October 21, 2000 — Global Broadcast Feed — Emergency News Relay
> [START OF RECORDING]
ANCHOR (tone low, deliberate):
This is Andrea Kim, reporting for the United Global Emergency Network. It has been 110 days since the emergence of the Towers, and tonight... humanity watches in silence. What you're about to see is not a dramatization. It is real. And it has changed everything.
> [The screen flickers. Grainy handheld footage begins, timestamped and trembling. A wasteland of charred asphalt and broken glass. Screams echo. The camera pans shakily to a wyvern descending—wings serrated, eyes glowing like molten metal. A child screams off-camera. Then—a man steps forward.]
ANCHOR (voice cracking slightly):
His name… is Roger Wilson. Twenty-four years old. A former engineering student. No prior military service. No criminal record. No known history of violence. Just… a man.
> [In the footage, Roger stands still. One arm raised. The wyvern snarls, crouching low. The air seems to freeze.]
> [Then—boom. A jet of fire explodes from Roger's outstretched palm, engulfing the creature. The crowd recoils. The wyvern screams, its wings igniting. Flames rise high into the air, illuminating the stunned faces behind him.]
ANCHOR (quietly):
He saved over 200 lives that day. Alone.
> [Cut to: dim hospital room. Cameras click and flash. Roger sits upright in a bed, his face pale, bandaged. A gash runs across his cheek. His eyes—dark and hollow—stare straight ahead.]
REPORTER (off-camera):
Mr. Wilson. What happened out there? How did you… do that?
ROGER (soft, distant):
I was asleep. I had this dream. I saw… her.
> [The reporters fall silent.]
ROGER:
Wings of light. Eyes full of eternity. She didn't say much. Just one question.
> [He looks up.]
ROGER:
"Do you desire power?"
REPORTER:
And you answered…?
ROGER (with a faint smile):
Yes.
> [He lifts his hand. A small, flickering flame dances across his palm. The camera zooms in. It's not just fire—it pulses, alive, like it knows it's being watched.]
ANCHOR (returning to screen):
Since this interview aired, global chaos has only intensified. Within hours, similar reports surged across Europe, South America, Asia. The phenomenon is spreading—and fast.
> [Cut to: montage. Soldiers battling monstrous creatures. An old woman walking unharmed through a burning town. A boy lifting a collapsed building's debris with glowing hands.]
ANCHOR:
They call them the Awakened. Chosen by dreams. Gifted by something beyond comprehension. Some rise as protectors. Others… don't.
> [More footage. Cities reduced to craters. Towering individuals tearing through military lines. Streets flooded with riots. Governments collapsing.]
ANCHOR (gravely):
The world is no longer the same. The age of men has ended. The age of Awakened… has begun.
> [END OF FEED]
---
Seoul, Sector 6 Refugee Zone
A battered electronics store flickered in the middle of a ruined street. The cracked screen mounted high above played the footage on repeat—Roger Wilson, the flame, the question. A crowd gathered beneath it, mesmerized.
Children with hollow eyes. Mothers with trembling hands. Old men gripping radios like they were relics. The broadcast wasn't just news anymore—it was myth. Proof. A lifeline.
Hope.
But one boy didn't stand with them.
He lingered in the shadows of a nearby alley, hoodie drawn low, eyes unreadable. His arms were crossed, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The fire on the screen danced in his eyes, but it lit no joy within him.
Rover.
Five years old. Alone.
He stared, unmoving, his thoughts thick and bitter.
I didn't cheer when the flame appeared.
I didn't cry when the angel was mentioned.
I just stood there… remembering.
Remembering that night.
The wyvern. Its shriek like steel grating against bone. The fire that swallowed his mother's voice.
Jae's bloodied armor. His final words.
And then—
Nothing.
No angel. No power. No one.
Where was my dream?
Where was my question?
He glanced down at his hands. Small. Weak. Useless.
I begged to live that night. I screamed for help.
But nobody came.
Why Roger? Why not me?
Around him, the crowd whispered words like chosen, savior, miracle. But to Rover, they were salt in a wound that refused to close.
He turned away.
---
Later That Night
The wind howled through the shattered alleyways of Seoul's outer zones. Concrete dust swirled like ash. Beneath a broken overpass, Rover stood before a half-burned billboard, fists raised.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
He punched the rusted metal again and again. Pain shot through his fingers. His knuckles were raw, blood mixing with grime.
His breath came in gasps.
Again.
And again.
The billboard didn't fight back. But it hurt. It hurt enough to feel real.
"Why wasn't I enough?"
His voice cracked as he struck the wall harder. The words choked out between sobs.
"Why didn't she choose me?"
Memories clawed at him—his mother's smile, the warmth of her arms, the way her voice wrapped around him like a lullaby. Jae's desperate roar, the explosion that shook the street.
They died for me.
And I got nothing in return.
Tears streamed down his face as he sank to his knees. He hated crying. It made him feel small again.
But tonight, he couldn't stop.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered. "Even if I have to tear the power from the gods."
His words were a prayer, a curse, a promise.
---
December 10 — His Sixth Birthday
The sky hung gray and heavy with snow, but none fell. It was as if the weather, like the world, had broken.
Rover sat in a dark corner of the abandoned apartment he now called home. Broken windows let in the wind. The floor was lined with old newspapers and stolen blankets.
He held a stale loaf of bread, the corners hardened and cracked. He'd taken it from a shop two days ago—too slow to notice him, too empty to care.
He bit into it slowly. Each chew reminded him of how cold the world had become.
Happy birthday to me, he thought bitterly.
There was no cake. No candles. No warmth. Just the silence.
He looked up at the shattered ceiling. Stars blinked faintly through holes in the roof.
"I'm still here, Mom."
His voice wavered.
"I haven't died yet."
He swallowed a lump in his throat and whispered:
"I miss you."
---
He didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he trained. Punching walls. Lifting rubble. Running laps in the frozen streets. His body was weak, but his resolve was iron.
Every scar was a seed.
Every bruise, a reminder.
He would not beg again.
He would not scream for mercy.
If angels wouldn't choose him—he'd become his own weapon.