The last thing Marcus Chen remembered was the screech of tires and the brilliant white of oncoming headlights. The eighteen-wheeler had run the red light at full speed, and his compact sedan might as well have been made of paper. There had been a moment—just a heartbeat—where time seemed suspended, where he could see his entire mundane life flash before his eyes. Twenty-eight years of middle management, of Excel spreadsheets and pointless meetings, of dreams deferred and ambitions crushed under the weight of corporate mediocrity.
Then darkness.
And now... this.
Marcus—no, that name felt wrong somehow—opened his eyes to the rhythmic clacking of train wheels against steel tracks. The sound was hypnotic, soothing even, accompanied by the gentle swaying motion that could lull a person to sleep. But sleep was the furthest thing from his mind as memories that weren't his own crashed through his consciousness like a tsunami.
*Move with purpose. Every motion has meaning. Balance in all things.*
The voice in his head spoke with the calm authority of someone who had faced death a thousand times and emerged victorious. Rama's voice. But alongside it came another, darker whisper:
*Pain is just weakness leaving the body. Fear is just another enemy to crush.*
Mad Dog. The psychopath who found joy in violence, who turned every fight into a beautiful, brutal dance of destruction.
He sat up slowly, his body feeling different—stronger, more coiled with potential energy. His hands, once soft from years of desk work, now felt like they could crush steel. Every muscle fiber seemed to hum with barely contained power, as if he were a weapon forged from human flesh and wrapped in a business suit.
The train car around him was spacious and modern, filled with the quiet murmur of passengers lost in their own worlds. Families returning from visits, businessmen like his apparent new identity, students with backpacks full of dreams and textbooks. The afternoon sun streamed through tinted windows, casting everything in a warm, golden light that seemed almost surreal given the violent memories now residing in his mind.
He looked down at himself—navy blue suit, expensive but not flashy, matching the identity his mind was rapidly constructing. Park Min-jun, senior analyst for a financial consulting firm based in Seoul, traveling to Busan for a client meeting. The false memories felt as real as his original life, complete with childhood experiences, career milestones, even a ex-girlfriend who had left him for someone with "more ambition."
But underneath this carefully constructed identity, something else stirred. His enhanced senses—when had he developed enhanced senses?—picked up subtle details that would have escaped his notice in his previous life. The slight tremor in the train's movement that suggested they were traveling faster than normal. The barely perceptible tension in the conductor's voice over the intercom. The way one passenger three rows ahead kept checking his phone with increasing frequency and growing pale.
*Observe. Analyze. Prepare.*
Rama's tactical mind began cataloging his environment with mechanical precision. The train car was approximately thirty meters long, with forty-two passenger seats arranged in pairs on either side of a central aisle. Emergency exits at both ends, though the rear exit led to empty air—this was the final car of the KTX bullet train. Windows were reinforced glass, likely bulletproof but not necessarily impact-resistant from the inside. Overhead compartments contained luggage that could serve as improvised weapons or shields. The seats themselves were bolted to the floor but the cushions could be removed.
Meanwhile, Mad Dog's darker instincts were assessing threats and vulnerabilities. The elderly man by the window—arthritic hands, slow reflexes, liability in a crisis. The mother with two young children—would fight like a cornered animal to protect them, useful but unpredictable. The businessman across the aisle—soft, pampered, would break under pressure. The young woman reading a book—athletic build, confident posture, potential ally if trained properly.
*Stop.*
He forced the analysis to halt, disturbed by how naturally the predatory thoughts came to him. These were innocent people, not targets or tactical assets. Whatever was happening to him, whatever memories had been implanted in his mind, he couldn't lose sight of his humanity.
But even as he tried to center himself, his body remained coiled for action. Every breath was controlled, every heartbeat steady. He could feel the exact location of every person in the car without looking, could track their movements through minute changes in air pressure and sound. When the woman across the aisle shifted in her seat, he knew instantly that she was reaching for her water bottle before she'd even begun the motion.
The intercom crackled to life, and the conductor's voice filled the car with forced cheer. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're currently experiencing some minor delays due to... technical difficulties with the railway ahead. We'll be reducing speed temporarily while our engineers assess the situation. We apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your patience."
Technical difficulties. But the tremor in the man's voice suggested something far more serious than signal problems or track maintenance. Combined with the train's unusual speed and the increasingly agitated behavior of several passengers, a picture was beginning to form—one that his borrowed combat instincts recognized with growing alarm.
*Something is wrong. Very wrong.*
He stood up smoothly, movements flowing like water, and walked toward the front of the car. To any observer, he appeared to be heading for the restroom, but his enhanced awareness was focused on the door leading to the next car forward. Through the small window, he could see into the adjacent car, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
Several passengers were standing in the aisle, but their posture was all wrong. They swayed with the train's motion but in an exaggerated, unnatural way. One woman's head was tilted at an impossible angle, and something dark stained the front of her blouse. A businessman in a wrinkled suit stumbled past the window, and for just a moment, his face was visible.
His eyes were clouded white, and his mouth hung open in a silent moan.
*Infected. The outbreak has already begun.*
The realization hit him like a physical blow, but his body was already responding before his conscious mind had fully processed the implications. His stance shifted subtly, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands loose and ready. Every sense expanded, hyperaware of his environment and the people around him.
Through the memories that weren't his own, he understood what was coming. He'd seen it in movies, read about it in books, but now faced with the reality, the clinical part of his mind—Rama's part—began calculating odds and strategies while Mad Dog's portion whispered sweet promises of violence.
The infected in the forward car hadn't noticed him yet, but that wouldn't last. Soon they would catch a scent or hear a sound that would draw their attention to the rear of the train. And when that happened, they would come with the single-minded hunger that defined their kind.
He looked back at the peaceful scene in his car—families chatting quietly, a teenage girl listening to music through her earbuds, an elderly couple sharing a thermos of tea. None of them had any idea what was bearing down on them like an unstoppable tide of death and disease.
*Forty-two passengers in this car. Mostly civilians, untrained, unprepared. One exit blocked by infected, one exit leading to a hundred-meter drop onto railway tracks. Limited weapons, limited space, unlimited targets.*
The tactical assessment was grim, but not hopeless. He had advantages that no normal person possessed—the combined fighting experience of two legendary warriors, enhanced physical capabilities that bordered on superhuman, and most importantly, advance warning of what was coming.
But first, he needed to maintain the illusion of normalcy for as long as possible. Panic would only make things worse. He walked back to his seat with the same casual gait he'd used before, but now every step was calculated, every movement serving multiple purposes.
As he settled back into his seat, he allowed himself one last moment to mourn the life he'd lost and the innocence these people were about to lose. Then he began to plan.
The final car of the KTX train bound for Busan was about to become a fortress, and he was going to be its guardian—whether these people wanted his protection or not.
Outside the windows, the Korean countryside rushed past in a blur of green and gold, beautiful and serene.
Inside, a war was about to begin.
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