The day Vin was suspended for nearly killing a teacher, Elena got a call.
*"Your brother's a time bomb,"* the principal said. *"He needs help."*
She laughed, bitter. *"He's not my brother anymore."*
She hung the call.
---
But. What if,
What if the brother she remembered—the one who tucked her in, who promised *"I'll always protect you"*—was still in there?
---
But that night, she dreamt of fire. Of Vin standing between her and something *worse*.
When she woke up, her cheeks were wet.
----
The morning air was sharp, biting at Vin's lungs as he pushed harder, faster—*like if he stopped, the ghosts would catch up*.
Suspended from school? Fine.
Alone in the world? *Fine.*
But the track? The track *listened*. It didn't ask questions. Didn't judge. Didn't whisper *orphan* behind his back.
Just the rhythmic hammer of his feet against the earth, the burn in his muscles, the fleeting illusion of *control*.
---
His sister's face flickered in his mind—*that last conversation, her tear-streaked accusation, the door slamming between them forever*. He'd tried to explain. She hadn't listened.
But he still paid her rent. Still watched from afar. Still *protected*.
(Even if she hated him.)
---
Freedom: For those ten seconds, he wasn't Vin the Orphan. Vin the Monster. He was just speed.
Pain: The lactic acid burning his legs was better than the other kind of pain. The kind that never left.
The Unspoken Hope: Maybe if I run fast enough, I can outpace the past.
---
From the sidelines, Coach Park chewed his gum, saying nothing. He'd seen boys like Vin before—*the ones who ran like hell itself was at their heels*.
When Vin finally collapsed onto the grass, heaving, Coach tossed him a water bottle.
*"You're not running toward something, kid. You're running *from*."*
Vin wiped his mouth, glared. *"What's it to you?"*
Coach shrugged. "Nothing. But the state finals don't care about your demons. Either race them, or let them win."
---
Next week: Regionals. Scouts in the stands. A chance at a scholarship—*a way out*.
But Vin's knuckles were still scabbed from Beom Seok's face. His rage, a live wire under his skin.
----
Vin's parents didn't just *die*—they were **erased.**
And the worst part?
**He knew it.**
Somewhere, buried under the rage and the grief, the truth was there—*waiting*.
But his mind refused to remember.
---
The Father
- A self-made Man. He was came from poverty and yet he built a palace.
- A father who taught Vin to *"never back down, even if the whole world is against you."*
- And yet… he supposedly *killed himself* over missing funds?
Bullshit.
Vin had seen the crime scene photos—*too clean*. No note. No goodbye. Just hung himself, a body, and a *convenient* financial scandal.
---
the mother .
She didn't believe it. Not for a second.
For a year, she dug, she fought, she *hunted*—until the day she was *"hit by a random car"* in a deserted parking lot.
No witnesses.
No CCTV footage.
No investigation.
Just another *"tragic accident."*
She remembered the day the world ended in screams.
His sister, she was too young to understand death, but old enough to feel its *absence*—like a hole in the air where laughter used to be.
At first, she waited.
Waited for Vin to *explain*. To tell her why their parents were gone. Why the house was so quiet. Why he looked at her like *he* was the ghost, not them.
But he never did.
Elena didn't want to believe it. But grief is a poison. It twists things.
----
The wind bit at Fisher's face as he watched Vin below—*punching the air, sprinting, punishing himself like he deserved the pain*.
Fisher's fists clenched.
*He should be the one down there.*
Not suspended. Not broken. Not *forgotten*.
But Vin? Vin always stole the spotlight. Even in ruin.
" Just for the time vin , I'll make you a Grand stage " he laughed like a maniac.
----
Later that day
The wind carried Elena's laughter to him like a ghost from another life.
Vin stood frozen in the distance, his breath shallow, his fists unclenching for the first time in years.
*She was smiling.*
Not the fragile, hollow smile she'd worn at the funeral. Not the forced one she'd given teachers who pitied her.
A *real* one.
And it shattered him.
---
A boy—no, a *young man*—leaned in to say something, and Elena laughed again, shoving his shoulder playfully.
Vin's first instinct was *rage*. A possessive, irrational fire in his veins—*Who is he? Is he safe? Does he know how fragile she is?*
But then…
He exhaled.
* Let her go. *
Vin moves on.
----
Espoo, Finland - Europe.
– A Quiet Park Beneath an Unquiet Sky .
Fred sat on a weathered wooden bench, the crisp Nordic air biting at his cheeks. A newspaper rested in his lap, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze. Around him, the park was alive with the mundane—children laughing, dogs barking, the distant hum of city life.
But Fred wasn't really there.
Not fully.
***"You ask too many questions, Fred,"*** Hakka murmured in the back of his mind, its voice like the slow uncoiling of smoke.
