The first step forward was not one person's—it was all of them.

The crowd at Jongno intersection surged, hundreds of feet striking the pavement in perfect rhythm, the sound like a drumline echoing through the city. No shoves, no panic, no chaos. It was unity, terrifying and unnatural, as though invisible strings had pulled every limb into the same march.

"Anchor. Breathe. Anchor. Breathe."

The voices rose in unison, thunder rolling through human throats. The chant was not loud by volume, but by weight. Each syllable pressed into their bones, into the air itself. It was not sound—it was pressure, vibration, resonance.

Lin's body convulsed in Min-joon's arms. His breath hitched, ragged, each inhale synced with the chant no matter how tightly Min-joon clutched him, no matter how desperately he whispered in his ear.

"Don't listen, Lin. Listen to me, only me."

But the boy's lips parted anyway, and the chant leaked out of him, soft at first, then louder. "Anchor… breathe…"

"No!" Min-joon shook him, his own voice cracking. "You're not their anchor—you're not theirs!"

Keller's pistol was raised, sweeping the crowd, but there was no target. To shoot one was to shoot all, and even that wouldn't matter. Another would just step into place, another mouth would carry the word. He hissed between his teeth, fury lacing his voice. "This isn't a crowd anymore. This is one body."

Hwan's face was pale, sweat dripping down his temples. His eyes darted over the buildings, the wires, the sky itself. "It's worse than that. This isn't just possession. This is alignment. The scar has synchronized Seoul."

The skyscrapers seemed to pulse with the chant, their windows vibrating faintly, glass humming. Traffic lights blinked in unison across multiple intersections, all cycling with Lin's ragged breath. Even the leaves of the trees shivered together, bending in time with the syllables.

The entire city was chanting.

The first wave of bodies stepped off the curb. Not a sprint, not a charge—just a steady, inexorable march. A hundred faces blank, mouths open, chanting.

Keller fired. A sharp crack split the chant, one man crumpling with a hole in his chest. The chant did not falter. The body fell, but the chorus went on, uninterrupted, another step filling the space the corpse had left.

"Pointless!" Keller spat, already grabbing Min-joon's arm. "Move! We can't fight this head-on."

They turned, dragging Lin with them, pushing through alleys as the chant followed, growing louder. Each corner they turned, new voices joined, fresh faces stepping into the rhythm. Shopkeepers, bus drivers, children leaving schools—all folding seamlessly into the tide.

It wasn't pursuit. It was absorption.

Every person in the city was becoming part of it.

In a narrow alley, the group stumbled to a halt. Trash bins lined the walls, graffiti smeared across the bricks, but even here the chant seeped in. From the windows above, heads leaned out, voices joining, perfectly timed. "Anchor. Breathe."

Lin collapsed against Min-joon, his body trembling. "They're not chasing me," he gasped. "I… I'm pulling them. I'm making them move."

"No," Min-joon growled, cupping his face, forcing his gaze upward. "That's not you. That's the scar twisting you. You're stronger than it. You've always been stronger."

But Lin's eyes brimmed with tears. "If I stop breathing, do they stop too?"

The silence that followed was unbearable. Keller swore, punching the wall. "Don't even think that, kid. You hear me? Don't even—"

"Maybe I should." Lin's voice was small, broken. "Maybe that's the only way."

"No!" Min-joon's shout was raw, ripping from his throat. "You die, and this city dies with you. That's not saving anyone. That's not saving us."

The chant swelled again, closer now, the sound of hundreds of synchronized steps drawing near. The alley vibrated with their approach. Hwan pressed his palms against the brick, murmuring words in a tongue neither Keller nor Min-joon recognized. His brow furrowed, sweat running freely.

Finally, he turned back, face ashen. "The scar isn't just using Lin. It's grafted onto him. The tether is no longer a line—it's a root. It's feeding both ways. The more the city breathes with him, the deeper the root grows."

"Then cut the root!" Keller barked.

Hwan's eyes darkened. "To cut the root, you'd have to cut Lin too."

Silence fell. Lin flinched at the words, burying his face against Min-joon's chest, as though to hide from them. Min-joon's hand stroked his hair, his voice a trembling whisper. "I won't let anyone touch you. Not for anything. Not ever."

