Viktor wrote for three more days.
He didn’t stop even as his body recovered after regaining consciousness. Hoon brought him water from time to time. Viktor would take a sip and keep writing. He didn’t eat. He said he didn’t feel like eating.
Hoon found that strange. True to his nature as a neuroscientist, he observed his own condition while simultaneously recording it.
He had moved on to his second notebook.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Hoon sat down next to Viktor.
“What are you writing?”
Viktor replied without looking up.
“The mechanism. Based on my observations. A hypothesis explaining the EEG data. And describing as accurately as possible what happened in my body over the past 72 hours.”
“You’re mixing languages.”
Viktor looked at his notebook. Czech, English, and mathematical formulas were all mixed together.
"That’s what happens when I write down my thoughts as they come. I’ll have to organize it later."
“In English later?”
"In English. Because anyone should be able to read it."
Hoon looked at the notebook. He couldn’t read it. But he could see the pages densely filled with writing. Viktor’s handwriting was small, fast, and slightly slanted. It was a neuroscientist’s notebook—a mix of academic paper style and personal notes.
“I need to take this to Gong.”
Viktor looked up.
“I’ll organize it there.”
“What about there?”
Viktor thought for a moment.
"The Philippines?"
“Yes. Nueva Vizcaya. In the mountains.”
Viktor looked out the window for a moment. The streets of Prague. Old buildings. The Vltava River was visible in the distance.
"There’s no reason for me to stay here. Not anymore."
The words were brief, but they held a great deal of meaning. Hoon didn’t press him for an explanation.
* * *
On the fifth evening, Viktor closed his notebook.
He called Hoon.
"I'm done."
Hoon came over. Viktor placed two notebooks on the table. Then he picked one up and opened it to the first page.
“I didn’t know what to call it.”
He looked at the page. The title was written in English.
On the Voluntary Reorganization of Hypothalamic Appetite Circuits through Sustained Meditative Practice: A First-Person Account and Mechanistic Hypothesis
Hoon read it. It was long. It was precise, just like the title of an academic paper.
“Yours is included too. The records from Dasol. The data I saw at the lab. And my 72 hours. Three cases.”
“Three?”
“You, Lee Jae-in, and me. Three people. Amara has a different background, so he needs to be handled separately.”
Hoon looked at Viktor.
“Did you meet Amara?”
"You heard it from me. A former healer from Senegal. Someone who had already practiced something similar to ‘qi.’ That case is proof that this mechanism transcends cultural boundaries."
Hoon looked at Viktor for a moment. He’d spent the last five days locked in his room writing in his notebook, and he’d analyzed all of this.
“I need to make a copy of this.”
Viktor said.
“By hand?”
“Of course.”
Viktor picked up two notebooks and handed them to Hoon.
"You take one. I’ll copy another one here and take that one with me."
Hoon took the notebook. It was thick and heavy. He realized anew just how heavy handwritten text could be.
"Thank you."
Viktor waved his hand.
“I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
And he added,
“If this gets published, I’ll have to put your name in.”
Hoon looked at him.
“My name?”
"As the author. This wouldn’t have happened without you."
Hoon said.
"Publishing is for later. For now, the fewer people who know where this is, the better."
Viktor nodded.
"I know. Just handwritten copies for now. No digital copies."
"That’s right."
* * *
The night before he left, Hoon had a final conversation with Viktor in his room.
There was no alcohol. There was tea. Viktor had made it. As they drank tea, Viktor said,
"When I sold my research to the AI company, I thought I could negotiate the direction."
Hoon listened.
“That’s what he said. That we could negotiate. That things would be different once we joined.”
“Was it different?”
Viktor took a sip of tea.
"It was like that for the first three months. I could do whatever I wanted. Then things started to change little by little. The direction of the meetings shifted. We began to disagree on how to interpret the data. And before I knew it, we were already doing something that wasn’t what I wanted."
“When did you leave?”
"One day during a meeting, I was looking at the data and realized that this wasn’t data describing humans—it was data predicting humans. That was the difference."
Viktor paused for a moment.
"If you explain humans, you can understand them better. If you predict humans, you can control them better."
As Hoon listened to those words, he thought of his notebook. The things he had written at Dasol.
"All means of AI control are designed based on the premise of the human survival instinct."
Viktor’s research had been incorporated into that design.
"That’s how it came about. But just because it came about didn’t mean the research came back. It was already in their hands."
Hoon said.
“That’s why I drank.”
Viktor paused for a moment, then nodded.
"If you know, you don’t need to feel it."
He repeated what he had said before. He seemed to believe that statement was true himself.
“What about now?”
Viktor looked out the window. It was a Prague night. The lights of the old city.
“Now I have to feel it. Because only by feeling it can I set things right.”
The words came out quietly. But they were firm.
Hoon took a sip of tea. Viktor did too. The two sat in silence for a while.
The sound of a tram passed by outside the window. Prague was a city that never stopped moving, even at night.
* * *
The next morning, Hoon left Prague.
Viktor decided to come a week later. He needed time to tidy up his room and pack his bags. He had to finish the copy of the notebook. And he had to say goodbye to Marta. That was all. He said he had no other regrets.
On the bus to the airport, Hoon took the notebook Viktor had given him out of his bag. He looked at the cover. Nothing was written there. He opened the first page. There was a title. Below that was a date. And below that, in small print, was one more line.
For those who come after.
Hoon read the sentence. Then he closed the notebook.
The bus left the city. The red rooftops receded into the distance. The Vltava River glinted and then vanished.
Next was Tokyo.
Yuki Tanaka. Digital detox activist. He needed an analog network. She was the one who could design it.
Hoon closed his eyes.
There was an hour left until the airport.
He wasn’t hungry. Still. That still felt new to him sometimes. It would probably always feel new.
The bus sped along. The spring fields of Prague flowed past the window.
Somewhere, a copy of Viktor’s notes was being made. By hand. With a ballpoint pen.
In a place where no one could read it. Not yet.