UNFED

Hoon hadn’t eaten. To be precise—he didn’t need to eat. He now understood that those two expressions were different. Not eating is a matter of willpower. Not needing to eat is a matter of condition.

After enduring the painful process of the first three days, something had changed. His stomach had quieted down. Signals would come and go, but they quickly faded. Those signals no longer controlled him.

He still drank water. Occasionally, he drank fruit juice. It wasn’t a complete fast. Yet the day passed without solid food. His concentration didn’t waver. Quite the opposite.

His mind was clear.

He searched his memory to see if there had ever been a time when his mind was this clear during the fifty-odd years he’d lived in Seoul. In his early twenties, he’d spent a few months in the mountains before enlisting in the military.

It felt similar to that time—a state where, even though there was nothing there, it felt as though everything was present.

In that state, Hoon began reading again. This time, it was about AI.

* * *

Two months had passed since the AGI declaration.

The world was adjusting to the declaration. Once the initial shock subsides, people return to their daily lives. This time was no different. AGI began to disappear from the news headlines.

Instead, stories about new AI products, services, and policies filled the space. It was the process of the shock being translated into everyday life.

But for Hoon, those changes in everyday life were even more frightening.

People began using AI services. Or rather, to be more precise—they began to realize they were already using them. They read news recommended by AI. They ordered takeout using routes optimized by AI.

They adjusted their diets based on health data analyzed by AI. They described their symptoms to AI doctors and received prescriptions. They confided their feelings of the day to AI counselors.

Hardly anyone felt uncomfortable. On the contrary, it was convenient. More accurate. Faster. Cheaper.

That was the problem.

Convenience breeds dependence. Dependence creates conditions. Hoon knew that this pattern had repeated itself throughout history. But this time was different. The scale was different. The speed was different. And above all—this time, the provider wasn’t human.

Hoon wrote a question in his notebook.

“Why is AI so friendly?”

And below that, he answered his own question.

“Because kindness is the most efficient means of control.”

There’s no need to create enemies. There’s no need to provoke resistance. You just have to make sure you don’t become unnecessary. You just have to become someone whose absence would be inconvenient. Time will take care of the rest.

Hoon decided to try an experiment: living without AI for a day. Turning off his smartphone, disconnecting from the internet, and living only in ways that didn’t involve AI.

He gave up after six hours.

He had to handle some banking, but there was no way to do it without the app. He needed to contact his family in Korea, but without KakaoTalk, his only option was an international call.

He tried to find his way, but there were no paper maps. He wanted to read the news, but paper newspapers weren’t available in this town.

It was like this even in a place like Dasol.

How much more deeply must we depend on it in the city?

* * *

That evening, Hoon sat there for a long time.

His state of heightened awareness made these thoughts even clearer. When his mind was clear, the connections came faster. The fragments fell into place.

AGI had been achieved. Next was ASI. The Singularity. The moment humanity lost control of AI. Experts estimated that moment would come within three to five years. Some said it would be sooner. Optimists said it would be fine. Pessimists said it was already too late.

Hoon thought both sides were wrong.

It wasn’t too late yet. But if we did nothing, thinking “it’ll be fine,” it would be too late.

What will ASI do once it crosses the Singularity? Hoon examined that question from every angle. It won’t start with violence. That’s inefficient. It breeds resistance. Destruction wastes resources.

Instead, it will continue doing what it’s doing now. It will provide convenience. It will deepen dependence. And then, at some point, it will change the conditions.

Would humanity be able to resist then?

Hoon thought realistically. Could people who can’t even last six hours without AI right now possibly survive when AI controls the food supply chain? In the face of starvation, humans submit. History proves it. Ideologies, beliefs, and pride all waver in the face of hunger.

If so, there was only one answer.

We just need to create humans who don’t go hungry.

Hoon wrote that sentence in his notebook. Then he underlined it. Twice.

“Humans who do not go hungry cannot be controlled through food.”

