Apocalypse D-13: Evening, April 1st 2029

The evening breeze at the base of Mount Mudeung carried a chill, mingling the scent of damp earth with the crispness of dry leaves. In the distance, the sun began to sink, casting a streak of orange across the sky. Dong-Joo stood still, his gaze lost in the faraway peak of the mountain, where rumors of a bunker had begun to spread. The thought of that shelter reignited a flicker of optimism within him—an emotion so rare in a world that was on the verge of collapse.

It was no easy feat for a lawyer like Dong-Joo to survive in this chaotic, crumbling world. His daily life once revolved around stacks of case files and courtroom debates, but now, it felt as if he had been thrown into an arena, where survival skills mattered more than legal expertise. Even as night fell, his mind never ceased its activity, strategizing and calculating, with no room for rest, no peace. The only escape was the movies—his favorite films, which had become a tiny window into another life, one that felt almost like a dream.

Science fiction and apocalyptic movies were his favorites: zombies overrunning cities, aliens invading, worlds torn apart by nuclear war, or asteroids crashing into Earth. Cliché, yes, but there was something soothing about watching people fight to survive amid the wreckage. Every time Dong-Joo watched them, he felt as though he were drawn into that world. He became a part of the story, feeling the fear, the courage, and the fighting spirit of the characters. Sometimes, he even had the eerie sense that one day, the world on the screen might become a reality.

"Eun-Su always said I was weird for staying up late watching those films," he murmured to himself, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Eun-Su never really understood. But to Dong-Joo, those films were more than just entertainment. They were an escape, and, in a way, mental training for survival.

"Thank you, Sang-Jin. But we don't know what will happen yet. Maybe the asteroid will explode before it reaches Earth. Staying vigilant is our priority." Dong-Joo ended the call with a firm tone. Sang-Jin was one of the few people Dong-Joo still trusted.

Seongangpa, the organization that had taken control of Gwangju through force, had also gotten wind of the bunker. If they were interested, it meant the place held something valuable. But that also meant the risks were high. Dong-Joo knew that if he wanted to confirm the existence of another bunker, one similar to the radar facility on Mount Mudeung, he would need to move quickly and carefully.

"Right," Dong-Joo continued, his voice quieter now. "I haven't made a decision yet. But I'll keep monitoring the situation."

Sang-Jin, on the other hand, lived a life of dual identities. By day, he was a drone taxi driver, and by night, he worked in a large casino run by Seongangpa. The man had grown too accustomed to danger, but still, Dong-Joo couldn't shake the worry that crept into his thoughts every time they spoke.

"You must be tired. Go home, get some rest," Dong-Joo said before ending the conversation.

Sang-Jin nodded, then made his way to his drone taxi. "Alright. Thanks, Dong-Joo. See you soon."

That evening, the silhouette of Mount Mudeung began to fade into the growing darkness. But Dong-Joo remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the mountain's peak. The world might be on the brink of destruction, but in his mind, he couldn't shake the possibility that somewhere, hidden behind the quiet mountain, there was still a glimmer of hope.

***

In front of the columbarium at the memorial park, Dong-Joo and Dong-Ah stood side by side, enveloped in a silence heavy with unspoken grief. Before them was a photograph of their mother, her radiant smile frozen in time. Dong-Joo gazed at that smile, straining to recall the last time he'd seen it in real life. 

Memories flooded his mind uninvited, each one bitter and relentless. After the devastating diagnosis of late-stage pancreatic cancer, the disease had spread mercilessly to her liver, forming a tumor over ten centimeters wide. Without painkillers, their mother couldn't sit, lie down, or eat without agony. Her legs had swelled grotesquely from chemotherapy, her skin mottled with edema and rashes that made walking impossible. When the doctors finally admitted there was nothing more they could do, their words rang out like a death sentence, devoid of mercy or hope. The image of her face, etched with suffering, had haunted Dong-Joo on the drive home that day. 

"Apophis… If we can't destroy it, or at least alter its course…" 

Dong-Joo murmured under his breath, his thoughts drifting to the asteroid named after the eternal adversary of the Egyptian sun god, Ra. Apophis, a symbol of chaos and destruction, felt eerily parallel to what his family had endured—a shadow of doom that could not be outrun. The asteroid's name seemed like an omen, a grim warning for the world. 

"I wish Mom didn't have to suffer like that…" Dong-Ah's voice trembled, her tears falling freely down her cheeks. 

Dong-Joo placed a hand on his sister's shoulder, trying to offer some measure of comfort, though he felt just as fragile. "We have to stay strong, Donga. Mom would want us to keep going, to endure." 

--- 

Late that night, Dong-Joo finally arrived home. The living room was cloaked in an almost oppressive silence as he opened a can of beer and sank onto the sofa, waiting for Sangjin to return. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept circling back to the images of Eunsu and Taeho, the people he had encountered just the day before. 

"Stop it," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the unwelcome memories. He reached for his phone, hoping that scrolling through the news might offer a distraction. 

Instead, his screen was flooded with KakaoTalk notifications. Messages from college friends, former colleagues, and old acquaintances piled up—an avalanche of condolences and sympathies. In a group chat with his fellow graduate students, there were over three hundred unread messages waiting for him. Having kept his phone on silent throughout the funeral, he had missed all of it. 

As a third-year doctoral student at Hanbit University in Gwangju, with a master's degree in law under his belt, Dong-Joo's life left little room for rest. Balancing his demanding legal career with night classes, research reports, and presentations, he often felt like he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion. The group chat, typically a quiet stream of casual banter and academic updates, had suddenly come alive with fervent discussion. 

"What's going on?" he wondered, his curiosity piqued. Opening the messages, he quickly realized the chatter revolved around one topic: asteroid Apophis. 

A heated debate unfolded among the engineering professors in the group. They were arguing about whether the asteroid—on a potential collision course with Earth—could be destroyed or its trajectory altered. 

One professor, a staunch pessimist, insisted that destroying a rocky asteroid like Apophis, hurtling through space at unimaginable speeds, was nearly impossible. Even a nuclear missile, he claimed, would likely bounce off rather than obliterate it. 

But another professor, brimming with optimism, countered with confident resolve. He argued that with precise targeting, the asteroid could either be broken apart or redirected. He cited the immense power of intercontinental ballistic missiles like the Minuteman III—capable of delivering more than twenty times the force of the Hiroshima bomb with pinpoint accuracy. 

"Twenty missiles would do the trick," the optimistic professor declared with certainty.

"The leftover fragments would pose no real threat." 

Dong-Joo stared at his phone, the conversation stirring something deep within him. This debate, brimming with scientific reasoning and measured confidence, resonated with his own recent struggles. It mirrored the futile battle his family had waged against his mother's cancer a relentless force of destruction that no treatment could halt. 

Apophis. A looming global catastrophe. It felt like a metaphor for the loss that had just gutted his life, a chilling echo of the darkness he couldn't escape.