The sun crept over Seoul, spilling light across rooftops, but it felt wasted on me.
I didn't move for school. My uniform was folded neatly on the chair, my bag rested at the foot of the desk—everything waiting for the normal me. But that version of Nam Seop didn't exist anymore. Not after yesterday.
Instead, I sat on my bed, pulling on the same black jeans, baggy but hugging my calves, the same shirt, the same gloves. I painted my face again, that sticky darkness covering me until only my eyes glimmered through. My reflection in the mirror looked more specter than student.
My chest thumped. This is stupid. This is insane. This is… everything I've ever wanted.
I grabbed my phone. Notifications stacked higher than anything I'd ever seen. Mentions, comments, reposts. The name "W.I.A" already spreading like fire. My thumb hesitated, then scrolled.
The first video was shaky, filmed from across the street. Me, in black, yelling to the crowd: "HEY EVERYONE, WANNA SEE SOMETHING COOL?" The comments poured:
LMFAO bro really thinks he's Batman.
This gotta be drugs, nobody moves like that.
Fake edit. Look at the cut frames, bro slowed it down to make it look like he vanished.
Nah… I was there. He actually did this. I swear to God.
The next clip was higher quality, someone who actually tracked me running in circles. My blur of motion was clear, the dust swirling behind me like a cyclone. Phones in the crowd lifted, people screamed.
Comments here were different:
Wait. Wait. This isn't human speed.
Notice the ground cracking? That's not staged. That's power.
W.I.A — "Where Is Anyone?" because nobody catching him.
This kid just changed the world and he don't even know it yet.
I swallowed. My throat was dry, but I kept scrolling.
Another video showed only my face—or rather, my painted face. Someone zoomed in, slowed it down, paused frame by frame. My skin black, my eyes shining unnaturally white. The caption read:
"What is he? Mask? Body paint? Or… something else?"
And then the conspiracy theorists took over. Threads with grainy UFO photos, leaked government documents, highlighted sentences about "anomalous humans." Someone edited me into a reel of supposed "superhumans spotted worldwide," adding ominous music.
"First public proof of a post-human. Remember this moment. History starts here."
But right below, a roast comment:
History starts with a crackhead in a Party City mask. Crazy timeline we living in.
Another meme showed me running with a caption: "POV: late for your bus." It had half a million likes.
My hands trembled gripping the phone. Half of them worshipped me. Half mocked me. All of them watched me.
And I wanted more.
I stuffed the phone in my pocket and stood. The walls of my room felt like they were pressing in. I needed the sky. The street. I needed eyes on me again.
Stepping outside, I inhaled deeply. The morning air was sharp, electric against my skin. I crouched low—and launched.
The world blurred into streaks of color. Cars honked at nothing but the roar of displaced air. People turned their heads at gusts of sudden wind. My feet barely kissed the ground before the next step hurled me forward.
The power in my legs wasn't just speed. It was strength coiled like springs, detonating with every stride. I leaned into it, bent my knees, and leapt—
The city opened beneath me.
Seoul sprawled wide and endless, glass towers glinting, streets like veins, the Han River glimmering silver. For a breathless moment, I felt untouchable. A god above men.
And then the punch landed.
It didn't make sense. One moment, I was airborne, weightless. The next, a fist slammed into my chest with the force of an explosion. My breath ripped out of me. My vision inverted.
I fell.
The ground shattered as I hit, my body bouncing, rolling, breaking across asphalt. Concrete split beneath me, debris launched into storefronts, glass rained in a deadly storm. I felt my ribs tear through skin, my arm twist unnaturally, my neck wrench sideways until darkness swarmed the edges of my vision.
When I stopped, an iron rod jutted straight through my torso. My skull throbbed. My jaw hung slack. Blood dripped into my eyes.
I was… dying.
Bootsteps echoed steady, deliberate.
I forced my head up. He landed with weightless grace, straightening his suit jacket as though brushing off dust. Perfectly pressed black suit, hair slicked back with not a strand out of place, sharp cheekbones cut into shadow. A scar traced his lip, curling upward like a cruel half-smile.
He looked down at me the way one looks at roadkill.
"What an idiot," he said flatly. His voice was precise, each word slicing like glass. "Do you even understand what you've done?"
I gurgled blood. Couldn't answer.
"You ran in public. You shouted your name like a fool. And now?" He crouched slightly, eyes cold. "Now the government knows. The people know. The whole world suspects. Because of you."
He tugged his tie tighter.
"Do you realize what happens when one freak steps into the light? Others crawl from their holes. You've doomed us all."
