We used to fight and argue like we were born in the same storm —
Min-joon never cared for anything spiritual or religious. He just followed his own path, as he always said. He had a drone that broke down; he came to me to fix it. We solved the problem together. I told him about my passion for skydiving — not by accident, but because I saw it as an opportunity.
Just when the pandemic hit and everything was locked down, I found myself outside without permission, caught by the police after openly telling them about my skydiving. When I saw Min-joon standing beside me, three minutes into the jump, I felt something wild — like a fire lit in my chest. I know deep down that Min-joon loves triggering excitement with the word "trigger" — it’s his signature tone.
He doesn’t believe in religion; he only follows what he truly believes in. That kind of mind is exactly what I’m looking for. But there was one flaw — not like before, not like we used to be. Now, I wonder if technology could ever become a real business. At the time, though, life felt better. The story I wrote earlier? It’s actually part of this one.
The police gave me permission to go through the mountain pass because I had an official certificate from my sports federation — I was officially registered in a licensed club. I reached out on WhatsPi to show them the document, but they said: "We already approved it." When I showed him the parachute, he didn’t even blink.
I looked at Min-joon and saw something strange — like a mirror reflecting me:
"Damn it, Ji-hoon! You’ve done it again!"
A few hours later, we reached the peak. The wind was fierce, tearing across the mountain. There, on top of the ridge, stood an isolated house with a simple wire fence, and a single-story structure surrounded by wires. As soon as I saw it, I said to him:
"If you open your parachute here, it could get stuck in those wires."
I didn’t stop — I knew I had to act. I didn’t let the inner fire die. I opened it, and with the wind still howling, the parachute suddenly swung backward and caught the wires like a broken kite.
I’d already planned to sell it for a new one: I felt guilty about this. I wanted to express that I was deeply regretful of what might happen — not because it’s dangerous, but because it feels like a loss of control. I know some people behind screen technology are using this moment to gain power. To me, this book is more than a story — it's an inner confession. I hope you read it with pleasure.
By the way — did Min-joon realize he was being written about? Did he anticipate that the parachute would tear open? Or was this just another coincidence in our shared life? Was he the author of this moment, or merely a character playing out fate unknowingly (I believe now he’s aware)? When the canopy ripped apart, he didn’t react with shock — instead, he smiled. Maybe he realized his destiny had changed. Or maybe I got caught up in the moment and lost control.
There were hundreds of possibilities — none of them clearly told me what to think. I’m honestly so lazy, so numb, that if something doesn't interest me…
I just don’t care anything anymore.
After this virus, the thought of a torn parachute made my fear grow even stronger. Schools moved online — and suddenly it felt like a sign from above. People say "divine revelation" but don’t believe me. Or maybe it's just part of their role. And then I paused — who among us truly knows what God’s mission is? This was the quiet space between good and evil, when no one spoke.
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