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Religion had always been a quiet background force in Ji-min’s life, dictated by her grandmother's strict, conservative routines. But lying on the cold carpet of the broadcasting room in the dead of night, those rigid childhood lessons suddenly felt terrifyingly relevant. God had promised a second coming in the scriptures—was this grotesque nightmare what He meant? Was this the Rapture? Some horrific, apocalyptic reckoning to purge the sinners? She imagined her grandmother kneeling on her velvet prayer stool right now, whispering that a true saint would just keep their faith and pray. But what would the local priest even make of a world where the dead walked?
The silence inside the room only made the questions in her head roar louder. What was it like out there right now?
When they had briefly managed to pull up social media on Joon-yeong’s phone earlier, the endless stream of chaotic videos had confirmed their worst fears: the nightmare wasn't isolated to Hyosan High. The virus was tearing through the entire city. It had likely hit the district hospital first, spreading like wildfire through the emergency room before spilling out into the streets. What if the ambulance that carried their infected classmate away never even reached the gates?
Ji-min swallowed hard, her chest aching for her parents. Were they okay? Had they been caught in the bloody carnage outside, or were they barricaded somewhere safe?
And what about the others—Gyeong-su, Na-yeon, and everyone separated from them during the stairwell collapse? Were they out there in the dark, trapped in a cold classroom, hungry, terrified, and praying for a morning that felt like it would never come? Maybe they would take advantage of the pitch-black night to make a run for the outer gates. Or maybe... maybe they were already dead, ripped apart in a dark hallway or turned into one of them.
Ji-min gripped her knees tighter, trying to drown out the dark thoughts. No. They’re alive. We’re going to find each other. The police or the military will show up with searchlights and take us somewhere safe.
Unless nobody was coming. Unless they were just sitting in the dark, delaying the inevitable before the horde outside breached the door, exactly like they did in the Science Lab.
"Ji-min? Are you awake?" On-jo’s soft, hesitation-laced whisper cut through the gloom.
Ji-min shifted slightly on the floor, adjusting her blazer. "Yeah. Can't sleep."
"Me neither," On-jo murmured, edging a little closer so their shoulders touched against the lower cabinet. "It's just... too quiet. And too loud in my head."
"It's going to be fine," Ji-min said, even though they both knew it was a bald-faced lie. Her voice croaked at the end, her throat tightening so hard it hurt. Before she could pull away, On-jo reached out, wrapping a gentle arm around her waist. The simple, human touch broke through Ji-min's stiff defense, and she found herself leaning heavily into the comfort, letting out a small, trembling whimper.
"Hey, it's okay," On-jo whispered, her chin resting lightly near Ji-min's shoulder. "We made it through today. We just have to make it through tonight."
"My parents..." Ji-min admitted, her voice barely a thread. "I didn't even say goodbye to them this morning. I was annoyed because my mom forgot my favorite side dish."
"They know you love them, Ji-min," On-jo asked softly, her breath warm against the chilly air of the room. "Where were they when everything started?"
"At the shop," she admitted, wiping a stray tear against her sleeve. "In the central market. It was probably packed when the outbreak hit..."
On-jo let out a quiet sigh, her arm tightening around Ji-min just a fraction more. "My dad's a firefighter. He always tells me that in a crisis, people are tougher than you think. They're hiding somewhere safe. I know it."
Ji-min smiled a little bit despite herself, though her chest still felt heavy. "You really believe that, don't you?"
A brief pause fell between them, comfortable and rare in a room full of terrified, sleeping teenagers. Ji-min looked across the dim room toward where Ji-min's old friend group used to sit.
"Can I ask you something?" On-jo whispered quietly. "About you and Na-yeon... and what happened after the Jeju trip?"
There it was. It was the one question everyone in Class 2-5 had been dying to ask for weeks. Before the trip, Ji-min and her best friend had been attached at the hip—whispering during lectures, sunbathing on the beach, splashing in the sea together. Then Monday morning arrived, and it was a complete 180. They had suddenly turned vicious toward each other, trading icy glares and sharp insults. Nobody had been able to make sense of the sudden fallout.
Ji-min closed her eyes, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding since last month. "She lied to me," Ji-min said quietly. "About something big. And when I called her out on it, she blamed me for not taking her side."
"Oh," On-jo murmured softly.
"It takes two to destroy a friendship, I guess," Ji-min added, her voice dropping an octave. "I said terrible things to her on Friday. And now... I don't even know if she's breathing out there."
"She's tough," On-jo offered gently. "You'll settle it tomorrow. When the sun comes up and we figure out our next move."
"Tomorrow," Ji-min repeated, clinging to the word like a lifeline.
"Right. Tomorrow," On-jo joked around a wide yawn, her eyelids fluttering shut as exhaustion finally won. "And if the army doesn't show up by noon, I'm writing a very stern complaint to the city council."
Ji-min let out a small snort of laughter, feeling a genuine spark of relief bloom in her chest. "I'll sign it."
On-jo's breathing slowed into a steady rhythm beside her. In the quiet darkness of the room, with the faint, unsettling sounds of the infected rustling miles away in the halls, Ji-min closed her eyes, laced her fingers together, and began to silently recite the words her grandmother had taught her so long ago:
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...