His words pierced me deeper than the iron rod. The weight of them crushed the flicker of pride I carried. For the first time, I felt… maybe I really had made a mistake.
But then, something shifted.
It started in my chest. A hollow space inside me filled with light—or not light, but something older, something endless.
My bones snapped like twigs but then slid back into place. Ribs drew themselves together, marrow knitting. Flesh stretched, coiling and reweaving like threads pulled by unseen hands. Veins slithered back into their paths, blood surging.
My skull reformed with grinding cracks, fragments locking into their proper shape. My lungs reinflated. My vision sharpened, colors blooming too vivid. Every nerve screamed, then fell eerily silent.
It was… like dying and being rewritten. Like returning to some original state. A void turning whole.
I stood.
The suit man's eyes widened for the first time. Shock broke his mask.
My arms swung loosely, heavy, alien. I didn't think. My mind was blank, hollow. And then he wasn't in front of me anymore.
He was screaming.
Dragged across concrete at a speed the eye couldn't follow, his cheek ripping open as flesh peeled, bone scraping raw. His body skipped against the ground, leaving streaks of blood and shredded skin.
I yanked him upward, his limbs dangling useless. I hurled him skyward and launched after him, fists already moving.
A thousand punches per second. Each strike detonated through his torso, bones crunching, flesh tearing. His body bent, folded, broke under the barrage until he was no longer recognizable as human.
I stopped.
He plummeted.
The broken heap hit the ground with a wet sound, unmoving. Blood pooled into the cracks of the street.
I hovered over him, chest heaving slow, deliberate. My reflection in the shattered glass around us didn't look like me. It looked like something new.
Phones were out. Crowds gathered at a distance, recording, voices screaming in terror. Their horror washed over me, but I didn't feel it.
My lips moved.
"I died…"
The words fell heavy, trembling. Not confession. Not warning.
Promise.
The silence after violence is always the loudest.
Dust still hung in the air. Shards of glass sparkled under the morning light. The ground was torn like paper, blood running into the cracks.
And then the screaming started.
"OH MY GOD—"
"Somebody call the police!"
"Don't go near him—don't—don't—"
Phones were raised high, hundreds of glowing rectangles trembling in hands that couldn't stop shaking. Some filmed from a distance. Some zoomed close, shaky voices whispering in disbelief. Some streamed it live.
Perspective: The Influencer
"Chat, you seeing this?" The young man's voice cracked as he held his phone steady, live-streaming. His hair was slicked with sweat, his chest heaving. Behind him, smoke curled into the sky.
"Bro just—he just killed that guy. He literally turned him into pulp! Are you watching this? ARE YOU—"
His chat scrolled endlessly, emojis and spam filling the screen.
FAKE FAKE FAKE
No bro that's real blood, what the fuck
W.I.A is real… I told y'all…
He's a MONSTER
Nah he's HIM. Protect us king.
The streamer turned his camera, catching Nam Seop standing amidst the rubble. His body was intact, glowing faintly as if nothing had touched him. The suited man's broken body lay at his feet.
"Look at him," the influencer whispered. His voice shook with awe and terror. "He—he's not even human."
Perspective: The Mother and Child
A woman clutched her son against her chest, pulling him behind a car. The boy's wide eyes peered over her arm, locked on the figure in black.
"Mom… is he a hero?" the child asked, voice trembling.
The woman didn't answer. She couldn't. Her lips quivered, her body frozen. She could only stare at the blood dripping off the boy's gloves—the same gloves that had just moved faster than lightning.
Perspective: The Office Worker
From the window of a nearby tower, a man in a suit stood pale, his coffee spilling down his tie. He pressed his forehead to the glass, whispering under his breath.
"God… God, it's happening again."
His coworkers crowded behind him, some filming, some crying. None dared go outside.
Perspective: The News
Within minutes, the feeds lit up.
Breaking news banners flashed across every network:
"ANOMALOUS BEING IN SEOUL. LIVE FOOTAGE OF SUPERHUMAN INCIDENT."
Clips replayed over and over: Nam Seop vanishing and reappearing, dragging the suited man across concrete, punching him into unrecognizable ruin. Anchors struggled to keep their voices even.
One muttered live on air: "This… this is not a normal human phenomenon."
Back to Nam Seop
The voices around me felt far away, muffled, like underwater echoes. My chest rose and fell steadily, unnaturally calm.
Blood ran down my gloves. My reflection in the shards didn't look like me—it looked like something else, a figure built out of shadow and violence.
I didn't feel regret. I didn't even feel anger. Only emptiness.
And yet, in that emptiness, there was a spark. A pulse deep inside. The same one that brought me back to life. The same one that whispered: More.
