Mireuk unfurls the pockets and crevices of his violet robes, while Shinhak unloads his military-style rucksack from his shoulders.

Mireuk takes out a palm-sized velvet pouch, while Shinhak removes from his rucksack a long and thin container reinforced with steel lattices, and another one with the same length but with thicker dimensions.

"The mirrors that brought you here in the first place," Shinhak elucidates. "We will now be returning them to each of you. But don't use your powers here, unless you want to die. First, Joyoung, step forward. You two, step back."

The stoic long-haired boy advances forward. Shinhak unclasps the thicker container and opens it with a clunk. What looks to be two thick arm-braces lie inside, colored black.

Shinhak hoists the two out with his gloves, stands straight, and hands it to the boy, but not before retracting them once.

"Do not kill these two, understand?"

"I won't," he says, holding out his arms. As Shinhak returns the arm-braces, they immediately latch with a clunk to the boy's bare, lean, but muscular forearms, and immediately shed their black to a lustrous and reflective silver. I can see my image in them, thinking for a moment what would happen if he punched it like I did with mine. A hum of power emanates from the boy and his returned weapon. He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of satisfaction, and steps back methodically.

"Hwaryeong, you next," orders Shinhak, unclasping the thinner container and sliding out what appears to be a large piece of paper, judging from the sound. I find it's a notebook – actually, a sketchbook. The ruby-haired girl takes it cautiously in her hands and folds it in two then another, reducing it to the size of her outstretched hand.

"Don't forget this," Shinhak pokes, holding out a red fountain pen with an ink bottle.

What? I wonder. It's not a mirror at all. I'm a little perplexed, but my curiosity would have to wait.

Shinhak marches back while Mireuk strolls forward. "Aside now," he motions the girl away, as she teeters back and stares at me rather apprehensively with the long-haired boy. If I was in their shoes, I would too – after all, who wouldn't be wary of a girl who killed three-hundred-and-ninety-one people? Because that was precisely me.

Mireuk carefully unties the string holding the velvet pouch close. The cloth loosens and falls away, revealing the palm-sized piece of a mirror, glinting and swirling with shadows in that gloomy cell. My mirror. My Demiurge-Grade Mirror that exceeded the power of what anyone's ever known.

Shinhak has his sunglasses back on.

I reach for it, then pause, for a harrowing feeling skewers my gut: this mirror will be my freedom, and my death. My hand wavers.

Mireuk is ever patient, peering at me with the single eye of his, his other eye hidden behind an eyewrap.

I muster a swallow, and grab it.

Instantly the mirror turns liquid and slides up my left wrist, flattening out in the shape of a bracelet, only slightly wider than the Mirror of Mushim on my right. And instantly, a feeling I can only describe as despair and rage swirl and swallow me whole. I do not notice my left arm moving on its own to sight the figures next to me in its reflection.

I do not even notice my right fist moving to meet their image.

It moves.

Yes, it moves.

I feel delight. I feel revelry. I feel the need to kill them all –

"Do that outside. Not here."

Mireuk's hand is on my arm. And immediately, my kill-thirst vanishes to dust. I turn my head to see the long-haired boy standing at a ready-stance, the ruby-haired girl behind him; Shinhak's finger is adjusting the nose-bridge of his sunglasses.

I look at my mirror, reflections swimming in liquid metal. For a time, all is silent.

Then Mireuk speaks at last.

"You feelin' alright?"

Calm once again returns to my senses. Only a tiny approval emerges from my tongue.

"...Yeah."

"Can't die now. The people of the world need you to solve the story that you began, eh?"

"I – I guess."

"Good." He slaps me on the back. "There ya go, Shin! No one's dead. Hooray."

A wave of relief washes over the darkened chamber. The ruby-haired girl breathes out a sigh.

Shinhak takes off his sunglasses.

"That went too smoothly. Murphy will be out for our necks," Shinhak remarks sarcastically.

"So, to brief a little more before we take you up above into Seoul," Mireuk continues as if nothing had happened, "just as the shards amplify the power of those guemuls above, your mirrors will amplify your own powers."

We examine our own with curiosity and apprehension.

"By how much?" The boy asks.

"Shin?" Mireuk asks, turning to him.

"Shinhak," remarks Shinhak, shaking his head. "As much as I hate it, nothing definitive, only comparative. For reference, Reza here with her mirror," he says, gesturing to me briefly, "battled against a Moray-class guemul with a rating of 9,400."

"And she's still here," Mireuk adds, stretching his arms to present me like a magician atop a stage.