The first figures appeared at the mouth of the alley. Blank eyes, open mouths, the chant spilling from them in perfect rhythm. Keller raised his gun, ready to shoot, but Hwan grabbed his wrist. "Bullets won't change it. We need disruption, not violence."

Keller yanked free. "And what the hell does that look like?"

Hwan didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, closing his eyes. He inhaled deeply, then shouted—not words, but sound. A long, piercing note that split the chant's rhythm.

For a heartbeat, the voices faltered. The chant stuttered, the rhythm breaking. Several bodies stumbled, eyes flickering.

But only for a heartbeat.

The chant reassembled instantly, louder now, as though the scar had noticed the disruption and reinforced its grip.

Hwan staggered back, clutching his chest. "It adapts too fast. It learns. Every time I break the rhythm, it doubles down."

"Then we don't fight it head-on," Min-joon said fiercely, his grip on Lin tightening. "We steal him back another way. We make Lin's breath his again."

Lin looked up, eyes glassy. "I don't know how…"

"Yes, you do," Min-joon said, forcing calm into his trembling voice. "Remember the temple. Remember the first time you pushed it back. You didn't fight it—you outlasted it. You made it choke on your will. Do it again."

"But I…" Lin's lips quivered. "I'm so tired."

Min-joon's forehead pressed against his. His voice was steady, a whisper meant for Lin alone. "Then breathe with me. If you can't do it alone, do it with me. My lungs, your lungs. My will, your will. We've done everything together—this is no different."

Lin closed his eyes, and for the first time in hours, his breath slowed.

The chant wavered.

It wasn't silence, not yet. But the crowd at the alley mouth shifted, their voices faltering for the briefest instant. It was enough to prove the connection.

Min-joon's arms wrapped around Lin, holding him as though he could shield him from the entire city. "That's it. In with me, out with me. Don't listen to them. Listen to me."

Lin's breaths grew steadier. Ragged still, but steadier. The chant staggered, breaking at the edges. Some voices cracked, syllables misaligned. A man in the front of the crowd dropped to his knees, clutching his head.

Keller's eyes widened. "It's working…"

But Hwan's face remained grim. "Not enough. The scar won't release him so easily. It will escalate."

And escalate it did.

The streetlights above the alley flared, exploding in showers of sparks. The ground trembled, asphalt cracking. From the rooftops, pigeons took flight in one vast cloud, swirling in spirals overhead, their wings beating in time with the chant.

The city itself was moving now, not just its people.

Lin gasped, clutching his chest. His breath faltered again, and instantly the chant realigned, thunderous, crushing. Windows shattered up and down the alley, glass raining like knives. The crowd surged forward, arms outstretched, not grabbing but reaching—reaching to fold him into themselves.

Min-joon tightened his grip, his voice breaking into a desperate roar. "Lin! With me! Now!"

For a heartbeat, Lin's breath steadied again, his chest rising in sync with Min-joon's. The chant fractured once more. The crowd staggered, some collapsing to the pavement.

But then Lin's eyes rolled back, and blood trickled from his nose. His body was breaking under the strain.

Hwan's voice rang out, panicked. "If he keeps resisting like this, he'll burn out. His body can't handle the pressure."

"Then what do we do?!" Keller shouted.

Hwan's gaze flicked to Min-joon. His words were soft, deadly serious. "The only way to break this cleanly is for Lin to anchor himself… willingly. To choose where the root lies. If he plants it in the scar, he'll be lost. But if he plants it in you—"

Min-joon's breath hitched, horror flooding his face. "You mean tether him to me."

Hwan nodded once. "It will tear you apart. But it might save him."

The chant thundered around them, growing louder, the city itself shaking as though demanding its anchor back. Min-joon's arms tightened around Lin, his tears falling into the boy's hair.

"I'll do it," he whispered. "Whatever it takes. He's mine."

And as the city chanted, as Seoul itself bent toward collapse, Min-joon closed his eyes and whispered the words only Lin could hear:

"Breathe with me, Lin. Not with them. With me forever."

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