The Byunha Line was late.
That, by itself, wasn't unusual.
Public transit delays happened often enough that people barely looked up from their phones anymore. A few sighs. A few annoyed clicks of tongues. Someone muttered about infrastructure budgets and corruption. Life absorbed the inconvenience and kept moving.
Tae-Yang stood near the center pole of the subway car, one hand loosely wrapped around the cold metal, backpack slung over one shoulder. The car rocked gently, suspended between stations, lights flickering with the tired rhythm of overused machinery.
He'd taken the train south that afternoon to clear his head.
Seoryon felt too tight lately. Too watched. Byunha, with its salt-tinged air and industrial sprawl, always felt looser—rougher, louder, less polite. People here didn't stare as long. They didn't whisper about clinics under their breath.
He exhaled slowly and adjusted his stance as the car lurched again.
Around him, bodies packed close. A delivery worker with grease-stained gloves. A high school girl is clutching her phone with both hands. An older man gripping the overhead strap, jaw clenched like he was bracing for something worse than a delay.
The intercom crackled.
Static.
Then silence.
A ripple passed through the car—not panic yet, just awareness. The low hum beneath the floor vibrated unevenly, like something struggling to breathe.
That's not normal.
The lights dimmed. Came back. Dimmed again. A child somewhere near the doors started to whine.
"It's fine. They'll fix it." Someone said too quickly.
Another jolt. Harder this time. The train screeched—metal screaming against metal—and then stopped.
Not a smooth halt. A violent, teeth-rattling slam that threw several people forward. Tae-Yang tightened his grip on the pole, boots scraping against the floor as he absorbed the momentum. Someone slammed into his shoulder. Another stumbled and caught themselves against his back.
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the car, punctured only by emergency strips along the floor, glowing a dull red. For half a second, there was silence. Then—
"What happened?!"
"Are we stopping?"
"Hey—hey, don't push!"
Voices overlapped, sharp and rising. Panic didn't explode all at once. It leaked in, like smoke seeping through cracks. The intercom crackled again. A voice came through, distorted and thin.
"Attention passengers…please remain calm…we are experiencing a temporary systems—"
The feed cut. The hum beneath their feet changed pitch. Lower. Strained. Tae-Yang felt it through the soles of his boots, up his legs, settling somewhere uncomfortably behind his ribs.
Something's wrong.
He shifted, scanning faces in the dim light. Eyes darted. Hands clenched. The older man near him had gone pale, breath coming shallow and fast. The delivery worker cursed under his breath, pulling out his phone, only to frown at the lack of signal.
The train lurched again.
This time, something cracked. Not metaphorically. A sharp, echoing bang rang through the tunnel, followed by the groan of stressed metal. The car tilted—just a few degrees—but enough that people cried out as gravity betrayed them.
A woman fell. Someone screamed. The emergency lights flickered violently.
And then the ceiling buckled.
It didn't collapse all at once. That would have been clean. Merciful. Instead, a section near the front of the car caved inward with a deafening roar, showering sparks and debris. Dust exploded into the air, thick and choking. A support panel tore free and slammed down across the seats.
A man didn't move fast enough.
The beam crushed down, pinning his leg at an unnatural angle. He screamed—raw, animal, the sound of something breaking that couldn't be put back together.
That was when panic fully took hold.
People surged away from the damage, pressing, shoving, and climbing over seats. Someone tripped. Someone else fell on top of them. The child started crying in earnest now, hysterical sobs cutting through the chaos.
"Get back! Stop pushing!"
"I can't breathe—"
"Help! Someone help him!"
The intercom stayed dead. No authoritative voice. No instructions. Just people. Too many people. Tae-Yang's heart slammed against his ribs.
Move.
The thought wasn't heroic. It wasn't noble. It was instinct. He shoved his way forward, ignoring the elbows digging into his sides, the hands grabbing at his jacket. "Hey!" Where do you think you're going?!" Someone shouted at him.
"Back up! You're making it worse!" Tae-yang shouted sharper than intended. No one listened. They never did.
He reached the crushed section just as another groan rippled through the car. More debris rained down. The trapped man screamed again, his voice breaking into wet, desperate sobs.
Blood pooled beneath the beam, dark and spreading. Tae-Yang crouched instinctively, hands hovering near the wreckage.
I can lift this.
