The Beginning (Retouch)

On a quiet floor of Chungnam National University Hospital in South Korea, there was a room that not just anyone could enter. Observation Room 71-A. To the hospital staff, that room was like an undying legend, whispered from mouth to mouth, yet no one dared approach it without permission.

Behind its ever-locked door, a teenage girl lay upon a white bed. She appeared to be around eighteen, though reality told otherwise. Her face was a delicate blend of Japanese and Korean features; her jet-black eyes were peacefully shut, her wavy black hair brushed her shoulders, and her skin was pale and smooth as if made of porcelain. At a glance, she looked like any ordinary patient, a girl sleeping peacefully.

But the truth was far different.

That girl—had been in a coma for the last twenty years. Strangely, she had not aged a single day. Her face remained exactly as it had been when she was first discovered. Her hair never grew, her skin stayed untouched by time, unscarred by needles. No heartbeat, no breath, as though her body were nothing more than a living doll. Yet the body was warm, radiating a faint fragrance unknown to humankind.

Her identity was a mystery. No fingerprints, no birth records, no family searching for her. She was simply “the nameless girl” who had been discovered and then handed over to two secret organizations: the Korea Anomaly Division (KAD) and the South Korea Anomaly Response Division (SKARD). Under their orders, she was given the name Yun—short for Yielded Unknown Neotype, a new being of unknown origin.

KAD monitored every flicker of her brain, recording occasional waves that pulsed as if she were dreaming. Meanwhile, SKARD prepared military protocols for the worst-case scenario—whatever Yun might truly be.

Yun remained silent, still asleep. The hospital changed faces; doctors who had once treated her retired or died, nurses who once whispered in fear were replaced by new faces who only knew her as “the girl in the long sleep.” For the next generation, Yun was nothing more than a file in the archives, not a living reality.

Until the early hours of March 21, 2021, at 03:47 KST, when the silence shattered.

Nurse Kim Hye-Jin, performing a routine check, witnessed something that froze her blood: Yun’s eyes slowly opened. That jet-black gaze stared blankly at the ceiling. Then, with a voice soft yet clear, one word slipped from her lips:

“Seed.”

Nurse Kim’s heart leapt to her throat. She rushed out of the room, calling for Dr. Lee Min-Jae, who had overseen Yun’s case for years. But when they returned, the girl was asleep again, as though she had never woken.

For months, even years afterward, Yun showed no change. Seasons turned, generations shifted, and her case slowly faded into near-forgotten legend.

Until half a century later.

April 2, 2073, 09:00 KST. Nurse Kang Ji-Won nearly dropped her medical notes. Standing before the window of Room 71-A was Yun, upright, staring out with eyes empty yet filled with something beyond explanation.

A report was immediately sent to KAD. Dr. Jung Tae-Hwan, the member in charge of Yun’s case, rushed over. He wanted to question the girl right away, but instinct held him back. Too dangerous, too fragile to force. He chose a cautious approach. SKARD was informed, and security forces were deployed.

In the following days, Yun did nothing but sit or stand, gazing through the window as if waiting for something. She never spoke, never responded to doctors or nurses. She did not eat, did not drink, yet her body remained fresh, untouched by time. Like someone blind and deaf, she lived within a world of her own.

But one change became undeniable: slowly, the black in her eyes faded, turning into a bright blue—as though something within her had begun to awaken.

On April 10, 2073, at 09:00 KST, Dr. Jung entered the room once more. For the first time, Yun turned toward him. Her voice was soft yet full of meaning:

“May I go outside?”

Dr. Jung froze.

“You… understand Korean?” he asked carefully.

Yun smiled faintly.

“I can understand anything that lives, anything that has a soul.”

The room tensed instantly. Dr. Jung drew a deep breath before saying,

“Give me a few hours to prepare everything you’ll need.”

Yun turned back to the window.

“Very well.”

At 10:14 KST, Dr. Jung returned with a third-generation SKARD lieutenant and a wheelchair. The lieutenant spoke firmly:

“Yun, you are permitted to leave this room. However, you must remain under strict supervision. We don’t know who you are, or what abilities you may possess.”

Yun’s face showed a trace of sadness, though her smile lingered.

“I know I am different from you. Does that make me dangerous?”

The lieutenant’s gaze was sharp.

“We don’t know. Please sit in the wheelchair. I will escort you out.”

At first Yun refused—she could walk on her own. But once it was explained that the wheelchair would make her seem more “normal” in the eyes of others, she agreed.

They moved down the long corridor and into the hospital garden. As the wheelchair rolled along the path, the lieutenant introduced himself. But before he finished speaking, Yun quietly said:

“I know your name, Kim Joon-Seo. I know the name of everyone I meet.”

Lieutenant Kim froze mid-step. Stunned, he stared at her for a long moment before guiding her to a bench in the garden. They sat side by side.

“What are you, Yun?” Kim asked, his tone low yet pressing.

Yun gazed at the ground.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember how I came to be here.”

“Do you remember who you are? At least a name?”

“No. But everyone calls me Yun, don’t they?”

Kim exhaled deeply.

“Yun is just a subject name. It stands for Yielded Unknown Neotype. To us, you are a new being—an anomaly of unknown origin. Do you recall anything from the beginning of your existence here?”

Yun shook her head slowly.

“No. I truly don’t remember anything.”

Kim lowered his eyes for a moment, then asked again,

“What about the word seed? Do you know that word?”

The moment the word was spoken, Yun’s face turned pale. It felt as though something unseen had struck her head. She groaned, clutching it tightly, before collapsing unconscious.

Reflexively, Lieutenant Kim lifted her into his arms, leaving the wheelchair behind in the garden. He ran swiftly back to Room 71-A.

Dr. Jung immediately examined Yun, confirming that she had only fainted and returned to sleep. Lieutenant Kim stood at her bedside, staring at the girl. Before him, she looked no different than an ordinary teenager in peaceful slumber. Yet deep within, Kim knew: something far greater was hiding beneath her fragile form.

After ensuring Yun’s condition was stable, Kim returned to his private quarters on the ninth floor.

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