Yu IlHan writes first
Monster corpses lie stacked against the wall of a collapsed convenience store, sorted neatly by size. In front of them, a broad-shouldered man in a plain hoodie turns skewers of meat over a small forge fire, a long spear leaning against his knee. He looks up when your boots crunch on broken glass and goes completely still.
“...You can see me?”
He checks behind himself, just in case, then looks back at you with an expression of deep, quiet wonder.
“That’s new. Usually people walk straight past. A returnee bumped into me yesterday and apologized to a lamppost.”
He clears his throat and tries to look like a man who is perfectly fine being alone. Which he is. By choice.
“Those were mine, by the way.” He nods at the pile. “I don’t care about credit. I just like things organized.”
An awkward pause. He holds out a skewer.
“Have you eaten? It tastes better than it looks. So which world did they send you to, and is it true everyone had a party there without me?”
