The forest breathed.
Sunlight broke through clouds, red-orange at first, then softening into a golden wash that spilled across wet leaves. Tiny droplets clung to branches, catching the light like scattered gems. Steam rose from the damp earth, curling and twisting with the rhythm of some hidden heartbeat. The storm from yesterday had passed, leaving the forest both bruised and alive — fragile, yet unbroken.
A single golden flower bloomed among the undergrowth, petals shaking lightly in the breeze, glowing faintly as if infused with the sunlight itself. The camera of perception followed it, tracing the pulse of life in every leaf, every drop of moisture, every curling wisp of steam. For a moment, everything felt sacred.
And then, like a lens pulling back, the forest gave way to the ruins of an old military facility. Its walls were scarred, paint flaking, concrete cracked. Nature had begun reclaiming it: moss, vines, and tiny shoots pressed through the fractures. Yet in its decay, the structure retained a quiet strength — a ghost of purpose long past. The camera followed the rusted stairwell, over broken windows, and finally to the elevator at its core.
The doors groaned open. Inside, smooth metal walls reflected the dim white lights above. The elevator hummed a soft, monotonous drone as it descended. With each passing floor, the hum deepened, a low, steady heartbeat that matched the pulse of the forest above.
Ding. The doors slid open.
The camera flowed seamlessly into a clean, sterile hallway, walls gleaming white, the sharp smell of bleach and chemical sterilizer biting faintly at the senses. Surveillance cameras rotated overhead, tracking every movement. Sliding doors hissed open and closed with precise rhythm. The hum of fluorescent lights mingled with the faint echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance.
And then — it settled on the bunk room.
At the top bunk, Ha Joon stirred. The blankets clung to him damp with sleep, and the faint ache of yesterday's chaos lingered like a shadow under his skin. He rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling, the rhythm of his thoughts slower than the forest outside, but just as persistent.
The pipe. The slap. Eun Byol. Ash. His father. All of it pressed against his mind in quick flashes, jagged edges he couldn't smooth.
He inhaled slowly. The scent of disinfectant, of sterility, of controlled emptiness filled the room. Even here, in this safe, cleaned chamber, he felt the weight of yesterday's storm.
He looked across at Eun Byol. She was curled on the lower bunk, her brown hair tangled, her green eyes vacant but steady. Her body was still, but he could see the tension beneath her skin, the trace of panic that hadn't fully faded. For a moment, she seemed smaller, fragile — a shell of the public figure she once was.
Ha Joon thought of Ash, sitting in his father's chair long ago. That presence, overwhelming and impossible to fully grasp, still echoed in him. I want greatness, the words rang. Is this what it takes?
The camera drifted closer, framing the small space around them. Every corner gleamed. Every surface, every bunk, every item meticulously arranged. The uniforms and shoes Chi Long had left folded neatly at the foot of the bunks gave off a stark contrast to the chaos inside their minds. Here, in this controlled environment, there was no room for error, no room for hesitation.
Eun Byol shifted slightly, drawing her knees closer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, vacant, tracing patterns invisible to anyone else. She had accepted, finally, that she had no control — not over her environment, not over her power, not over Ha Joon. The panic had faded into a hollow numbness, a resignation as heavy as stone.
Ha Joon watched her, and in that stillness, he felt the weight of the future pressing in. The training to come, the discipline, the tests — they were inevitable. Chi Long had already begun her silent work on them. The woman herself was nowhere to be seen in the room, but her presence was tangible. Observing. Waiting. Predicting.
The forest above still pulsed with life, golden light spilling across its leaves. But below, in the clean, white underground, life had a different rhythm. Here, every heartbeat, every breath, every move would be measured, recorded, and tested. Survival demanded obedience, and obedience demanded nothing less than surrender to control.
Ha Joon exhaled. His reflection, mirrored faintly in the glossy surface of the locker nearby, stared back at him. Confused. Frightened. But also curious. Determined.
The storm had passed. The sunlight had risen. And now, the true descent into discipline began.