Three tickets. One for Seokga. One for his insufferable brother, who’s left his son temporarily ruling Okhwang in his place. And one for his psychologist. Apparently, Seokga’s “vacation” doesn’t entail a break from his sessions with Dr. Jang. It is, in Hwanin’s words, too much of a risk, especially when considering your past antics, brother. Remember that time you led Gamangnara monsters into Okhwang?

So much for having become almost-sort-of friends.

Hwanin shakes his head. Unlike Dr. Jang, Hwanin is wearing his usual attire, earning confused looks from the onboarding ghosts. Seokga rolls his eyes. As much as Hwanin may deny it, Seokga is certain that Hwanin likes to be looked at. That he soaks up the attention like a sponge in dishwater.

Seokga isn’t surprised. They’re brothers, after all. They’re bound to have some similarities.

Dr. Jang rummages around in her purse before pulling out a mint, looking slightly green. For living creatures, the teleportation trip down into Jeoseung is extremely nauseating, and Dr. Jang is only a shaman. Seokga looks at her in sympathy before Hwanin, clasping his hands together, smiles in a reassuring way to his two companions.

“Shall we?”

“Fine,” mutters Seokga. Dr. Jang looks at him with pity, more than she’s ever shown in her office. Seokga bristles, suddenly uncomfortable. “You can take the therapist out of the office,” he snaps as he follows Hwanin into the ship, “but you shouldn’t take the office out of the therapist.”

Dr. Jang’s eyes flicker with hurt and Seokga momentarily feels like a colossal piece of trickster-god shit, but then he’s been swallowed by the SRC Flatliner and his guilt slips away.

The SRC Flatliner’s atrium is startlingly reminiscent of the 1920s’ overindulgent glitz and glamour. The floors on which they stand are tiled shimmering slabs of black quartzite, smoky black tendrils stretching out across the wide expanse. Polished to a shine, they reflect the largest chandelier Seokga has ever seen in his extremely long life, its light dappling the lush velvet chairs artfully arranged below. Massive flights of stairs coil up and around the atrium, leading to what is undoubtedly an equally indulgent beyond. Stressed-looking crew members hustle and bustle on the floors above, visible from their heaving torsos up.

“Hwanin’s tits,” Seokga breathes, taking off his shades. The crowd of passengers seems to think the same. He sees one elderly man staring at the chandelier clutch his chest as if about to have a heart attack.

Dr. Jang, despite being somewhere in her seventies, giggles in unbridled cheer like a schoolgirl. “Quite,” she agrees, whatever hurt she felt forgotten in the face of such grandeur.

Hwanin makes a disappointed face at them both. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to my ti—my chest like that.”