They let him go.
Not because he was cleared.
Not because he was safe.
Because he was contained enough—for now.
The discharge room was smaller than the assessment chamber, but it felt heavier. Same gray walls. Same quiet hum of monitoring equipment tucked behind panels so clean they might as well have been invisible. The chair across from him was empty this time. No semicircle of clinicians. No handler looming at his shoulder.
Just a single tablet on the table.
And a woman in clinic gray standing beside the door, arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that was obviously trained.
"Temporary release. Pending transfer to Seonghwa Pressure Clinic. You're expected to report within seventy-two hours." She said, voice neutral. Tae-Yang stared at the tablet. A digital form glowed on the screen—dense with legal language, liability clauses, and one pulsing icon at the top corner.
🟧 AMBER — WATCHLISTED
"Expected." He repeated quietly.
"Yes."
"And if I don't?" The woman didn't miss a beat. "Then you'll be escalated." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the icon.
"Red?"
"Restricted. Movement limitations. Mandatory supervision. Possible restraint." She corrected. The words stacked neatly, like blocks forming a wall. Tae-Yang reached out and slid the tablet back toward her. "I'm not signing anything today."
The room didn't react.
The woman tilted her head slightly, studying him—not with irritation, not with surprise. More like she was confirming a prediction.
"Refusal noted. This is not a waiver. It's a postponement." She said. "I know." Tae-Yang said. She hesitated for half a second, then added, "A therapy follow-up has also been scheduled. Voluntary, but strongly advised."
"No." He almost laughed.
That got a reaction. Not from her face—her expression stayed smooth—but from the air. The hum of the room felt louder suddenly, like the space itself was listening.
"You experienced an uncontrolled manifestation. Declining therapy increases your risk profile." She said.
"I don't care."
That was a lie. But it was the only answer he had. She regarded him for a long moment, then tapped something on the tablet. The amber icon pulsed brighter once, as if acknowledging the update.
"Very well. You are discharged." She said. Just like that. No lecture. No warning speech. No attempt to convince him otherwise. They never begged. The door slid open behind her with a soft hiss.
"Seventy-two hours. Do not test your limits." She reminded him. Tae-Yang stood. His legs felt steady enough. His arms still carried a dull ache, like bruises that hadn't surfaced yet. As he walked past her, she spoke again—quieter this time.
"For what it's worth, refusal is common." She said He stopped, just short of the threshold. "And?" He asked without turning. "And it rarely ends the way people think it will."
He stepped out into the corridor without replying.
—
Byunha smelled like salt and metal.
The clinic transport dropped him near the docks just as the sun dipped low, bleeding orange and red across the horizon. Cargo cranes loomed like skeletal giants against the sky, their silhouettes cutting through the fading light. Waves slapped rhythmically against concrete pylons below, the sound steady and indifferent.
Tae-Yang stood there for a moment, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
No escort.
No cuffs.
No one was watching him—at least not visibly.
The city moved around him as if nothing had happened. Trucks rumbled past. Dockworkers shouted to one another. A gull cried overhead, sharp and lonely.
So this is what freedom looks like, he thought.
It felt thin.
He walked. Past stacked shipping containers painted in peeling blues and reds. Past rusted chains and oil-stained pavement. The farther he went, the quieter it became, until the noise of the city dulled into a distant murmur.
This stretch of docks was old—half-abandoned, waiting for redevelopment that never quite arrived. The perfect place to be alone.
He stopped at the edge, where the concrete met open water.
The sea stretched out before him, dark and endless, reflecting the dying light in fractured streaks. Wind tugged at his jacket, cool against his skin. Tae-Yang closed his eyes. The memory came back immediately.
The punch.
The release.
The way the world had bent around his fist. His heart rate picked up.
I didn't imagine it, he told himself. They measured it. Categorized it. Projection-dominant. High output.
Asset.
His jaw clenched. He took a breath and stepped back from the edge, boots scraping against the concrete. He rolled his shoulders, loosening tension, and planted his feet the way he'd always done before sparring—balanced, grounded.
"Fine. If you want data…I'll get my own." He muttered. He raised his fist. Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. His arm felt normal. Heavy. Sore, but normal.
It wasn't automatic, he realized. It wasn't always there.
He exhaled slowly and tried again—this time focusing inward, on the pressure he'd felt underground. The urgency. The compulsion. The fear of not acting fast enough. His chest tightened.
Heat stirred faintly beneath his skin. There. A subtle vibration crawled along his forearm, like static before a storm. His pulse quickened.
Careful, a distant part of him warned.
He ignored it. Tae-Yang drew his arm back and punched the air. The shockwave was smaller this time—nothing like the explosive force in the subway—but it was unmistakable. The air cracked sharply, rippling outward in a visible distortion. Loose debris skittered across the ground. The water's surface shuddered in response.
And pain slammed into him.
Not delayed.
Immediate.
White-hot agony tore up his arm, from knuckles to shoulder, as his bones had collided with something solid instead of space. He gasped, stumbling back a step as his arm went numb, then burned.
"What—" He sucked in a sharp breath, clutching his forearm.
The heat didn't spread.
It collapsed inward, condensing into a deep, throbbing ache that made his fingers tremble. Sparks flickered around his fist—tiny orange-red motes that sputtered and faded almost instantly, like embers starved of oxygen.
Tae-Yang stared at his hand. No damage to the surroundings.
But him?
His teeth clenched as another wave of pain rolled through his arm, weaker than the first but insistent. "That didn't—That didn't happen before." He swallowed. Before, the pain had come after. After the danger passed. After the release.
This time, it punished him immediately. He straightened slowly, breathing hard, eyes narrowing.
Why?
The answer surfaced uncomfortably fast.
Because there was no reason.
No trapped man.
No collapsing ceiling.
No one he had to save.
Just him. Testing. Using. His grip tightened into a fist again, even as his arm protested. "Again." He whispered. This time, he felt resistance. Not physical—internal. Like pushing against a door that didn't want to open. The heat flickered weakly, unevenly, and when he punched, the shockwave barely rippled the air.
Pain followed anyway.
Sharper.
Meaner.
He cried out despite himself, dropping to one knee as his arm seized up, muscles locking in protest. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. The sparks didn't even appear this time.
They were gone.
"Damn it!" He slammed his uninjured fist against the concrete, the impact echoing uselessly.
So that's how it works, he thought bitterly.
Power wasn't a switch. It wasn't a gift waiting to be used. It was a response. A reaction to pressure that mattered. And when he tried to force it—when he treated it like a tool—It bit back.
Tae-Yang leaned forward, bracing his hands against his thighs, breathing hard. The sea wind cooled the sweat on his neck, but it did nothing for the ache gnawing through his arm.
He laughed softly, humorless.
"Figures." He muttered. The clinics weren't wrong. Not about everything. This power wasn't free. It wasn't obedient. And it wasn't his. Not yet.
He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders despite the pain, and looked out at the darkening water again. The horizon had swallowed the sun, leaving only a faint afterglow bleeding into the night.
They want me in a clinic, he thought. They want to teach me how to use this without breaking.
But the word asset still echoed in his head, sour and heavy.
"I'm not your weapon." He said aloud to no one.
The wind carried the words away. As he turned to leave the docks, his arm still aching and his confidence shaken, one realization settled into place—quiet, undeniable.
Power didn't reward ego.
It answered the necessity.
And if he continued to try to use it on his own terms, it would continue to punish him until he learned better.