6:20 p.m. — In the Middle of the Street
The street stretched endlessly ahead, cracked asphalt scorched by old explosions and half-melted road markings. Towering reinforced barricades lined both sides, their surfaces scarred and patched from past Asier attacks. Abandoned storefronts sat in silence, their shattered glass reflecting flickering neon warning signs that buzzed weakly in the dusk.
Above me, the force shield rippled across the sky like a second atmosphere—translucent and humming, alive. Light pulsed through it every few seconds, slow and rhythmic, as if the city itself were breathing. Surveillance drones hovered overhead, their red lenses sweeping the streets, searching for threats that hadn't shown themselves yet.
The air smelled metallic—ozone mixed with rust and old smoke. No laughter. No footsteps. Just the constant hum of defense systems protecting people who no longer walked here.
The A.A.B. has branches in nearly every country, each nation hosting at least five fortified strongholds to protect its citizens. Populations are relocated into gated enclaves, sealed behind walls forged from the strongest metals and reinforced with magic. Inside those walls, life continues—controlled, monitored, but alive.
Despite all this, many nations have still been wiped out.
Africa suffered the worst losses—only 15 countries remain. Entire ethnic groups have nearly vanished, while others survive only by fleeing across borders into safer territories. Asia hasn't been spared either; only 10 countries remain capable of maintaining A.A.B. protection.
Which makes me wonder… why didn't the A.A.B. save them?
Was it because they were minorities, too scattered and too small to justify the resources? Or was it simply that the Bureau's reach had limits—some nations too distant, too unstable, or already overrun before help could arrive?
The truth is cold: protection isn't guaranteed. Not by walls. Not by shields. Survival depends on geography, politics, and luck—not justice or morality.
"Yeah… that's enough thinking for today," I yawned.
7:00 p.m. — A.A.B. Headquarters
The A.A.B. Headquarters rose above the city like a blade driven straight into the earth—sleek, angular, unnaturally clean. Holographic sigils crawled across its metallic surface, glowing softly as magic and technology fused seamlessly together. Guard towers flanked the structure, their cannons dormant but permanently aimed outward—never inward.
Inside, the laboratory was cold and sterile. The scent of antiseptic mixed with burned circuitry hung in the air. Glass tanks lined the walls—some empty, others filled with opaque fluids that concealed whatever slept inside. Machines beeped quietly, steady and indifferent, as if the world outside wasn't on the brink of collapse.
That's when I saw him.
Pale greenish hair. Ash-gray skin stitched together with patches of dull pink and dark seams. He approached me with a wide smile, fitting the lab far too well.
"Didn't expect to see you here after the clothes-burning incident."
"We don't talk about that, Morosis," I said, glaring daggers at him.
"You really need to work on your temper," he replied, still smiling.
"Anyway, what do you need my assistance for?"
"I just want to sleep," I muttered, dragging down the foldable shelf-bed. "A little help here?"
"Nope. You do you," he said, cackling.
I grabbed a bottle and threw it straight at his head.
"HELP!" I shouted.
Grumbling, he stood up from his chair and helped me lower the bed.
"Too bad you're sleeping early," he sighed dramatically. "I wanted to hear some of your stupid questions."
My ears perked up.
"You do? And they're not stupid—they're creative."
He burst out laughing so hard tears formed.
"I'm mad, but not that mad to listen to your buffoonery."
I threw another glass bottle at his head. Silence.
"Wake me up by 8:00," I warned, lying down. "And no messing with me. I mean it."
I read a few chapters of manhwa before drifting off.
Dream
The elevator ride passed in haunting silence as I stared at the metal doors, my reflection warped in their surface.
What was I even going to say to that red reptile?
Why do I want to be an officer?
It's because I want to protect people.
I want to see them happy—laughing with their families.
I want to wash away the sadness.
I want them to live freely, without fear.
"We both know that's not true."
The voice cut through me like a blade.
"You just want people to like you. You want them to see you as strong. You don't care about anyone."
"Stop!" I shouted.
The pressure crushed my skull. My heartbeat thundered as the walls dissolved—
Eyes.
Hundreds of them.
Watching. Judging.
"Useless."
"A waste of space."
"The only reason he's becoming head is because of that slut he calls a mother."
The voices overlapped, louder and crueler, until I couldn't breathe. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed for them to stop, desperately repeating—
I'm not useless. I'm not useless.
8:00 a.m.
I jolted awake, gasping.
"It was just a dream," I muttered, wiping my tears away.
My phone glowed.
8:00 a.m.
That mad bastard didn't wake me up.
"HEY, SCHADENFREUDE! YOU DIDN'T WAKE ME UP!" I shouted.
"I did," he replied calmly. "I injected a microchip into your brain that induces nightmares so you'd wake up on time—"
My fist connected with his face.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH ME!"
"Relax," he said, touching his cheek. "It self-destructs after completing its task and exits your body as spit."
"Ouch," he muttered, smiling anyway.
I walked to the metal door.
"I'm going," I said, shutting it behind me.
Leaning against it, I sighed—then saliva flooded my mouth. I rushed to the bathroom and spat it out.
The hallway outside was long and narrow, steel floors polished to a mirror shine. White lights hummed overhead, too bright, too sterile.
"Did you hear? The fourth child of the founder is joining," a woman whispered.
"Isn't he the one with a prostitute for a mother?"
Just block it out. That always works.
I pulled out my headphones and played Burning Beaver's newest song.
That's better.
Inside the elevator, I gripped my keycard and pressed Floor 15—the floor where that alien bastard lived.
As the doors closed, I stared into the mirror. My reflection looked thinner… darker. A shadow curled around me, wrapping itself around my shoulders.
"Son of a prostitute…" I whispered.
"Has no right to reach for the stars…"
Words my older sister had burned into me long ago.