The dead metal arms of hanging curtains close up on me, claustrophobic yet mildly uncomfortable, like a room too small to live in yet a room too big for being.
I wake up to the smell of antiseptic and the sound of muffled voices.
Everything feels heavy, like I'm trying to swim through molasses. The front of a pool returnjet.
My eyes are sticky, half-glued shut, but I manage to crack them open.
Blinding fluorescent lights flicker overhead, the harsh greens and stained eggshell whites of the tiles, as if blood spills regularly.
The nurse's office.
No, the clinic. Everything's a clinic when you're supposed to be fine but aren't.
The world swims into focus, and I see the outline of a figure in a lab coat talking to someone just outside the door. A relentless thud-thud-thud echoes through my skull.
My mouth tastes like steel and cotton. My thorax screams in protest as I try to sit up.
"You're awake," the nurse says, like she's stating the obvious. She's a small woman, thin as a toothpick, with tired eyes, permanent frown. Rounded eyes like a bovine mammal. Her name tag reads Ms. Jung. "You were out for a while. Took quite the hit, didn't you?"
I nod, though it feels like my brain is rattling inside my head.
"The principal's been informed," she adds, her voice flat. "You'll need to see him before you go home.Sign this and take it easy, alright?"
Take it easy. Sure. Like that's possible after everything.
The door creaks open, and there he is. Principal No-name. A stout man with thinning hair and a perpetual scowl, his tie always just a little too tight around his thick neck. He looks at me like I'm an inconvenience, like I've ruined his day just by existing.
"Lee Dowoon," he says, each syllable clipped and precise. "Explain what happened."
I try to think, to form words that make sense. But all I can see in my mind's eye is Taehoon's foot connecting with my ribs, the world spinning out of control, and then nothing.
I try to say that it was just self-defence, but it feels like my mouth is trying to stop the words, as if this bastard who doesn't know how to run a school doesn't deserve the spit that will go down my throat if I speak another word.
Principal Kang's eyes narrow. He doesn't buy it. He never buys anything that doesn't fit into his neat little world of rules and punishments.
Puppet king.
Faker.
Faker.
Faker.
"We'll discuss this further," he says, like it's a promise and a threat rolled into one. "But for now, you're free to go. Make sure your parents know about this."
He leaves without waiting for a response, his footsteps heavy on the tile floor. The nurse gives me a look, something halfway between pity and indifference, before she turns back to her paperwork. As if this happens every Tuesday. It probably does. Only thing different is who lost.
I manage to get to my feet, every muscle aching, and shuffle out of the clinic. The hallways are mostly empty now, the last echoes of the school day fading into silence. My mind is a fog, thick and impenetrable, but one thought claws its way to the surface: I need to get home.
But home feels like that wet market you once threaded through or that office from that doctor that prescribed the expensive kind of painkillers, so you never come back again.
I stumble through the streets, every corner unfamiliar, every building an incoherent message of Korean brutalism. The world tilts and sways, and I can't tell if it's the concussion or just me.
Somehow, I find my way. The apartment building rises up in front of me, grey and lifeless, and I drag myself inside. The elevator ride is an eternity, the numbers crawling by like they're mocking me.
When I finally reach the door to our apartment, I stand there for a moment, just breathing. Just existing. Then I push it open.
My father is waiting. Of course he is.
He's a paunchy man with full brown hair and the kind of tired eyes that have seen too much and learned too little. He's sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him, the steam curling up like smoke from a dying fire.
"You're late," he says, his voice flat. No concern. No anger. Just a statement of fact.
I don't bother to explain. There's no point. He wouldn't understand, and even if he did, it wouldn't change anything.
"Go to your room," he says, already turning back to whatever spreadsheet or report or newspaper he's pretending to read. As if he actually cares. Self-made men don't mean shit when they don't differ from other stubborn old men.
"Study. You've wasted enough time today."
I nod, even though he's not looking at me, and head down the narrow hallway to my room. It's small, cramped, with just enough space for a bed and a desk. The walls are bare, the window covered with thick curtains that block out the world.
There's a smaller room inside my room, a glorified closet jutting out from the corner that my father had converted into a study space. No distractions. Just books and silence and scattered diagrams on post-it notes
I sit down at the tiny desk, my head still throbbing, and close my eyes.
Essence.
The word is like a key, unlocking something deep inside me. The air in front of me shimmers, warps, and then—there it is. A blue screen, floating in midair like something out of a video game.
It's real. This is real.
The screen lists a series of options, icons and text that don't make any sense to me yet. But I know what this is. The first gacha. My first draw.
My fingers hover over the screen, trembling. This is it. A way out. A way forward.
And somehow, it feels trivial.
I press the button. The screen flashes, and ten cards appear, each one a mystery waiting to be unravelled.
But for now, they remain blank.
I stare at them, my mind racing, trying to make sense of it all. This isn't just a game. It's my life now. My new life. And whatever comes next, I'll face it head-on.
Because I have to.
I close the screen with a thought and lean back in the chair, my eyes drifting shut. The pain in my body is still there, a dull throb that I can't quite ignore. But there's something else too. A flicker of lucidity, again.
I'll figure this out. I'll make it work.
Because there's no other choice.
[ Drawn Items:
1. Skill - Gadget Usage
So long as you have interacted with this gadget before or possess knowledge on the core mechanisms of the gadget, you will be the best in the world at using it.Only applicable on gadgets.
2. Skill - Crowbar Proficiency
The ability to be a master of wielding crowbars as weapons.
3. Item - Superior Hagoromo Chalk
World-class, enchanted with Efficiency IV.
4. Template - Clarence "Kick" Buttowski
Suburban Daredevil Bonafide
5. Skill - Open Source Intelligence
Turning everyday information into powerful intel, one shitty and obscure chatboard and waste newspaper at a time.
6. Skill - Italian Cooking
Where simple ingredients turn into unforgettable flavours, right in your kitchen.
7. Item - NZT Pills (x7)
The shitty kind.
8. Item - Basics of Arcturan Kungfu
The will of the housewife at best.
9. Item - Crysknife
Sacred to the Fremen, much tradition surrounded the crysknife. When drawn, it could not be sheathed until it drew blood. The inherent sandworm blood has been removed, but can be easily artificially laced with other kinds of poisons.
10. Template - Hannibal Lecter
Where fine dining and the darkest cravings find a terrifying harmony.
]
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Get the Ryan Holiday reference? Gimme more power stones and I give you more chaps.