“No! Get out!” A struggle ensues, and less than thirty seconds later, footsteps are pounding out of the security office and down the hall, echoing through the mostly empty corridor.

“Let’s go,” whispers Seokga (although part of him would like to stay in the hallway and listen to Kisa laugh forever) and together, they slip into the now-abandoned room, shut the door, and lock it. The large room is plain except for the fact that it’s filled with dozens of monitors, footage from dozens of locations on the SRC Flatliner feeding onto the screens.

Seokga stares in bafflement at the many keyboards spanning the long, neat white desks. The most that he has ever managed to do with technology includes, one, operating a cellphone (nowadays, they don’t have enough buttons: Seokga’s fingers keep slipping on the ever-growing screens) and, two, having once used New Sinsi’s nineties technology with passable proficiency (but those days are long gone, and keyboards are not supposed to be this flat). Where are the wires? Where are the bulky consoles and fuzzy screens? In the thirty-three years since Seokga has left the New Sinsi haetae precinct behind, technology has morphed into something he has no clue how to operate.

Aware that Kisa is hovering expectantly beside him, Seokga attempts to conceal his complete bewilderment with an expression of absolute capability and sharp intelligence. Hopefully she believes it, and he can manage to figure out how to play back all monitors to previous footage without fumbling too badly.

“I heard that,” she half-laughs. His cheeks flame as Kisa slides into one of the rolling chairs and flexes her fingers, having sat Hwanin down carefully on her lap. “I think I can do it. Would you watch the door?”

“I suppose,” Seokga grumps, wishing he’d been able to impress Kisa by hacking the mainframe, or whatever the fuck it’s called. Reluctantly, and with a profound sense of defeat, he turns to face the door.

Her fingers dance over the keyboard before she clicks something with the mouse and swears under her breath. “The security system is asking for a password,” she says over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, I’ve no idea what it might be.”

There’s still no sign of Somi or Hajun, nor the security workers, but Seokga isn’t fooled. They don’t have much time. What, he thinks, would a dick like Yeomra choose as his security system password? “Try Y-e-o-m-r-a,” he says. “Or d-e-a-t-h.” Yeomra is not high enough in Seokga’s esteem for him to believe the death god is capable of imaginative passwords.

“It didn’t work.”

Seokga grimaces.

“Isn’t there any way you can ask him?”

Personally, Seokga would like to avoid interacting with the god in any way he can, but under Kisa’s pointed look, he reluctantly tugs his phone out of his pocket.

“Seokga,” Kisa whispers impatiently a moment later, bouncing a leg nervously. “What has he said?”