Chapter Four: Shadows in Chrome
Cool sheets. A sensory offense after the rough, stained fabrics of the shelters. He blinked open his eyes, the soft, regulated light of the modern ceiling a stark contrast to the flickering, unreliable lamps of the future. A digital clock on the sleek nightstand glared: March 3rd, 2030. 10:27 AM.
Five weeks and counting. The thought wasn't a gentle stirring of consciousness, but a jolt, like a surge of adrenaline. Every tick of that clock was a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of a doomed world. He was already behind. Terribly behind.
He threw the high-thread-count covers back with a violent, impatient movement, his bare feet landing silently on the polished hardwood floor. No lingering in the luxurious warmth, no stretching the sleep from his stiff limbs. That body was gone, replaced by this younger, weaker vessel. A tool to be honed, nothing more.
He sat up, his gaze sweeping across the meticulously ordered room. Minimalist décor. Expensive electronics humming quietly. Utterly useless in the face of what was coming. He cataloged the details – the framed abstract art, the pristine desk, the view of the oblivious cityscape through the UV-protected window – and dismissed them with a mental flick. Meaningless.
A mental command, ingrained from years of relying on it for survival, brought the familiar blue screen into view.
[Status]
[Name: Kang Minwoo]
[Level: 1]
[Class: None]
[HP: 50 / 50]
[MP: 30 / 30]
[Strength: 10]
[Agility: 12]
[Intelligence: 15]
[Vitality: 10]
[Sense: 11]
[Remaining Stat Points: 0]
[Innate Skill: Shadow Whisper (Passive)]
Below the stats, the faint description flickered:
[Shadow Whisper (Passive) - Rank: E (Locked)]
* A faint connection to the essence of shadow. Grants a subtle awareness of shadows and a marginal increase in mana regeneration.
And beneath that, a nascent power:
[Active Skill: Shadow Cloak (Rank F)]
* Envelops the user in a thin veil of shadow, slightly increasing stealth and making them harder to perceive in dim light. Consumes a small amount of mana per second while active.
He barely registered the pathetic numbers. Level one. A starting point he'd thought he'd left behind forever. The Shadow Whisper… a faint, almost imperceptible hum beneath his skin. Shadow Cloak… a dormant seed of power waiting to be nurtured. He swiped the screen away with a mental flick, the information processed and discarded. Focus. He needed focus.
Get up. Get moving. No wasted breath, no wasted time.
He stood, his movements economical, each step purposeful as he headed towards the en-suite bathroom. The cool tiles beneath his feet were another reminder of this soft, unprepared world. He caught his reflection in the large mirror – a younger face, unscarred, untouched by the horrors he'd witnessed. A stranger. Yet, the cold, calculating gaze in those eyes was undeniably his.
He brushed his teeth with brisk, efficient strokes, the minty taste unfamiliar after years of nutrient paste and scavenged rations. Shower. Fast. Scalding hot water to shock his system awake. No lingering, no enjoying the simple luxury. Every second was a potential moment to train, to prepare, to understand.
Dressed quickly in the first functional clothes he found – dark jeans, a plain t-shirt. Appearance was a vulnerability. Functionality was survival.
He strode out of the room, his internal clock screaming at the glacial pace of this reality. He nearly collided with his mother in the hallway, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Minwoo! You're up already? You usually sleep in on weekends." Her voice held a gentle, oblivious concern.
"Need to go out," he clipped, not breaking his stride, his eyes already assessing the layout of the house, searching for anything that could be useful.
"But I was just making pancakes…"
"Later," he tossed over his shoulder, already halfway down the stairs. The scent of sweet batter was a nauseating reminder of a life that was about to be shattered.
He reached the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the familiar space. His father was sitting at the sleek, modern table, a tablet displaying news headlines.
"Morning, son. You're moving like you're late for something," his father commented, his tone casual, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Things to do," Minwoo replied curtly, grabbing a handful of nuts from a glass bowl on the counter. Fuel. Sustenance. Nothing more. He didn't meet his father's gaze, his mind already racing, piecing together fragments of memory, trying to pinpoint when his father's strange behavior had started before the Tower.
"Minwoo, at least tell me where you're going," his mother called from the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.
He paused at the entrance to the living room, his hand already on the doorknob. "Out," he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of any teenage angst or explanation. He just needed to go. To do. To change things.
He didn't wait for a response, stepping out into the bright, unsuspecting morning. The sounds of birds chirping, the distant hum of traffic – a symphony of ignorance.
Five weeks. The clock was ticking with agonizing slowness for him, while the rest of the world remained blissfully unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon. And Kang Minwoo was already running out of time.