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

It had been five years. The time he spent alone in a foreign land, stained by the Russian language and soaked in vodka, 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 flight times from Korea. Just as he was about to head toward the gate, the sound of small but distinct footsteps behind him brushed against his spine.

The biting wind pouring through the glass doors of the exit nipped at the tip of his nose. Ilyoung did not stop, his hand gripping the suitcase handle. There was no reason to stop. Footsteps following behind—that was just how airports were. Travelers, taxi drivers, security guards. It didn't matter who it was.

But those footsteps wouldn't stop.