The thought came unbidden. Immediate. Terrifying. His pulse spiked. No. He didn't have anything. He wasn't—
Another tremor shook the car. The beam shifted. The man screamed, then choked on the sound. Around them, people shouted, cried, pressed closer despite the danger. The air was hot now, stale and thick with dust and fear. Tae-Yang's chest tightened.
If I don't do something, he dies.
That was the pressure point. Not fear. Not anger. Responsibility. The unbearable weight of knowing and being the only one close enough to act. His hands curled into fists. "I need space! Get back!" He shouted. Someone grabbed his shoulder. "Are you crazy?! It's going to collapse!"
"I know! Get. Back." Tae-Yang snarled, shrugging them off.
The ground shook again. That was it. Something inside him snapped—not cleanly, not like glass, but like a cable pulled too tight for too long. Heat surged through his arms. Not warmth. Pressure.
Like his muscles were suddenly filled with compressed air, screaming for release. His skin prickled. His breath came fast and shallow, lungs struggling to keep up with his heart.
What is happening—
The world narrowed. Sound dulled, then sharpened all at once. He drew his arm back on pure reflex. And punched. The impact wasn't flesh on metal.
It was force.
A concussive boom tore through the car, louder than thunder in a closed space. The air itself buckled, a visible ripple blasting outward from his fist. The beam didn't lift.
It flew.
Metal screamed as it was hurled aside, smashing through seats and slamming into the far wall. The shockwave threw people off their feet. Windows shattered. The car rocked violently, alarms finally shrieking to life.
Tae-Yang felt it tear through him—through bone, through muscle, through something deeper that had never been touched before. He staggered back, gasping. The man was free. Alive. Barely conscious, but breathing. For half a second, there was stunned silence. Then—
"What the hell was that?!"
"Did you see—?!"
"Was that—was that a power?!"
Fear shifted direction. Not gone. Redirected. The train shuddered again, worse this time. The tunnel groaned, dust pouring down like ash. More debris fell.
A section of the wall cracked, concrete splitting open. People screamed and ran.
Tae-Yang's ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. His arms burned like they'd been dipped in acid. Sparks danced around his fists, orange-red motes fading in and out like dying embers.
Stop.
His body didn't listen. Someone tripped near the doors as another chunk of ceiling broke loose. Tae-Yang moved without thinking. A kick.
Another explosion of force—smaller this time, but still violent. The debris shattered midair, fragments slamming into storefront glass visible through the tunnel windows beyond the platform edge. The shockwave ripped through the station.
Aboveground, alarms howled.
Emergency shutters slammed down too late.
A convenience store façade across from the platform imploded, glass spraying like rain. People scattered, screaming. Tae-Yang barely registered it. His vision tunneled. Each breath felt like dragging air through fire. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, out of sync with everything else.
Too much.
He dropped to one knee, hands braced against the floor. The metal beneath him was warm. Vibrating. His fingers shook uncontrollably. The orange-red shimmer around his arms flickered, then sputtered.
Someone shouted in his direction. Authority now—uniformed responders rushing in from the far end of the platform, their voices sharp with command and confusion.
"Everyone, get back!
"Medical team—now!"
"Who did this?!"
Tae-Yang tried to stand. His legs buckled. The world tilted, spun, then slammed sideways. He collapsed fully, his shoulder hitting the floor hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. His body curled in on itself as tremors wracked through him, violent and uncontrollable.
Cold followed the heat. A deep, bone-level chill.
I didn't mean—
Hands grabbed him—careful, gloved. Someone shouted about vitals. Another voice, closer, tense, and sharp. "Don't let him move. Watch his arms."
Arms. As if they were weapons. As if he was. Tae-Yang squeezed his eyes shut. The sounds blurred together—sirens, shouting, the crackle of radios. The smell of dust and ozone burned his nose. His chest ached with every breath, muscles screaming in protest.
Images flickered behind his closed eyelids.
The beam falling.
The man's crushed leg. His own fist connecting with nothing and everything at once.
Strength equals permission to exist.
The thought surfaced unbidden, bitter now. Was this permission? Or a sentence? His shaking slowed, then stilled, leaving him hollowed out and exhausted, limbs heavy as stone. Somewhere above him, the Byunha sky waited—blue, uncaring, untouched by what had happened underground.
Tae-Yang lay on the cold platform floor, surrounded by broken concrete and shattered glass, and felt something inside him settle into place.
Not triumph.
Not pride.
A quiet, terrible certainty. Whatever he'd been before—He wasn't that anymore.