don’t you find it strange?”
Seonghyeon’s gaze remained fixed on his documents.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean… the current state of the Underworld. The State isn’t doing anything. Strange things are happening, kid. And the lower classes are the ones paying the price.”
A soft sigh escaped Seonghyeon’s lips.
“You’re too kind, and that’s going to get you into trouble. Sometimes it’s better to look the other way and not meddle in matters that don’t concern us.”
Mr. Kim murmured a simple “you’re right” and returned to his work.
Seonghyeon had known Mr. Kim for nearly twenty years. They both had calm personalities, and the warmth the older man radiated helped him endure the long workdays.
From time to time, Mr. Kim would invite him to dinner with his family or to visit the city’s old temples. They had developed a warm relationship, and Seonghyeon appreciated him deeply.
At the tenth toll, the senior supervisor walked through the rows, inspecting the desks. Each time he approved a report, he left a glowing mark on the paper; if not, the document dissolved into smoke and the employee had to start over.
When he reached Seonghyeon’s desk, he nodded in satisfaction and said, “Efficiency and organization, as always. You’ll most likely be promoted to external collector next week. Congratulations.”
“What an honor,” Seonghyeon replied with a dry smile. “Maybe they’ll give me a chair that doesn’t squeak.”
The supervisor didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.
Hours later, when the office lights flickered three times—signaling the end of the workday—Seonghyeon gathered his papers and headed down to the lobby. On the way, he passed the murals lining the main corridor: they depicted heroic scenes of demons at work, raising factories, sowing fields of souls. In the last one, a figure with golden wings—the supposed King of the Underworld—watched over the city from a throne made of broken clocks.
The history of the Underworld’s monarchy was a complete mystery. The few times the people had been able to witness the King and the royal family in person were rare. The entire bureaucratic apparatus worked for the monarchy, yet no one had seen them in centuries, and the populace seemed to have forgotten them altogether. As a result, they vented all their rage on the bureaucrats, even though they were merely following orders that came from above.
Outside, the air was thicker than ever. Ash fell over the streets, illuminated by red streetlamps. News criers shouted the day’s headlines from yellowed newspapers: “Riots increase in the workers’ district!”, “Ministry promises to reduce eternal debt to 0.001% annually!”, “Missing children! Police assure that ‘everything is under control’!”
“Everything is under control,” Seonghyeon repeated under his breath, grimacing. He lit a cigarette and walked toward his small apartment.
A week later, Seonghyeon was promoted and handed the list of demons who held debts with the State. His eyes went to the first name on the list.
Infernal Mechanics Workshop — Owner: Keonho, demon, one hundred and ten years old.
The promotion wasn’t something he truly cared to show off, but he wanted to share the news with his closest friend, Mr. Kim. However, when he went to look for him, he wasn’t at his usual desk, which struck Seonghyeon as strange. "Maybe his daughter is sick again. I’ll stop by his house tomorrow to see how he’s doing", he thought as he left the office.
The next day, Seonghyeon headed toward the workshop located in the southern district—a zone of ramshackle garages, alleys filled with blue smoke, and vendors selling rusted parts. No one wanted to go there, but someone had to.
“External collector… what a promotion,” he muttered, slipping the notebook into his coat pocket. And so, beneath a sky that never dawned, Seonghyeon set off toward the edges of Ghost City.
Around him, the city breathed like a sleeping animal, and somewhere in the distance, a rusted clock kept marking an hour that would never arrive.
The southern district began where the underground train rails surfaced like an open wound. There, the streets were narrower, the lights dimmer, and the air heavier. The buildings, crammed tightly together, seemed to stay upright out of habit alone. Along the road, small food stalls released steam into the sky. They sold thick stews made from unidentifiable meat and bottles of liquor so corrosive they could double as engine cleaner.
Workers walked hunched over, wearing scorched-fabric uniforms and soot-filled helmets. They all moved in much the same way—heads down, eyes unfocused. Seonghyeon made his way through them, hands in the pockets of his gray Ministry coat. The coat gave him away: State bureaucrats were easy to recognize, and no one greeted them with sympathy. The looks that followed him through the streets were a mix of hatred and resignation, as if his mere presence reminded everyone that hell didn’t need fire to burn—only paperwork.