Fred exhaled, watching his breath mist in the air. "And you don't answer enough of them."
A pause. Then, amusement.
***"Perhaps because I do not know."***
Fred frowned. "You're older than time. How do you *not* know?"
***"Time is a river. I am a stone in its bed. I do not follow the current—I merely endure it."***
Fred resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Poetic. Useless, but poetic."
Hakka's presence shifted, something like a laugh vibrating through Fred's bones.
Then, silence.
Fred flipped the newspaper open again, scanning the headlines absently. His fingers stilled over a small column tucked near the bottom.
**"Global Disappearances Spike to Alarming Rates – No Leads."**
His pulse hitched.
"Hakka."
No response.
"Hakka, *look.*"
A slow, creeping awareness filled his mind as the serpent turned its attention outward.
***"...Interesting."***
Fred waited. When Hakka didn't elaborate, he gritted his teeth. "That's it? *Interesting?*"
***"Reality is breaking and healing, Fred. You felt it. The fractures. The... pulses."***
"Yeah, you mentioned that. What does it have to do with missing people?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
***"Perhaps nothing."***
Fred clenched his jaw. "Or perhaps *everything.*"
Hakka's presence coiled tighter, considering. Then, reluctantly—
***"Or perhaps everything."***
Fred stared at the newspaper, the words blurring slightly.
Somewhere in the world, people were vanishing.
And Hakka, the ancient serpent who should not exist, who had slept through the birth and death of stars...
Found it *interesting.*
That was enough.
Fred folded the newspaper and stood.
He had work to do.
----
Fred zipped up his backpack, the sound loud in the quiet of his small apartment. Outside, the Finnish twilight painted the walls in hues of deep blue and gold.
Hakka stirred within him, a slow, curious ripple.
***"What are you doing?"***
Fred slung the pack over his shoulder. "You said we have a lead. So, where are we going?"
A pause. Then, something like amusement.
***"You misunderstand, Fred. We cannot do this the human way."***
Fred frowned. "What's that supposed to—"
***"This will hurt."***
Then—
**Pain.**
It wasn't just pain. It was *unmaking.*
Every cell in Fred's body screamed as Hakka's presence *surged*, flooding through him like molten metal poured into a mold. His bones cracked and reforged themselves. His muscles tore and rewove, stronger, denser. His skin burned as something *black* and ancient seeped from his pores, mixing with his blood in thick, swirling rivulets on the floor.
Time lost meaning.
A second. A year. An eternity.
Fred was nothing but agony, a raw nerve exposed to the cosmos.
And then—
Silence.
He was on his knees, gasping, his apartment a wreck around him. The walls were splattered with blood and that strange, ink-like substance. His clothes hung in tatters, his skin gleaming faintly, as if polished from within.
Fred shuddered, his voice a ragged whisper.
"*Never* do that again."
Hakka's voice was calm. Unrepentant.
***"You would have died where we must go."***
Fred flexed his fingers. The movement was effortless. Lethal. He could feel the power humming beneath his skin, a coiled spring waiting to be released.
He was no longer just Fred.
He was something *more.*
The strongest being in the world.
And Hakka's true vessel, more or less . There is nothing in the universe that can contains hakka .
---
The sonic boom cracked the sky as Fred descended, his landing obliterating the lone house in a burst of splintered wood and shattered concrete. Dust billowed outward in a slow-motion wave before settling into eerie silence.
Fred straightened, his enhanced senses scanning the wreckage.
"Shit. Were there—?"
***"No one,"*** Hakka murmured, its voice coiled tight with focus. ***"This place has been empty since the fracture. Only echoes remain."***
Fred exhaled, though the guilt lingered. Even if the house had been abandoned, the destruction felt... excessive.
He stepped forward, boots crunching over debris. His eyes—now sharper than any human's—picked up traces of something *wrong* in the air. Faint, shimmering distortions, like heat haze but colder.
**Chaos.**
Not just energy. Not just corruption.
*The fingerprints of something unraveling reality itself.*
Fred crouched, pressing a hand to the ground. The soil trembled beneath his touch, vibrating with residual instability.
"It's like the house wasn't just destroyed—it was *unmade* for a moment. Then put back together wrong."
Hakka's presence slithered through his mind, examining.
***"A fracture. Not natural. Not accidental. Something *pried* this place open."***
Fred frowned. "Why? And why here?"
Silence. Then—
***"We are not the first to come looking."***
A chill ran down Fred's spine. He stood abruptly, scanning the horizon. Nothing but barren land and the distant hum of wind.
Yet the air *itched*.
Hakka's voice dropped to a whisper.
***"Whatever caused this is gone. But it will happen again."***
Fred clenched his fists. The power beneath his skin thrummed, restless.
"Then we find the next one before it does."