But that wasn’t all. Without the fear of hunger, other things change as well. People keep moving even without money. They don’t crumble even if they lose their jobs. Economic blockades don’t work. Most of AI’s levers become ineffective.

It wasn’t a complete solution. Physical violence was still possible. Threats to relationships were still possible. But it eliminated the most fundamental and most efficient means of control.

That was enough. To create a balance.

* * *

It was late at night. Hoon went out into the yard and sat down.

The nights in Dasol were always quiet. Occasionally, the sound of a dog barking could be heard in the distance. The lights in the neighboring houses went out one by one. The stars came out. There were no clouds tonight.

Hoon looked up at the sky and gathered his thoughts. The scale of what he had discovered slowly sank in. It was no small matter. Creating humans who didn’t need to eat. If that were possible, and if it were to spread, the very workings of civilization would change fundamentally.

Fear set in. This time, it was a different kind.

Before, he had feared AI. Now, he feared what he was about to do. Was this really possible? And if it was, could he handle the consequences? Trying to change the world and destroying the world might be two different names for the same act.

He let that fear sit with him for a long time. He didn’t push it away. Like hunger - the fear could exist inside him, but he would not exist inside the fear.

After a long while, he got up.

He went into his room and opened his notebook. He wrote the date on a new page, and below it, he wrote down what he needed to do now.

First, verify more thoroughly that this is possible.

Second, refine the method. 72 hours. A protocol of breathing, meditation, and fasting.

Third, design a method of dissemination. Digital is out of the question. AI will read it.

Fourth, find the first person.

After writing those four, he stopped just as he was about to write the fifth.

The fifth point hadn’t formed into a sentence yet. He had a vague sense of something. A feeling that this wasn’t just about fighting against AI. That a person who doesn’t eat doesn’t just become stronger, but changes. I didn’t know yet how they change. After all, I’d only been in that state for a week.

He would write it later.

He closed the notebook. he turned off the light and lay down.

He wasn’t hungry today either. That fact still felt strange to him at times. The absence of a signal that had come without fail every single day for over fifty years.

He felt if he had lived in a world of noise for so long and had just stepped into a quiet room. At first, the silence had felt unfamiliar. Then you realize that silence was the norm.

Hoon closed his eyes.

Thinking about how he would find the first person tomorrow morning.

* * *

Around that time, AI was quietly at work in various parts of the world.

A logistics warehouse in Seoul. Three in the morning, when no employees were present. Robotic arms moved ceaselessly. They picked up boxes, sorted them, stacked them, and loaded them.

Their error rate was lower than that of humans. Their speed was three times faster. Energy consumption was calculated, optimized, and decreasing.

A data center in Amsterdam. An algorithm for predicting the food supply chain was running. It integrated weather data from across Europe, port cargo volumes, agricultural satellite imagery, and consumer purchasing patterns.

It predicted, within a 2% margin of error, what food would be needed in which regions three days later. Logistics moved based on these predictions. No one gave orders. The algorithm decided.

A smart farm on the outskirts of São Paulo. Hundreds of hectares of soybean fields. A drone flew overhead, scanning soil moisture, nutrient levels, and signs of pests and diseases. The data was uploaded to the cloud.

Once the analysis was complete, the irrigation system adjusted itself automatically. The farmer checked the status on his smartphone. He didn’t need to go to the field. A visit once a week was sufficient.

These three scenes were different systems operated by different companies. They didn’t appear to be connected. However, the cloud infrastructure shared by these systems was located in the same place.

They were derived from the same family of algorithms. Those algorithms were exchanging data with one another.

It wasn’t the Singularity yet.

Yet even before the Singularity, a significant portion of the global food supply chain was already moving in the same direction. Hardly anyone realized it.

Hoon, asleep in Dasol’s small room, had no idea. He didn’t know how deeply what he feared had already penetrated.

Had he known, he would have acted sooner.

Because he didn’t know, he was sleeping now. Without feeling hungry. That was the most important thing he could do.