The sticky warmth of blood still clung to my arms as I slipped out the looted store's back door, a low tremor running through every bone. The screams were louder now, sharper—the world outside teetered between riot and nightmare. People stumbled, shoved, some falling to their knees in the street. Fists met flesh. Glass shattered again.
I kept my head down, teeth pressed tight, weaving between puddles of panic. I ducked into an empty tea stall, heart pounding so hard it hurt. For a second, I just sat against peeling paint, chest rising and falling.
"Replication." The word echoed behind my eyelids. I'd seen that insane panel, floating in front of me after killing… whatever that thing had become. Was it real, or had the panic broken my mind, too?
A sharp burst of heat snapped me back. Across the street, a man stood with arms raised, flames swirling at his fingertips. Fire ripped through three bodies—infected, by the way they screamed—turning flesh to black, bone to shadow.
I stared. Something inside me—instinct, maybe hunger—pulled at the way the man moved. My hand tingled, burning from the memory. There was a pulse, a flicker of fire licking across my knuckles.
For half a second, real heat shimmered in my palm. It fizzled out almost instantly, gone before I could focus.
Sudden clarity hit. My skin prickled all over. The panel wasn't a dream—I could copy what I saw. But it demanded more: clear vision, careful attention, maybe even touch. I needed to witness the extraordinary, not just glimpse it.
I grabbed a broken metal pipe, willing the feeling from before to return. I squeezed, concentrated—tried to "replicate" its cold mass or battered form. Nothing happened. Not a flicker of change.
So, objects aren't enough. There's a difference. Powers, talents, those moments of impossible—those I could touch, even if I didn't yet understand the limits.
Sudden footfalls thundered past outside. A pack of survivors sprinted across the intersection, some with eyes glowing faint blue, others etched with pulsing marks that swirled beneath their skin. They looked barely human, alive with something ferocious. One called out: "Awakened, this way!" as they vanished into the chaos.
From above, a mechanical voice rolled through the city, booming and emotionless:
🔊 SYSTEM ANNOUNCEMENT:
"The world has entered [Apocalypse Protocol Stage I].
Mutation rate: 47%.
Awakening rate: 1.6%.
Survive or perish. Your talents are your only lifeline."
The wall behind me shuddered, bricks exploding outward. A beast—twisted, massive, its fur mottled and eyes diseased—crashed through, jaws gnashing. People screamed, scattering like startled birds.
I saw a survivor leap into the beast's path. For a blink, her eyes shimmered silver—and then, she vanished, reappearing ten meters away, untouched. My brain locked on the impossible movement; something sharp and secret imprinted itself deep inside, a spark in my nerves.
I didn't let any of it show. Instead, I grabbed a splintered length of wood left from the stall's counter. I could fight if needed—but I wasn't about to reveal what I was truly capable of.
They don't know what I can do… and I'm not planning to tell them.