I am a Guide Who Killed an Esper.

While the two center managers argued, Jeong Yoonui quietly read through the meeting materials in front of him.

Espers, especially those with heightened physical abilities and overly sensitive senses, often suffered from severe nervous exhaustion. As a result, many turned to alcohol or even drugs, and strict measures were in place to prevent such dependencies. However, it seemed that recently, reliance on these substances had been on the rise again.

Yoonui thought back to the absentee from the 10 AM shift—the one who had been too drunk to lift his body off the table, wrists cuffed, thin and frail from poor nutrition. Was he just another number in the statistics detailed in this report?

…Not my problem. Yoonui closed the report and turned his attention to the director, who was now mediating the escalating fight between the two center managers.

The director, on the verge of banging his fist on the table, managed to stop the two just before it devolved into an all-out shouting match. He sighed, tapping the desk loudly.

“Whatever the case, let’s focus on doing our jobs properly. This is an important time for us.”

The Central Crisis Management Headquarters was always under Emergency Level 3, so it wasn’t like there was ever a time that wasn’t important. Flipping through the documents with disinterest, Yoonui wondered what the director meant by “important.”

It soon became clear that it had political undertones. The Operations Manager, ever eager to back the director, passionately elaborated on what was clearly the director’s message but presented as his own opinion: the so-called roadmap to becoming a “Ministry.”

“Public opinion is once again shifting toward upgrading our headquarters to ministry status. Now’s the time to act! The Response Center needs to handle a few A-class gates in record time, and we should get some coverage of that newly manifested 20-year-old S-class Esper! Showcase how we’re the ‘Hope of the Nation! The Guardians of Public Safety!’ That’ll win over the public, and we can secure nationwide support for the Central Crisis Management Headquarters becoming a Ministry!”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. Yoonui propped his chin on his hand.

Upgrading the headquarters to ministry status had been a long-standing dream since its inception. It seemed that this newly manifested Esper, allegedly an S-class, would be their ticket. If the Esper truly was an S-class, it was indeed a golden opportunity for media exposure.

If they really were S-class, that is. Watching the Operations Manager passionately deliver his pitch, Yoonui remained skeptical.

In recent years, there had been plenty of so-called “S-class” candidates. Each time, Manager Park had hyped them up with grand proclamations of “This time, it’s the real deal!” But after several rounds of tests and training, they all turned out to be A-class at best.

Still, the fact that they were dusting off the ministry upgrade project again suggested there might be something to this new candidate.

The situation reminded Yoonui of eight years ago when the first-ever S-class Esper appeared in South Korea. It was nothing short of a heroic debut, and for the first time, the headquarters—which had previously been better known for being criticized in the media—was showered with public praise.

The turning point came when they closed gates over Seoul and Busan in record time, broadcasting the feat live on national television. Riding the wave of public support, the organization had even submitted a bold legislative proposal to upgrade to ministry status.

But it failed.

And the one responsible for that failure was none other than himself, Jeong Yoonui.

Back then, he was a veteran guide at the Response Center, a rising star on the elite track, and an A-class guide praised for his on-field expertise. Yet, he had single-handedly derailed the organization’s ambitions.

[A Guide Who Abandoned the S-class Esper in the Field and Fled the Gate]

That was the headline that haunted him afterward.

The nation’s only S-class Esper had become a missing operative—an irreversible loss.

The media had a field day, and the fallout was devastating. Yoonui was demoted, relegated to administrative work in a humiliating transfer, and the organization lost public trust, political support, and its dream of ministry status.

Now, five years after they had stopped even mentioning the idea, it seemed the winds had shifted again. The Operations Manager passionately laid out the plan to revive the initiative.

“This time, we can’t afford any slip-ups. We need favorable media coverage, strong alliances in Parliament, and consistent talent development from the Talent Management Team. And, of course, our Espers must perform flawlessly…”

“What’s the point of us risking our lives fighting monsters?”

Manager Park slammed his hand on the table, his gaze fixed on Yoonui with a hint of malice in his voice.

“And what are we supposed to trust out there? Guides who can’t even support us properly? Who end up getting Espers killed? How can we focus on the field with that kind of support?”

His words were clearly aimed at Yoonui, and the atmosphere in the room grew icy. All eyes turned to him. Yoonui met Park’s glare with a cold, impassive expression. Beneath that stare, long-buried voices echoed in his mind.