I stared at the heap that was once a man. Bones jutted at odd angles, flesh torn and mangled beyond repair. Yet… he was still moving.
Perspective: The Dying Man
The suited man coughed. Each spasm rattled broken ribs, spraying blood across the ruined street. His face was almost gone, half torn from being dragged, yet his eyes still locked on me.
"How…" he gasped, voice wet and rattling. "How do you have… so many… powers…"
Blood bubbled from his lips, gallons spilling, staining his suit until it clung dark and heavy.
"You… shouldn't…" His words broke with gurgles. "You… shouldn't exist…"
His eyes flickered with something I hadn't seen before. Not just fear. Confusion.
He'd expected speed. He'd expected strength. Maybe even the regeneration. But there was more in me. Something he couldn't name. Something I didn't even understand yet.
Back to Nam Seop
I tilted my head, silent. His words echoed in my skull. So many powers.
I thought back: the aches. My legs, my arms, my chest. Each pain had unlocked something. Speed. Strength. Regeneration. But what if that wasn't all? What if each ache was a door?
And how many doors were there?
The thought made my stomach tighten and my skin prickle.
I looked at the man again. He was drowning in his own blood, his chest convulsing as lungs failed. His voice rasped out, weaker now, but still cutting.
"You… will bring them out. All of them. They'll see you… and they'll come."
He coughed violently, a spray of red mist staining his tie.
"Idiot… You've doomed us all…"
His head dropped. His chest still.
Silence.
Phones still filmed. Voices still screamed. But in that moment, it was just me and his corpse.
I stood over him, my gloves dripping, my mind a storm.
Did I just kill the only person like me? Or… was he just the first?
Within seconds, the clips hit the internet.
"W.I.A just murdered a man in Seoul, look at this shit—"
"Is this a movie promotion? It can't be real, right?"
"Bro literally REGENERATED in front of the cameras. That's not fake. That's not makeup. That's biology we don't even understand."
"We're fucked. Government's already scrambling."
"This is either our savior or our apocalypse."
The hashtags trended instantly:
#WIA #SeoulIncident #PostHuman
Some accounts declared me the first hero. Others the first villain. And more than a few called me something worse:
A weapon.
I clenched my fists. The emptiness inside me swirled, becoming something dangerous.
Was I a hero? A villain? Or something else?
The crowd's fear pressed down on me, but beneath it all, my power thrummed louder than any scream.
This wasn't the end. It wasn't even the beginning.
I had more doors to open.
And the world was already watching.
SEVEN DAYS LATER.
will not be told from Nam seop's perspective until next chapter.
Seven days had passed since W.I.A. had torn through Seoul. Seven days since the city witnessed a speed, strength, and regeneration far beyond human comprehension. And the world had noticed.
The Korean government's broadcast had been blunt, unavoidable, and terrifying. The president appeared on every screen, flanked by generals and advisors, faces cold, rehearsed, but with an edge of panic that no script could mask.
"To the people of Korea, and to all those watching globally," the president said, voice steady but sharp, "you have seen an extraordinary phenomenon. A being, self-identified as W.I.A., has demonstrated abilities that exceed any known human limits. Speed, strength, and resilience beyond measure. We warn you: he is now considered a threat.
"To all who possess similar abilities: reveal yourselves. Do not remain hidden. Cooperation will be met with safety and guidance. Resistance will not be tolerated. The world is changing, and W.I.A. has made that clear. Those like him are no longer myths. They are real, and the time for hiding is over."
Across the globe, similar broadcasts unfolded. Japan's prime minister warned of "anomalous individuals," urging disclosure and vigilance. In America, emergency broadcasts activated a global alert, military forces on standby. Russia, Germany, the United Kingdom — all followed suit, scanning skies, streets, and oceans for signs of the unnatural.
Within hours, the world responded. Videos appeared online from Tokyo, a girl engulfed in fire but unharmed; from New York, a man halting bullets with the flick of a hand; from Moscow, a child screaming and shattering glass for entire city blocks. The evolution had begun, and Nam Seop had been the spark.
Nam Seop sat in his apartment, slouched on a worn sofa, staring blankly at the flickering TV feed. His parents had called earlier. Their voices were gentle, worried, but careful not to press.
"Seop, are you eating? Sleeping? Be careful, okay?" his mother had asked.
He had given vague reassurances, deflected, promised vaguely, and ended the call. They trusted him enough to live independently. That trust now felt like a tether, fragile but necessary.
He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. Newsfeeds scrolled endlessly on his phone: conspiracy theories, reaction videos, clips dissecting every frame of his first appearances, people debating whether W.I.A. was a mask, CGI, or something beyond imagination. Some worshipped him. Others mocked him.