He passed a demonstration: a crowd of worker demons marched with torches and banners. The red smoke from the torches blended with the factory haze, creating a sky that looked almost liquid. The chants were monotonous, repetitive, sadder than they were energetic: “Fewer shifts, more rest!”, “The soul doesn’t rust, but the body does!”, “Debt isn’t paid with sweat, it’s paid with justice!”
A group of infernal police watched from a balcony, their eyes glowing like embers beneath their helmets. No one dared get too close.
Seonghyeon sighed. “Eternal riots,” he muttered. “They sound more boring every century.”
He cut through an alley to avoid the crowd. The pavement gave way to cracked dirt, and cables hung so low they brushed against people’s heads. Neon signs advertised workshops, bars, temples, and brothels, offering a mix of services for every kind of demon. Everything ran twenty-four hours a day in the endless non-day.
A three-eyed rat crossed his path, dragging a piece of bread it had stolen from a street vendor. He watched it with a trace of envy. At least the rat knew where it was going.
After half an hour of walking through markets and shouting, he arrived at the Infernal Mechanics Workshop. The sign was half-fallen, held up by a rusted chain. The letters were hand-painted, and one of them—the “R”—hung crooked, giving the sign an air of accidental menace.
The workshop occupied an old locomotive factory, and the metallic sound of hammering echoed from inside. Its appearance was decayed, and the neighborhood it stood in did nothing to improve its outward image.
Seonghyeon stopped in front of the door, brushed the dust from his coat, and checked his notebook.
Owner: Ahn Keonho.
Debts: Three months unpaid.
Stated reason: Structural injustice.
“At least he’s honest,” he muttered, and pushed the door open to enter the workshop.
The interior was a blend of smoke, grease, and music blasting at full volume. A battered radio played an old song—“12:51” by The Strokes echoed throughout the space.
Engines under repair were scattered everywhere, some floating in the air, others dismantled on tables covered in tools. In one corner, a demon with dark hair and feline eyes was welding a metal piece. He wore a tank top that had long since lost its color. His hair was soaked with sweat, and his thick eyebrows were drawn together in concentration.
“Who the hell…?” Keonho muttered, lifting his gaze.
Seonghyeon raised his Ministry badge, which glowed faintly under the red light.
“Department of Revenue and Spiritual Control. I’m here for the taxes,” he said in the most monotonous voice he could muster.
Keonho let out a laugh. He had an easy smile—one that could be charming or dangerous, depending on the context.
“And who are you supposed to be? The soul collector?” he asked with amusement, though his tone was sharp.
“More like the tax collector.” Seonghyeon crossed his arms. “Your workshop owes three months of contributions and, according to my records, a missing income declaration form as well.”
“Oh, right. That one. I’ve got it right here.”
Keonho stood and walked over to a cabinet, rummaged through the drawers, pulled out a nut, tossed it into the air, then said with feigned innocence, “Oh no. It’s gone.”
The silence stretched for a moment. Seonghyeon looked at him with that typical expression of bureaucrats who have seen it all—a mix of exhausted patience and automatic sarcasm.
“If I got a coin for every demon who ‘loses’ their paperwork, I’d have paid off my sins by now.”
“Poor you,” Keonho replied, leaning against the table. “But look, taxes went up twenty percent this month. Not even the cars I fix are worth that much.”
“Rules are rules,” Seonghyeon said, irritation creeping into his voice.
“And the rules are stupid.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds. The air grew tense. Seonghyeon studied Keonho’s figure: oil-stained hands, a strange scar on his neck shaped like a lightning bolt. His gaze was intense but not aggressive—there was something in it that challenged without a single word.
Seonghyeon, by contrast, looked like he was made of marble and paper: clean, orderly, but with an irony humming beneath the surface. He, too, bore a scar—every demon had one, marking the way they had died in their previous life. Keonho wore his openly, comfortably, almost with pride. There were many demons like him. And then there were demons like Seonghyeon, who kept their scars hidden from everyone.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not the one who sets the taxes,” Seonghyeon said at last, jotting something down in his notebook.
“Sure. You’re just the guy who comes to collect them.”