Murderer! Murderer!

The cries of the Espers from that time reverberated like tinnitus.

Sensing the blatant attack on Yoonui, Lim Hyungwan, the Support Center Manager, stepped in to defend her fellow guide.

“Manager Park, that’s quite a statement. You make it sound as though every Esper’s death in the line of duty is the guide’s fault.”

“There have been such cases, haven’t there?”

“You shouldn’t phrase it as ‘killed,’ though.”

“Then what? Did they save them?”

Park slammed the table repeatedly, each strike punctuated by his rising frustration. The loud thuds seemed to sync with the echoes in Yoonui’s ears:

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Whose voice is this?

Jeong Yoonui pressed his palms against his ears, but it was no use. The accusatory voices echoing inside his head, deep within his body, couldn’t be silenced.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

The voices wouldn’t stop. It was as if a speaker had been buried deep within him, endlessly amplifying these accusations. The sound reverberated through his nerves like a megaphone, prodding his guilt with each word.

Yoonui slowly removed his hands from his ears. Yeah, murderer. Murderer. Murderer. So what?

“…Ugh, so noisy.”

It wasn’t as though he only heard these words in his head; he was bombarded with them outside, too, to the point of exhaustion. This level of taunting wasn’t enough to shatter Jeong Yoonui’s composure. With a face entirely unaffected, he stared straight at Manager Park and asked flatly:

“When you’re on a mission, sometimes an Esper or two might die. Seriously, you’re still dragging this out five years later?”

Silence followed.

Even the Operations Manager and Lim, the Support Center Manager, looked at him as if he were a sociopath. Manager Park, who seemed unable to comprehend what he’d just heard, stared at him in shock. It wasn’t until several seconds later that the meaning of Yoonui’s words registered, and Park’s face turned bright red with fury.

“What?! You bastard! Get out here, now!”

“Manager Park!”

Finally, the meeting materials went flying. The executive meeting had unraveled entirely.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Leaning back in his chair, Yoonui let out a sly laugh.

“Unbelievable. Manager Park, what a mess. All Espers have such terrible anger management issues,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Lim, who had followed him out of the meeting room, clicked her tongue in disapproval. She had nearly lost a button on her jacket trying to stop Park from lunging at Yoonui.

“Yoonui, you were a bit harsh, but honestly, it’s not like Espers are the only ones risking their lives on missions. Guides die on missions, too. They act like they’re the only ones making sacrifices…”

With the director gone, Lim was much less restrained in her words. Watching Manager Park stomp down the hallway, practically fuming, Lim made no effort to lower her voice. She was clearly speaking loudly enough for him to hear.

“And that whole case from five years ago—seriously? It’s been five years. The ones who were responsible have already left the organization. Yoonui was punished and taken off the field. Isn’t that enough? Now he’s even covering as the acting team leader for the Talent Management Team.”

Her tone grew louder, and she began gesturing in Park’s direction as his figure disappeared further down the hallway. As soon as he was completely out of sight, Lim’s voice dropped, and her movements became more subdued. Sensing the shift, Yoonui quickly adjusted his demeanor.

“…Well. I’m not saying I wasn’t at fault,” he admitted.

“True. But showing that kind of attitude in front of the higher-ups? That’s on you, Yoonui,” Lim said.

Guides might defend each other in front of Espers, but when it was just them, the dynamic was entirely different. Lim began lecturing Yoonui on proper etiquette and organizational politics.

“Like it or not, we’re all part of the same team here. We can’t let ourselves look like a dysfunctional mess in front of the admin staff. Especially not now, when things are politically sensitive. Sure, Espers can be frustrating, but sometimes you have to let things slide. Of course, you should point out what needs addressing, but you can’t push too hard, either. We’re all in this together—helping each other, guiding each other. That’s what being part of an organization is about.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yoonui replied, nodding.

It was the kind of advice he’d heard at least thirty times before, and this time was no different. Half of it went in one ear and out the other. In the end, all Lim was really saying was to stop throwing Espers into detention without mercy and to let minor tardiness slide.

But even after hearing this lecture dozens of times, Yoonui had never and would never let an Esper’s tardiness go—not even by a single minute.

And that wasn’t about to change.