"God-tier. The strongest alive. We're witnessing evolution," one post said.
"FAKE, CGI! Look at the shadows! No way this is real," another screamed.
He leaned back, thinking about the man he had killed, about the warnings whispered in blood. He exhaled sharply. Should he lean into this? Be a hero? A villain? Or something else entirely?
By afternoon, he stood, sliding on the black shirt, gloves, and mask. The breeze hit him as he stepped outside, carrying the smell of dust and construction, carrying the pulse of a city unaware of its fragility. He flexed his legs, felt the coiled power in his muscles, and then ran. Faster than the wind, faster than the eye could track, he disappeared, leaving only a whisper of movement.
He arrived at the site where he had destroyed the suited man. Construction crews were patching the cracks, repairing the streets, unaware of what had occurred. He leapt onto a nearby building, crouched on the edge, and surveyed Seoul. It was small from this height, a web of streets and lights, people oblivious to the evolution beginning around them.
"You always choose the scenic route to brood, don't you?" a voice said, low and precise.
Nam tensed, scanning. A figure stepped from the shadows, hooded, coat flaring in the wind, movements deliberate and predatory.
"You're fast," the figure said, stepping closer, "but speed alone isn't enough."
Nam didn't answer. He flexed his fists.
The figure lunged. Air whistled as a fist sliced through the spot where Nam's head had been moments ago. He dodged, striking upward, but the stranger twisted midair, delivering a kick to his chest. Tiles shattered, dust rose, and the city below seemed to hold its breath.
Nam lunged forward, fists snapping. The stranger twisted, countered, and leapt to the edge of the rooftop, kicking off to flip back into the fight. The choreography was flawless — a dance of violence, power, and precision. Nam's muscles ached, but it was a familiar burn, one that told him he was alive, dangerous, unstoppable.
And then, as a fist cut toward his jaw, he saw it — a flicker of movement ahead, just three seconds into the future.
Instinct and sight merged. He shifted, dodging before the punch landed. He saw the counter, the angle, the momentum, and he moved again. Each strike he delivered now felt preemptive, calculated, inevitable.
The stranger's movements began to falter. Nam's newfound precognition gave him an edge, but even so, the fight was brutal. Concrete cracked beneath their leaps, wind roared as limbs blurred faster than the eye could track. Nam struck, blocked, spun, and leapt — every motion measured yet instinctual, every strike landing with devastating precision.
"You're fast… stronger than I expected," the figure muttered, landing on a ledge opposite him. "But there's more… isn't there?"
Nam exhaled through his mask. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Validation," the figure replied, voice low, calm, almost amused. "You are not alone. There are others like you. More than you imagine. And we… are organized. We call ourselves Validant. We bring together those with abilities — guide them, teach them, prepare them. But the world isn't ready. That is why we intervene."
Nam's mind raced. The world had already shifted. Governments panicked. People were waking to powers, to evolution. And this organization, Validant, had been waiting — orchestrating, preparing, watching.
"Why test me?" he asked, crouched on the rooftop, every muscle tense.
"To see if you are ready," the figure said. "If you survive, you are no longer just the first spark. You are a force. And soon… the world will demand more. We will bring others forward, but only the strongest will lead. You might be the first, but you won't be the last."
Nam Seop's eyes narrowed. He flexed his fists again, feeling the hum of speed, strength, regeneration, and precognition thrumming through him. The fight had unlocked something else — a clarity, a sense of being beyond human limits.
The figure nodded, stepping back, cloak catching the wind. "Remember this: the world has shifted. You are the beginning, W.I.A. And the evolution… has only just begun."
With that, the stranger vanished, leaping into the skyline, leaving Nam alone on the rooftop, the wind tearing through his hair. He breathed in, absorbing the view of Seoul, the chaos, the dawn of something new.
And for the first time in a week, he felt the weight of possibility.
Hero, villain, force of nature — it didn't matter. What mattered was the power in his veins, the world at his feet, and the certainty that everything, everything, was about to change.
Nam Seop stood, crouched on the edge of the building, and looked at the horizon. The sun was rising, painting the city in orange and gold. Below, construction crews were oblivious, repairing what had already been altered, reshaping the city without knowing its new master. He flexed his legs, felt the familiar ache of power, the surge of energy that made him faster than thought.
He thought about Validant, the stranger, the warnings whispered in blood from the suited man. And he smiled. Not because he was merciless, but because the world had finally given him a purpose.
The evolution had begun. And he would be at its center.
He leapt off the edge, vanishing before the city could comprehend.