1999, winter in Moscow was like a blade. A cold wave dipping below minus 20 degrees Celsius swallowed the city, and he tightened the collar of his thin coat as he stepped out of the Sheremetyevo International Airport exit. In his hand was a worn-out suitcase; in his pocket, a one-way ticket to Korea.

It had been five years. The time spent becoming fluent in Russian, soaking in vodka, and surviving alone in a foreign land was carried entirely on the wheels of that suitcase. He wasn't even sure if he had a place to return to. His parents were already gone from this world.

The display board in the airport lobby flickered, announcing the flight times from Korea. Just as he was about to move toward the gate, the sound of small but distinct footsteps behind him brushed against his spine.

The biting wind pouring through the glass exit doors nipped at the tip of his nose. Ilyoung did not stop, his grip tightening on the suitcase handle. There was no reason to stop. As for the footsteps following him—an airport was just that kind of place. Travelers, taxi drivers, security guards. It didn't matter who it was.

But those footsteps wouldn't stop.