Hey wait, won't this means these two – the ruby-haired girl in particular – will try to stick to my back like –

"Granted, her mirror was whole before. A lot stronger. Her present power is likely to be greatly diminished. So don't try to freeload. You'll all end up dying if you do."

The boy crosses his arms at the remark.

"So we won't be able to take on a Moray or something like that then?" The girl asks, her voice still shaky.

"I recommend you avoid it. Remember what I said about the guemul ranks?"

"Mmhmm?"

"At the absolute bottom of the rung, the absolute weakest, we have a 'Roe'. Basically so weak it's not even a fish, which is what our classification makes use of. If you have a knife or a dagger or even a pencil, you can finish it off. These have Akgi levels of 100 and below."

"What's Akgi?"

Stolen story; please report.

"The intensity of their guemul power."

"Okay."

"Above a Roe, we have Toothless, which is what we just told you, and what you just fought. Akgi of 100 to 500. Guemuls that can be defeated with just a bat or a pipe or whatever big you have in hand. But above Toothless, we start getting into actual fish territory. Myeolchi – anchovy – comes right above Toothless, which we also talked about."

"The ones with Akgi between 500 to 2,000?" the boy inquires. I recall now – the hag had said something about him being a disgrace to his longstanding Musha family. If his parents were part of the Musha, he must know something about these insider ranks.

"Correct. For a handy reference, you would need to take a shotgun to the necks or hearts of Myeolchi-class guemuls to take them down. Or a rifle."

Yikes. There was a huge difference between a measly bat and an earsplitting shotgun.

"What's above?" I ask.

"Above Myeolchi, we have a 'Piranha'. Akgi ranging from 2,000 to 5,000. Without a mirror of the Musha, regular people would need a full-fledged cannon or a minigun to defeat one."

Double Yikes, and at the same time, a strange sense of pride. The vulture guemul I fought ranked higher than that? I mean it must, but –

"What's a minigun?" The ruby-haired girl asks.

I creak my head in disbelief at how she doesn't know what a minigun is, but then the thought flashes in my mind: she probably hasn't been near or around that many guns, unlike me.

"A very big gun that fires very fast. Anyway, above a Piranha, we finally have 'Moray', which is what Reza here survived against."

And won, I think to myself.

Shinhak continues, Mireuk humming a tune next to him. "If you read an Akgi rating of 5,000 to 10,000 on your Mirrors of Mushim, it means it's a Moray. I would recommend you reconsider taking on a Moray unless you only have a few hours left, because only anything equivalent or above a tank can go against one."

Tripes Yikes. So I fought against a demon of such caliber. That sounds about right.

"Anything above that, well," Shinhak pauses, glancing up. "There are ranks above those, but chances are, you won't be able to survive against one at your current state. If you read a number higher than 10,000, just know there's zero chance you can win."

"Wait!" The ruby-haired girl speaks up, her teeth clattering. "You're – you're totally strong, right? You just killed the guemul rat by flicking your finger! Why can't you come with us? Why do we have to go alone?"

"Trust me, we want to. But if we use our power, you will die."

"Why?"

"Because the powder in your bodies will explode. Every time we use our mirrors, we exude a force opposite to Akgi that the guemuls are made of. It's called Seongi. Damrak powder is set off to explode when it reacts with our Seongi."

'Ak' meant evil. 'Seon' meant good. 'Gi' meant energy of some sort. It was a standard way of naming things in Korean.

"Then the scary old lady didn't really – "

"Yes, it means that she wants all of you dead foremost, and expects you to die. So go ahead and prove her wrong. Shatter her expectations. You have that chance now, whereas a few hours ago you didn't."

The three of us look down at our feet.

"I understand all of you know how to use your mirrors?" inquires Shinhak, though given who he is addressing it to, I'm sure it is rhetorical more than anything.

We three teenagers – all murderers in some way – glance rather awkwardly at each other, and turn away just as quickly, giving slow, muted nods.

"Fantastic. Now then, ancillary equipment," Mireuk jovially announces, ushering us with a passion out of that rat-guemul chamber.

He flicks open a door on the opposite side of the corridor to reveal a room glimmering with weapons of... various kinds... wow, they really had everything imaginable.

"Who wants a kukri?" He asks, unsheathing a knife curved inwards. I've never seen anything like it.

The stoic long-haired boy advances and takes it by the handle. I'm a little unsure what he's going to do with it on the downtime, especially to us, but I'm very sure that I can just punch him out of existence with my mirror if he ever decides to pull something strange.

