The alarm buzzed.
Gwi Han's hand shot out, silencing it with mechanical precision. He stared at the ceiling of his small apartment, the paint chipped in one corner, the cheap fan rattling overhead. The world outside was just waking, but he had been awake for hours already.
"…So this is it," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "First day as an intern. Chemical engineer, huh? You finally did it."
The words tasted hollow. He wasn't the type to cheer himself on, but saying it out loud somehow made it feel more real.
He got up, straightened his black hair, and adjusted his glasses. They kept sliding down his nose, an annoyance he'd learned to live with. Staring into the cracked mirror, he studied himself: sharp black eyes, plain features, a white shirt ironed too stiffly.
Ordinary. Forgettable.
That's how he liked it.
If I wanted to be social, I would, he told his reflection, but it's too much work.
⸻
Memories of an Orphan
As he packed his bag, his thoughts drifted back to the orphanage. The smell of stale bread, the way kids fought over toys, the distant faces of caretakers who treated him more like a chore than a child.
"Your parents left you, Han," one of the caretakers had sneered once. "Even they didn't want you."
He had been eight then. He didn't cry. He didn't fight back. Instead, he opened a dusty library book about the Han dynasty and got lost in history. Empires rose and fell. Kings were abandoned by their people. Betrayal, power, ambition—what was a little orphan boy compared to that?
That's how he survived. By burying himself in words, formulas, and knowledge.
⸻
Walking to the Facility
The streets bustled as he walked to the plant, but he kept his head down. Couples laughed together, friends chattered about weekend plans. Han walked alone, his bag heavy with a few books and a neatly packed lunch.
He adjusted his glasses again. They always slipped when he was deep in thought.
⸻
First Impressions
The chemical facility loomed like a steel fortress. Pipelines crisscrossed like veins, and the air hummed with the low growl of machines.
At the gate, he was greeted by his senior—Mr. Park, according to the name tag. The man looked rushed, hair slightly messy, eyes darting between his phone and the new intern.
"You're Han, right? Good, good," Park said, barely glancing at him.
"Yes, sir."
"First day, huh? Don't stress. Just stick close and you'll be fine. Though honestly…" Park's phone buzzed. He frowned. "Ah, damn. One sec." He picked up the call.
Han stood awkwardly, shifting his bag. He thought of asking about safety protocols, about where to get protective equipment. But Park's voice was sharp, hurried, clearly distracted.
Finally, Park pointed down a corridor. "Look, just go check the monitoring systems in Section C. It's routine. I'll explain the details later."
"Section C? Should I—"
"Yeah, yeah, it's simple. Just head in." Park's phone rang again. His eyes widened. "Crap. I have to take this. Go ahead without me." And with that, he jogged off, leaving Han alone.
Han sighed. "So much for mentorship."
Still, orders were orders. He was just an intern—arguing would make him look incompetent.
You've survived worse, he told himself. I guess this should be fine .
⸻
Entering the Facility
The interior smelled faintly of oil and chemicals. Pipes lined the walls, gauges blinked softly, and the hum of machinery echoed.
Han tightened his grip on his notepad. "Okay… Section C. Monitoring systems. Easy."
He walked carefully, noting signs on the walls. His heart thudded—not from fear, but from a strange anticipation. This was the real world now. Not a classroom. Not a textbook. This was where knowledge became power.
But then—
A hiss.
⸻
The Smell
Han froze.
His nose caught a sharp, biting scent. Acrid, almost metallic. His eyes watered instantly.
"…What the hell?" he muttered. "That smell—"
Memories stirred. University chemistry lab. A teacher opening a small vial. Ammonia. He remembered the sting, the sharp odor, the way students had coughed and laughed nervously.
But this… this was no small vial.
"This… is bad," he whispered.
⸻
The Pain
The first cough wracked his chest. He doubled over, clutching his shirt. His lungs burned, as if invisible fire was spreading inside. Each breath scraped like shards of glass.
"No, no, no…" He staggered, trying to move toward the exit. But his legs felt heavy, trembling.
"Ah—ahhh—!" His voice broke into a hoarse cry as pain seared through him. His throat felt raw, his chest tight. His lungs were filling—not with air, but with liquid, with fire, with death.
Ammonia inhalation… His mind raced, clinging to scraps of knowledge. High solubility… upper respiratory tract… chemical burns… pulmonary edema… drowning from the inside…
His glasses fogged with tears. He fell to his knees, coughing violently, each breath more ragged than the last.
Desperation
"Someone—help—" he rasped, but his voice was barely a whisper.
No one came.
His mind screamed. After everything… after working so hard… this is how I die? Because some idiot senior couldn't be bothered to—
His vision blurred. The floor tilted. His body convulsed.
if only i…if i had …fuck!!!!!….not like this…please whoever is up there …. (tears coming out )don't let me die like this
Another cough tore through him, blood tinging his lips. His body was shutting down. His lungs felt shredded, his chest drowning.
The Last Thoughts
The cold floor pressed against his cheek. His glasses had slipped off, lying somewhere nearby. Each breath was agony, wet and ragged, like knives sawing at his insides.
No… he thought. Not like this. Not here.
He tried to lift his hand, but it barely twitched. His chest heaved, each breath shorter, weaker.
And then—
[Ding!]
A voice cut into his head. Mechanical. Clear.
System initializing…
Binding host: Gwi Han.
Condition: Critical.
Han's bloodshot eyes widened slightly.
What the hell—?
Another wave of pain shot through his chest. He coughed violently, the taste of iron flooding his mouth.
"Shut up," he croaked aloud, his voice broken. "Shut… the hell up…"
The voice continued, emotionless.
System link established.
"Fuck—" He gagged, spitting blood onto the floor. "Fuck off! What… what is this voice? I don't… care… I'm dying!"
He clawed at the floor weakly, fury flashing between moments of suffocating pain.
Am I hallucinating? Did my brain finally snap? Some voice in my head while I choke on my own blood? Tch… what a joke…
Host termination imminent.
Preparing transfer protocol…
Han's eyes went wide even as his body convulsed.
transfer… what?
His body twitched once more, the burning pain still raging inside.