“And you’re the guy who never pays.”
“Then I guess we’re even.”
Their gazes met. For an instant, it seemed like they were both about to laugh. But the sound of an engine exploding in the back of the workshop shattered the tension. A young demon came running out, covered in smoke, shouting, “Boss, the compressor started spitting fire again!”
“Let it spit—at least it’s still alive!” Keonho yelled, then turned back to Seonghyeon and added with a half-smile, “I’d say the same thing to you.”
Seonghyeon didn’t reply. He wrote something else in his notebook, put his pen away, and moved toward the door.
“You have one week to pay the taxes you owe. If you don’t, the Ministry will proceed to seize the workshop’s assets.”
Keonho arched an eyebrow. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“That some guys in suits more expensive than mine will come and take your engines.”
The young mechanic frowned in irritation and stepped dangerously close to Seonghyeon, whispering near his ear, “And what if I refuse to pay the damn taxes?”
“They’ll give you another form,” Seonghyeon replied indifferently, then turned away.
Keonho watched him leave with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. There was something about the way that bureaucrat walked—so straight-backed, so untouched by the chaos around him—that was irritating… and yet intriguing.
Outside, the ash rain had grown heavier. The sky was now tinted orange, as if the entire city were burning beneath a pane of glass. Seonghyeon lit a cigarette and leaned his back against the workshop wall. Inside, Keonho watched him from the window.
Seonghyeon looked back and pointed at his watch.
“One week,” he repeated under his breath. “Not a day more.”
Keonho sighed with feigned sadness. “You Ministry types… always so charming.”
However, before he could return to work, a sharp sound echoed in the distance. A gunshot. Then a scream. Both of them lifted their heads at the same time.
The sound of the shot cut through the air like a crack. In Ghost City, noise was constant—shouts, sirens, engines, factory explosions—but that sound had a different precision. It was clean, brief, unmistakably human.
For a moment, everything seemed suspended. Then the echoes spread through the alleys, bouncing off metal walls until they reached the workshop.
“Did you hear that?” Keonho asked, dropping a wrench as he rushed out of the workshop.
“What do you think it was? A bomb from the protesting workers?” Seonghyeon replied, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.
Another scream—closer this time. They looked at each other, no words needed, and started moving toward the sound almost simultaneously. As they crossed the street, a car sped past them heading north, without license plates. Seonghyeon ignored it and kept walking, but Keonho took note of the model—it caught his attention.
The air outside was thick with smoke and that smell of hot iron that always preceded disaster. In the distance, at the main intersection of a busy street, a group of demons was beginning to gather. The traffic light flickered between red and green, as if unsure which order to give.
“This way, follow me,” Keonho said, pushing through the crowd. Seonghyeon followed, shoving past onlookers.
When they reached the scene, they found chaos: a car had crashed, its windshield shattered, smoke pouring from the engine. Inside the vehicle, a body slumped over the steering wheel, a clean hole in its chest and blood evaporating into the air.
An elderly demon stood nearby, clutching his head with both hands.
“They killed him! They killed him right in front of everyone!” he screamed.
A shiver ran through Seonghyeon. It wasn’t common to see a murder in Ghost City. Violence was frequent, yes, but it was almost always institutional: eternal dismissals, administrative punishments, labor exploitation, strikes. But a real gunshot, in the middle of the street, at peak hour, was a different story.
He stepped closer to the body, and his blood ran cold. He recognized the pale face, the crooked glasses, the badge still pinned to the chest. It was Haneul, from the Immigration Department. A bureaucrat like him.
“Damn it…” Seonghyeon whispered, turning his gaze away.
“Did you know him?” Keonho asked, frowning.
“We worked in the same building. He was in the Immigration sector. He handled arrival records.”
“And who shoots a guy who spends eternity filling out paperwork?”
“Good question.”
Seonghyeon bent down a little more, studying the scene. “This wasn’t a robbery,” he murmured.
Around them, the murmurs grew. People spoke in low voices: “They say the car came from the north,” “It had no license plate,” “A guy with a mask got out… shot him and ran,” “What about the police?” “What police? They won’t do anything, like always!”
