The big library was not just quiet—it was the kind of peace that pay attention. Mei Ling leaned spine in her chair, fingers hovering the rim of her coffee mug, its warmth the only thing keeping the biting Beijing cold at bay. Across from her, Ji-hoon stared blankly at the thick book he was not reading, and Ziyan scrolled aimlessly on her tablet. They had come to the Tsinghua University library to study, but the world outside was cracking apart.
“Yoon Suk-yeol lost the plot ages ago,” Mei said, breaking the silence with a casual brutality that made Ji-hoon recoil. “Martial law? In 2024? The man’s a walking anachronism.”
Ji-hoon ran a hand through his hair, already thinning at the edges despite his youth. “You think I do not know that? The second he declared it; the National Assembly tore him to shreds. Impeached within two weeks. And now? We have got Han Duck-soo as acting president—a caretaker leader with no real power, just babysitting a nation falling apart at the seams.”
Ziyan glanced up from her tablet, her brow furrowed. “But why martial law? That is not just desperation—that is panic. What was he trying to stop?”
“Everything,” Ji-hoon muttered. “The opposition, the protests, his own collapsing administration. Corruption scandals are one thing, but when your approval rating was in the basement—down to 30% by November 2024—and the people are screaming for your head, you start making bad calls. Yoon’s was just nuclear-level bad.”
Mei sniggered, but there was no humour in it. “And now your country is a mess. The People Power Party is imploding, the Democratic Party’s circling like vultures, and North Korea is laughing so hard they probably canceled missile testing for the week. What is the plan, Ji-hoon? Or is there even a plan?”
Ji-hoon opened his mouth but did not try more to say something. Mei took that as her answer.
“Here is the thing,” she continued, leaning forward, with her blade-sharp voice. “You are stuck in the same old Cold War dance. American troops on your soil, North Korean nukes pointed at your capital, and China just waiting for an opening. You call it security, but it is a powder keg. And now, with Washington using you as a pawn in their geostrategic game with Beijing? You are not playing the game—you are the game.”
Ziyan sighed, her voice softer. “It is not like South Korea has much of a choice. America is the only reason the North has not crossed the border again.”
“Is it, though?” Mei countered. “Or is their presence the reason the North keeps escalating? Think about it. Every time Washington flexes its muscles, Pyongyang fires another missile. Meanwhile, South Korea foots the bill—economically, politically, and culturally. THAAD deployment cost your billions in Chinese sanctions. More than $7 billion in lost exports, according to a 2017 estimate. Joining the American Indo-Pacific alliances is making Beijing see red. And what do you get in return? A bunch of old treaties that will crumble the second America decides it’s not worth the trouble.”
Ji-hoon shifted uncomfortably, but Mei was not done. “You are chasing nuclear weapons now, aren’t you? I read the polls. 70 per cent of South Koreans want their own nukes. That is not just a policy debate—that’s fear. Fear that your so-called allies will ghost you when it really matters.”
“That fear is not baseless,” Ji-hoon said quietly. “Afghanistan was a lesson. Washington will leave when it suits them. But going nuclear? That could isolate us entirely. It is a lose-lose scenario.”
“And still,” Ziyan added, “you are playing by the rules they set.”
The conversation should have ended there, but the library seemed unwilling to let them go. A chilling draft crept through the room, and the lights flickered once, twice, before stabilizing. Mei froze, her eyes darting to the shadows stretching between the shelves.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
“What?” Ji-hoon asked, but his voice revealed that he had sensed it too.
The shadows deepened, pooling unnaturally until they merged into a figure. It was Ji-hoon—or something like him. Older, skinny, his face looks like a google map of sorrow and regret. He strode forward, blinking like an image on an unstable screen.
Mei’s throat tightened, but her voice was steady. “What is this? Some kind of ghost?”
“Not a ghost,” the figure said, its voice a brittle crackle, like dry leaves crushed underfoot on a winter garden path. “A future. One you do not want.”
The spirit raised a hand, pointing toward the big window. The three turned to look, and the snow outside altered. The skyline of Seoul was unrecognizable. Skyscrapers sagged like melting candles, their glass shattered, and their steel skeletons twisted. Fires fumed in the distance, and ash descended like poisoned snow.
“What… what happened?” Ziyan stuttered.
The older Ji-hoon spoke again. “Your alliances fractured. Your people divided. Americans left when the stakes got too high. The North took advantage, but they did not need to invade. South Korea imploded all on its own. Politicians too busy fighting each other to fight for the country. An economy that could not sustain itself. A population too old to rebuild. The median age in South Korea hit 44 in 2024, the highest in the OECD, and it is only going up. This is what is waiting if nothing changes.”
Mei swallowed hard, her mind racing. “And what if we try to change it?”
The figure’s expression was unreadable. “Then you buy time. But nothing lasts forever. Not alliances. Not economies. Not even nations.”
The lights flickered again, and the spirit dissolved into shadow. Outside, the snow began to fall faster, as if trying to entomb the act they had just witnessed.
Ziyan broke the silence, her voice trembling. “Was that… real?”
Ji-hoon did not answer. He stared at his reflection in the frost-covered window, his younger face juxtaposed with the ruins he had just seen.
Mei leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Here is the kicker: that future does not need North Korea or China to push you over the edge. You are doing it to yourselves. Polarization, corruption, an aging population—these are your real enemies. And no one is coming to save you. Not the Americans, not your chaebols, not your nukes. Just you. Or no one.”
The library lights, like fading embers, flickered and died, casting the room into a sudden, suffocating darkness. When the lights finally flickered back to life, an eerie silence had settled over the room, a chilling emptiness that felt like an unwelcome specter.
——
Rajeev Ahmed
The Editor of Geopolits.com and the Author of the book titled Bengal Nexus
———-