Rover's breaths came in short, ragged bursts.
His body hung limp in the soldier's arms—one of the few survivors from the Seoul 17th Defense Division. The man's grip was tight, protective, as he pushed through the smoke-choked ruins. Somewhere in the distance, wyvern shrieks still echoed like the ghosts of a war no one had won.
But Rover didn't hear any of it.
His eyes were wide, empty, staring past the soldier's shoulder as memories reeled violently through his mind.
The wyvern.
That monster.
Its molten eyes boring into him. The jagged teeth. The smell—like burning iron and rotting meat. The sound his mother made when it slashed her down. Her last breath. The way she had smiled at him through the pain. The blood on her lips.
He saw it all. Over and over.
> "Rover... baby, you have to run..."
> "No! I won't leave you!"
> "Please... just live, okay? For me. You have to survive."
Her hand on his cheek. Trembling. Bloody. Her smile, shattered but still warm.
> "I love you."
Then the claws came down.
Then silence.
And then Jae—standing tall, wounded, but unbroken—bleeding for a child he'd never met. Fighting until his last breath.
And still...
Still the monster lived.
As the soldier carrying him ducked behind a broken highway pillar to catch his breath, Rover clenched his jaw, his small body trembling.
He could still see the wyvern's face.
He could still smell it.
> I'll never forget you, he thought, eyes burning. Your face. Your eyes. Your smell…
His fists clenched. His nails bit into his palms.
> I'll find you again. And when I do… I'll rip you apart.
---
Date: October 21, 2000
Global Broadcast Feed — Emergency News Relay
> [START OF RECORDING]
> ANCHOR (calm but grim):
"This is Andrea Kim, reporting for the United Global Emergency Network. It's been 110 days since the Towers emerged. We begin tonight's broadcast with footage leaked from the Nevada Scorch Zone—where the impossible has happened."
> [Cut to shaky, pixelated footage: a lone man standing between a wyvern and a crowd of civilians. The monster snarls, wings flared, claws digging into molten asphalt.]
> ANCHOR (voice hushed):
"His name is Roger Wilson. Twenty-four years old. A former engineering student. No military affiliation. Until now, he was no one."
> [In the footage, the man lifts a hand. For a moment, nothing. Then—flames. A roaring inferno bursts from his fingertips, slamming the wyvern backwards. The crowd erupts in screams—shock, fear, awe.]
> ANCHOR:
"We warn viewers—the following interview may be disturbing."
> [Cut to: hospital bed. Roger Wilson sits upright, body bruised, eyes hollow but burning with something unspoken. A single IV drip hangs beside him. He's surrounded by reporters, cameras.]
> REPORTER:
"Mr. Wilson. What happened to you out there? How did you do that?"
> ROGER (quietly):
"I was asleep. And I saw her. This… angel. Massive wings. Eyes like they'd known me forever. She didn't say much. Just one question: 'Do you desire power?'"
> REPORTER:
"And you said…?"
> ROGER (nods):
"I said yes."
> [He raises a hand. A small flame dances on his palm.]
> "It was like it had always been there. Waiting."
> ANCHOR (cutting back in):
"Since this broadcast aired, reports have surged across every continent. Hundreds—possibly thousands—have claimed to receive similar dreams. Some have Awakened with powers beyond belief. Others… have vanished."
> [Montage: flames, lightning, superhuman strength. Then, devastation—Awakened individuals leveling city blocks in the name of 'order' or 'vengeance.']
> ANCHOR (gravely):
"Some Awakened have chosen to protect. Others… have chosen conquest. The world stands at a crossroads."
> [End of feed.]
---
Seoul, Sector 6 Refugee Camp
A broken electronics store flickered in the heart of the shattered district—its cracked TV somehow still functional, mounted above a burned-out vending machine. It played Roger's interview on loop. The spark. The angel. The flame.
A crowd of children and refugees huddled outside, wide-eyed, their breaths fogging the air. In a world falling apart, they clung to one word whispered again and again: hope.
But one boy stood apart.
Thin. Ragged. Wrapped in a gray hoodie that barely held together at the seams.
Rover.
He didn't cheer.
He didn't cry.
He didn't believe in angels.
> I didn't cheer. I didn't cry.
They all stood there like that video could save them.
Like Roger Wilson was the second coming.
But me? I couldn't stop thinking about that night.
> That wyvern...
I see it every time I blink.
Its eyes. Its breath. My mom's voice. Jae's last stand.
It should've been me. It almost was.
And still—no angel came for me.
> Why not me?
Why the hell didn't she come?
> Am I not worth it?
Was my pain not enough?
> I wanted it. I needed it.
Just a spark. Just something.
But I got nothing.
> No dream. No flame. No power.
Just these useless hands. Just this rage.
He looked at the screen again, watching the fire dance in Roger's palm.
Around him, people whispered of miracles. Of destiny.
But all Rover could feel was fury.
> I don't care about destiny.
I don't care about saving anyone.
I just want to kill that wyvern.
I want to burn it alive.
Rip its wings off and feed it its own teeth.
I don't need her dream.
I'll make my own power.
Even if it kills me.
He turned from the screen, slipping into the broken alleyways like a ghost. The others didn't notice. Didn't look back.
The screen flickered one last time, casting Roger's flame across Rover's retreating silhouette.
And still, he didn't look back.
Because Rover wasn't waiting to be chosen anymore.
He was choosing himself.