Keonho stepped away from the group, recalling the car he had seen minutes earlier. “I can recognize that model,” he said, almost to himself.
“How?” Seonghyeon asked, stepping closer.
“It’s a Lux-22. They haven’t been manufactured in over a hundred years. There’s only one guy who sells those relics. His name is Martin.”
Seonghyeon frowned. “And who is Martin?”
“A smuggler. A charming idiot. And, unfortunately, an old acquaintance.”
Fifteen minutes later, a group of infernal police arrived, with their usual slowness. They wore gray uniforms with crimson details, masks with respirators, and carried electric batons. One of them approached the body and, without really looking at it, began taking notes on a sparking device.
“Incident circumstances: undetermined. Probable cause: traffic error,” the officer dictated.
“Traffic error?” Keonho repeated, incredulous.
“Yes. Gunshots are considered traffic errors when they disrupt traffic flow,” the policeman replied in a mechanical tone.
Seonghyeon said nothing. He knew that arguing with hell’s police was like arguing with a tax-collecting machine: useless and dangerous.
The officer looked up at them. “Witnesses?” he asked, uninterested.
“No one saw anything,” a voice said from the crowd. And as if on cue, everyone began to disperse.
Keonho stepped closer to Seonghyeon.
“This feels strange to you, doesn’t it?” he whispered near his ear.
A strange chill ran down Seonghyeon’s spine as he replied quietly, “Strange is a word that lost its meaning two centuries ago. But yes, something is out of place.”
“And what are you going to do?” Keonho’s gaze was sharp, almost expectant.
Seonghyeon merely shrugged. “The usual. Fill out a report.”
It sounded like a joke, but beneath it there was a shadow of unease in his voice.
As the police covered the body with a gray sheet, Seonghyeon pulled out his notebook and wrote a few quick notes:
“Death of Ministry of Immigration official. Official cause: traffic accident. Actual cause: unknown. Witness: Keonho (Infernal Mechanics Workshop).”
Then he closed the notebook. The air smelled of blood and gunpowder. The heavy roars of the factories continued in the distance, and the sky seemed redder than ever.
“I suppose that’s it,” he said, lighting a cigarette and turning to leave.
Keonho looked at him, confused. “That’s it?”
Seonghyeon took a deep drag and gazed at the massive mountains in the distance. Their forests, dense with vegetation, contrasted sharply with the vivid red sky, the ash, and the ever-present smoke of Ghost City. The mountains looked beautiful in that moment. And yet, an unfamiliar sensation choked Seonghyeon every time he stared at them for more than a minute—it was as if his body rejected them on an unconscious level.
“You learn quickly not to ask questions in a place like this, Keonho,” Seonghyeon murmured, his gaze unfocused.
“And yet, you seem like the kind of person who can’t help asking them,” Keonho replied, his voice low.
Seonghyeon looked at him for a moment, as if about to answer with irony, but instead he exhaled the smoke and sighed, exhausted.
“Take care, Keonho. Hell has a better memory than it lets on.”
The smoke rose slowly, blending with the ash that continued to fall from the sky. Keonho watched him walk away—a tall, gray figure dissolving into the red shadows of the city. Behind him, Haneul’s body vanished beneath the sheet as it crumbled into dust. The traffic light flickered one last time, settling on eternal red.
And so, in the city that never slept, the first gunshot had awakened something that had been buried for far too long.
Once the body was removed and the murmurs dissolved into the alleys, Ghost City seemed to return to its usual rhythm. Food stalls reignited their burners, advertisement lights resumed their flicker, and the underground trains roared once more beneath the streets. In hell, even tragedy had to keep a schedule.
Seonghyeon walked back toward the city center, hands buried in his pockets, his mind replaying every detail of the crime. Haneul’s face followed him like a shadow in the reflections of shop windows. It wasn’t the first time someone had died in the underworld, of course, but murders were usually reserved for the lowest levels.
A bureaucrat, however… that was new. That was dangerous.
The streets of the middle district were less saturated with smoke, but heavier with uncomfortable silences. Seonghyeon was exhausted, yet he still had to write a report about what had happened.
A group of workers were drinking outside a tavern, and one of them, bottle half-empty, shouted, “Hey, bureaucrat! How much does it cost to breathe today?”
