The news anchor's voice trembles as she says, "We have received confirmation that Seoul has fallen to the infected. Government operations are being relocated to emergency facilities in Busan."
They cut to footage of other cities - New York, London, Tokyo - skylines burned, overrun with staggering infected, military vehicles and barricades everywhere.
"Major cities across the world are also reporting similar outbreaks and state of emergencies..."
I mute the broadcast, a chill settling through me. This is it. The beginning of the end that I've experienced countless times before.
In my mind's eye I see glimpses of the past timelines - humanity slowly succumbing to the relentless infected, struggling to keep the last vestiges of civilisation intact before eventually falling. Each time, my previous self tried to find a way to turn the tide, to save what remaining enclaves we could. And each time we failed.
Now the wheels are in motion again. The pathetic attempts to flee south on the Korean peninsula, the blockade by Hazmat-clad troops desperately trying to contain the outbreak to the north. An effort in futility, I know from past experience. Within weeks, the south will be inundated, pockets of survivors scrabbling to survive while the military machine fails piece by piece.
I close my eyes, the images of the coming years clear like haunting photographs in my mind. The families trapped and crying on the roadsides will be among the first to turn as the infection spreads unchecked. I see the buildings of Busan overrun by hordes, disease and violence, leaving the shining city a hollow corpse.
I open my eyes. Perhaps in this cycle of the apocalypse, I can steer events differently and find a way to reshape the ending that has played out tragically again and again. But looking at the panicked faces on the news broadcasts, I cannot help but feel a crushing hopelessness. Is this humanity's destiny, no matter how hard I try to intervene?
The question hangs heavy as the newscasts predictably shift to advising on seeking shelter and preparing go-bags. Futile recommendations for a calamity I know too well. I wonder if I can truly make a difference as the familiar curtain of apocalypse descends once more.
Joon-ho's face is grim as he turns to me. "So this is it then? The real start of the collapse?"
I nod slowly. "Yes. This is how it begins - the cities falling rapidly, one by one. The government relocating south in desperation. It's played out the same way every time before."
Joon-ho absorbs this with a sigh. "And their stronghold in Busan? How long does that last usually?"
I rub my chin, recalling the previous timelines. "Hard to say for certain. Two months at least before it's completely overrun. Though the functioning governance only lasts for a few weeks before fractures appear."
I grimace as fragmented memories surface - various government ministers assassinating each other, military generals declaring martial law, everything descending into violent chaos long before Busan finally succumbs to the swarming infected.
Joon-ho shakes his head at the prognosis. "Not long for people to try and prepare then. What about the rest of the country? Will anywhere remain safe if everything spreads this quickly?"
"Nowhere is truly safe anymore," I reply. "I've never made it past five years myself. The dense populations mean the infected multiply rapidly everywhere, driving the survivors constantly on the move. It's..." I gesture vaguely, "...too small nation, too many people for this."
I point at the map of Korea on the wall, tapping our location. "Uljin will likely stay calmer for awhile than most areas thanks to the power plant perimeter and lower population density. But nowhere is immune."
Joon-ho ponders this silently before asking, "What about other nations though? Are there any areas or countries that manage to regain control?"
I shake my head sadly. "None that I ever made it to or heard any concrete news about. Even oceans didn't seem to stop the spread in past timelines..."
We both stare bleakly at the news footage, the scale of the visible crisis merely a herald of the grander collapse ahead.
***
It's been a week since the last television broadcast blinked out, the panicked newscaster's face vanishing mid-sentence into deafening static. The internet had dried up a few days prior - no more frantic forum posts or ominous articles updating the spiralling state of affairs. Just the unnerving black screens of disconnected servers.
We kept the radio on as the only remaining thread of information and authority. The government messages were repetitive - lists of quarantine zones, advisories to avoid travel or contact, useless tidbits about "maintaining hope in crisis" alongside the martial loop of patriotic songs.
Three days ago, even that last governmental radio frequency disappeared. No official sign-off message or indication of the silence to come. Just four words midway through an advisory repeating strained assurances of enough resources to outlast the epidemic. Then static.
Now, there is nothing but the blank absence where constant media once flowed. No updates on the worsening conditions across the nation and globe. No snippets of news about governments struggling to respond as society unravels at the seams. Only the cold reality of the world having gone suddenly quiet.
Joon-ho and I huddle indoors, the heating and generator still functioning with our hoarded fuel reserves. But the deeper chill comes from the mute void left by the collapsed channels of communication. Even the righteous anger and fearful arguing of strangers online would be comforting compared to this empty unknowing.
Outside the first snows have come, muffling the landscape we scarcely dare to traverse anymore. As the days grow darker and shorter with winter's advance, I cannot shake the feeling the long night ahead will be longer and darker without the vanished voices that used to connect us. We are well into the post-apocalyptic abyss, and winter's silence is settling upon the remnants of humanity.
The cold pit of dread in my stomach whispers that the deepest winter is yet to arrive for our species.