"You ever wonder if we were born just to fill the background of someone else's story?"
– Jhon Miles
Erwin sat on the rooftop of his apartment complex, legs dangling over the edge, stale wind brushing past his face. The city stretched before him — broken, glowing, indifferent.
Neon lights blinked from below. Drones buzzed in the distance.
And beside him, sipping from a cheap tin can of synthetic beer, was Jhon Miles.
His only friend.
Ex-factory worker.
Rejected by the System twice.
Once tried to join the Murim but couldn't pass their "blood essence" test.
Had a crooked nose and a sharper tongue.
But he always showed up.
And he never looked at Erwin like he was invisible.
"You hear what they're saying on the radio?" Jhon said, tapping the can.
"Zone 14 got another rift breach. Big one. Four Murim sects and a Class-A Hero from the Blessed Society cleared it in under ten minutes. Only 900 casualties."
Erwin said nothing.
Jhon laughed. It was bitter. "They call that a win."
He leaned back against the concrete.
Above them, the sky shimmered — a dull purple where the atmosphere met the shielding grid.
"You think they care about people like us?" Jhon asked. "The ones without lineage or talent?"
Erwin looked down at the street below. Tiny people. All walking fast. All looking tired.
"No," he replied.
"Yeah. Me neither," Jhon muttered. "But still... I can't hate the world every day. Sometimes I need to laugh. You know, just so it doesn't kill me first."
He tossed the empty can over the edge. It vanished into traffic.
They sat in silence for a while.
Just two nobodies. Sharing nothing. Sharing everything.
"You ever wonder why the dungeons started appearing?" Jhon asked suddenly.
Erwin looked at him. "…No."
"I do," Jhon said, eyes narrowing. "I think someone let them in."
"Let them in?"
"Yeah. Like a game. Or a… trial. Or a show."
Erwin didn't respond.
"I mean, think about it," Jhon continued. "Every time a dungeon opens, who profits? Not us. Not civilians. It's the System-Blessed. The Murim. The corporations. The bloodlines. They get fame, funding, fear."
He leaned forward.
"What if someone's orchestrating this? Like... releasing chaos, just to sell the cure later?"
Erwin stared at him. "You sound paranoid."
Jhon smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just finally waking up."
The wind blew again, carrying the faint scent of burnt chemicals.
Erwin took a deep breath.
He didn't want to admit it, but Jhon's words had landed. Somewhere deep.
Because lately… it all felt too convenient. Too scripted.
Crisis. Response. Glory.
Repeat.
And always the same people rose higher.
Always the same names.
As they climbed back down the rusted stairs, Erwin glanced at his friend.
Jhon had nothing. No special power. No secret heritage.
But he had something Erwin didn't.
Fire.
Even in this cold, calculated world… Jhon still burned.
Later that night, while Erwin lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, a thought pierced the silence:
What happens when fire touches a world soaked in gasoline?
Across the city, in a secure briefing room inside the System Society's main tower, alarms blared.
A rift had formed.
Zone 9.
A minor city.
Proximity: 35 km from Erwin's residence.
Estimated breach severity:
Level 5 → Rising rapidly to Level 7.
ETA for response team:
Delayed. By design.
[End of Chapter 3 – People Like Us]