“That tax just went up,” Seonghyeon replied without stopping. The workers laughed bitterly. The city had that kind of humor—the kind that laughed at its own suffocation.
When he finally reached the Ministry building, the doors were already closed, but the guard let him in.
“Your shift ended five hours ago,” the guard said, flipping through a form.
“Work never ends,” Seonghyeon replied as he climbed the stairs. “It just changes format.”
On his floor, the silence was so thick he could hear the hum of the floating lamps. Only one desk was still lit, buried under papers and empty coffee cups. There sat Juhoon, a young employee from the Immigration Department, ninety-eight years into his time in the Underworld. Seonghyeon had exchanged a few words with him in the past, but he didn’t really know him.
Juhoon was a stark contrast to the surroundings: messy hair, a kind face, and a distracted expression that didn’t seem to belong in hell. He wore headphones, humming a soft tune as he slowly typed on an old administrative machine. The sound of the keys was like a gentle rain.
Seonghyeon stopped by his desk and asked, “Don’t you know that staying after hours can be considered an act of subversion?”
Juhoon looked up and smiled. “I know. But the office is quieter like this. And someone has to fix the system’s mistakes,” he replied calmly, taking a sip of his coffee.
A tired smile crossed Seonghyeon’s face. “Good luck with that. The system is the mistake.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and in that brief exchange, a bond of recognition formed—the bond of those who know they share the same exhaustion.
“I heard you were promoted to external tax collector. Congratulations.”
Seonghyeon laughed softly. “Thanks… I guess. Though I’m not sure it really counts as a promotion.”
Suddenly, Juhoon noticed the dried bloodstains on Seonghyeon’s sleeve and raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen out there?”
“A traffic accident,” Seonghyeon said with a grimace, then added, “With a gunshot involved.”
Juhoon frowned, but didn’t press further.
“Strange things have been happening lately. Some records don’t add up. Soul censuses are dropping for no apparent reason,” he whispered.
“Yeah. I heard. Mr. Kim was complaining about that the other day. Speaking of which—have you heard anything about him? I haven’t seen him in days,” Seonghyeon said, concerned.
“They reassigned him to another department.”
“Reassigned?” Seonghyeon repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Juhoon shrugged. “That’s what they say. But no one’s seen him for three days.”
Silence settled between them, dense and persistent. Seonghyeon turned his gaze to the window. The city stretched beyond the glass—an endless carpet of red lights and shifting shadows. From that height, everything looked so perfectly ordered, so under control. And yet, there was something in the air… an imbalance, a strange vibration, as if the very walls of the underworld were holding back a secret too large to contain.
“You should go get some sleep,” Seonghyeon said at last.
Juhoon smiled, gesturing to his stack of papers. “In this place, sleeping is considered a form of tax evasion.”
Seonghyeon couldn’t help but laugh, for the first time that day. “Then let them audit your dreams. See you, Juhoon.”
Juhoon smiled and returned to his documents and forms. Seonghyeon went to his own desk and began writing the report. He chose to omit many of the details that had struck him as strange, he didn’t want to draw the attention of his superiors, and he preferred not to meddle in matters that didn’t concern him.
The streets were sparsely populated when Seonghyeon left the building and walked toward his apartment—a small room on the fortieth floor of a state-owned complex. The building seemed to scrape the sky with its endless floors, and its gray walls gave off a coldness that didn’t quite fit hell.
The elevator creaked as if in complaint, its lights flickering red. When he reached his poorly furnished apartment, he collapsed onto the bed without even taking off his shoes. On the wall, a clock without hands marked the passage of time with a metallic heartbeat. That sound was the closest thing to silence one could find in Ghost City.
He closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, he dreamed. He dreamed of a great mountain, a blue sky that no longer existed, and the sound of wind moving through the trees. But then the blue turned red, the branches became antennas, and the leaves turned into stamped papers. The dream collapsed in on itself, just like the city.
When he woke, breathing fast, the room was exactly as it always was: dark, lonely, unmoving. Only the clock kept beating. And in the distance, almost imperceptible, he heard it again—the echo of a gunshot. Or perhaps the memory of one.