"Idiot, before that," Shinhak chides, pinching his brows beneath his sunglasses, "you have to give them these."

He pulls out three armored vests for us to wear, and construction vests the color of bright tangerine. They catch the light from the bulb overhead a little too well.

"What're those for?"

"Action now, questions later. Put 'em on."

We don them with a little uncertainty. The armor vest hides the bloodstains of our clothes underneath. The construction vests in turn hide the armor.

"Should protect you from getting nicked by small fry. You don't want to get injured before you take on the big ones."

"Three batons for you too," Mireuk announces, handing each of them to us.

"How did you come by these?" The ruby-haired girl asks.

"We have mirrors with magic, and you're asking how we came across police batons?" Shinhak sighs.

I palm my head.

"Hook 'em to the buckle-rings on your armor, and drape the vests over them. See, nicely hidden," says Mireuk, holding out one for demonstration.

"Why the vests? They make us stand out like hell," the boy mutters.

"Quite the opposite," answers Shinhak. "You ever seen construction workers before?"

"Obviously."

"Do you remember their faces?"

"........."

"Right, because you didn't care. No one pays attention to anything wearing a construction vest, or a traffic vest. Just anonymous workers. Invisible."

The boy purses his lips and nods, sheathing his kukri.

"Shouldn't we have a helmet on? For the extra disguise?" the ruby-haired girl asks, hands extended into the air.

"No. As far as people know, you are technically off the job. Just walking back to your quarters, home, whatever, planning to get a drink on the way."

"But wouldn't it protect against the guemuls?" she implores.

Mireuk silently walks in a room adjoining this one. A sound of clatters and clangs, and he returns with a bright yellow helmet with a buckle. The ruby-haired girl hugs it enthusiastically, putting it on her head. I grimace a little.

"Anyone else?"

The boy stands away, and so do I. I at least have normal-colored hair, and so does the boy, although his is perhaps too long.

"Great. Shin, their IDs."

"Shinhak, you goldfish. Anyway," Shinhak mutters, pulling out three national identification cards with altered photographs of our faces, "your disguises."

I receive my card. It reads 'Jang Hyori,' 20. I chuckle. A South-Korean sounding name, unlike 'Kang Reza'. Kind of makes me wonder what sort of effort they went through to get my photograph from the police without drawing their attention, let alone alter it.

"And some cash," Mireuk sneaks in between us, handing each of us frayed notes of 1,000 won. "Get yourself some cans, drinks, jjajangmyeon. Should be enough for five meals."

I fold them into my skirt pockets. Thank freaking heavens my school uniform actually had pockets. I found it a bit of a miracle that it wasn't ripped to pieces after all this time – or perhaps my mirror regenerated it too?

"Well then," Mireuk exclaims, "let's not waste any more of your time. Quickly now," he commands, sprinting out the room and down the corridor. We breathlessly follow him along, Shinhak immediately behind us, until we stand face-to-face with an open metal elevator that seems to ascend forever into the subterranean sky. Whatever the surface above was, it seemed pitch-black.

"Ugh, this... thing, I remember," Mireuk laughs, shaking his head. "Have to use this beast. Can't just phase you through to the surface."

"Wow, how inconvenient for regulars," Shinhak remarks, his hands already on the industrial-sized button hanging loose from the platform in a jumble of wires. "This will take you out onto an inconspicuous warehouse at the heart of Gangnam. Less than five kilometers away from where you popped your mirror," he comments, glancing at me. "Good luck out there," he says, stepping off, as the three of us – the stoic long-haired boy, the unstable ruby-haired girl, and I – begin to ascend towards the surface on the platform that's screeching as if to complain.

The faces of Shinhak and Mireuk fall away and disappear in the green-black dark as the décor around us becomes pitch. The only thing I can make out are the fluorescent red-ink of our Mirrors of Mushim that read 1 day, 21 hours, 34 minutes. I reach out to feel the barely-hewn rocks brush down past my hands, my eyes ever cognizant of movements from the potentially murderous boy and girl next to me. Perhaps they were even more intensely wary of me. An unspoken tension permeates the rising platform, until we feel it broken by a gust of wind from above.

The elevator creaks out onto a darkened cargo shaft of an abandoned warehouse. It's obvious that it's the middle of the night. Broken concrete and ripped-up pieces of cardboard litter our feet, but that matters little to us as our Mirrors of Mushim jolt to life with ping-ping-ping-ping-ping.

"Buk-suh," they read, arrows pointing northwest. And already rather close, but not too close that we could discern the guemul's power level.

We were in luck. Or we were going to die in a few minutes.