Is that the sun? It’s too bright... blinding.

  ?No. It was night, wasn't it?

  The memory flashed through my mind like a jagged shard of glass. Something small. Movement. The screech of tires. Me moving before I could think.

  ?I let out a dry, mental chuckle. A miserable life, but a heroic way to die, huh?

  ?Damn it...

  ?When I was little, I always wanted to be a hero. Spider-Man, Superman, Iron Man. To a kid like me, they were the coolest things in existence. They saved people, crushed the bad guys, and were trusted with whole hearts. If that wasn't cool, what was?

  ?I knew it was a silly dream. A childish fantasy, especially for a guy struggling just to pay rent. But still... deep down, I wanted to be someone people could believe in. Someone who mattered.

  ?Faint, indistinct sounds broke through my thoughts. Something—or someone—was moving around me.

  ?I tried to force my eyes open. Through the haze of searing pain and white light, I saw a silhouette. Was it an angel? I think it was saying something, moving its lips, but it was no use. The sound didn't reach me anymore.

  ?What, can't they use telepathy or something? I thought bitterly. Typical.

  ?Accepting my fate, I let my eyes drift shut. My body was likely a ruin of internal bleeding and shattered bone. There was no surviving this. Maybe I was already dead, and this was just the brain’s final electrical storm firing off. Maybe that’s why my vision was still a blur. I wasn't quite there yet.

  ?Then, I felt it.

  ?Something gripped me.

  ?At first, it was a familiar, warm sensation. Comforting, almost. But then, a sharp, unnatural chill followed—as if every drop of blood in my veins was being forcibly drained away.

  ?Is this what death feels like? The sensation of your soul being sucked out of your body?

  ?I sighed—or imagined myself sighing.

  ?Still, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Not bad at all. The pain was fading, replaced by a cold, quiet, and hungry void.

  ***

  Six Hours Earlier

  "Kang Eun-Woo! Pull your head out of the clouds before you walk into a pole."

  I didn't flinch. I just slowly turned my head toward Leo. My eyes felt packed with sand, my neck creaking like a rusted hinge.

  "Leo. Keep your voice down. My migraine has a migraine."

  "Sorry, man," Leo said, though his grin didn't fade. He adjusted his laptop bag, bouncing on his heels with way too much caffeine for a Tuesday morning. "I won't do it again. Probably."

  “You've been saying that since freshman year.”

  “Fair point. Anyway, did you corner Professor Miller about the capstone project?"

  I stopped dead. The wind howling between the NYU buildings felt sharply colder. "The project? What about it?”

  Leo's grin vanished. "Are you serious? The presentation worth forty percent of our grade? You were supposed to ask for an extension because of your night shifts. Eun, if you fail this, you lose the financial aid. You lose your visa."

  Right. The visa.

  I stared at the gray pavement. The calculations started ticking in my head like a taxi meter from hell: rent, international tuition, the price of a gallon of milk... and now this. I hadn't forgotten because I was lazy. I'd forgotten because my brain had no room for 'future' when surviving 'today' took everything I had.

  “I'll handle it,” I muttered, my voice hollow even to me.

  “Bro,” Leo sighed, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You're burning the candle at both ends, and the middle's starting to catch fire too. Take a breath before you break."

  I tightened my grip on my bike's handlebars until my knuckles went white. “Can't afford to break, Leo. Breaking is expensive.”

  “Come on, let's just get through the hour.” Leo nudged me toward the lecture hall.

  I nodded, my legs heavy as we navigated the corridors. We were late—as usual—but Professor Miller was a rare breed in the Biology department. He valued curiosity over punctuality. Usually he'd offer a dry remark, but today he didn't even look up from his slides.

  We slipped into two empty seats in the middle row, trying to blend into the sea of tired faces and glowing laptop screens.

  “...and as you can see,” Miller's voice droned on, punctuated by the rhythmic tap of his laser pointer against the screen, "the process of hemostasis is a delicate balance. If the blood clots too quickly, the system fails. But if the vessel is breached and cannot be repaired…”

  He paused, the laser dot hovering over a diagram of a ruptured vein.

  “...then the body simply drains. Life slips away, drop by drop, until nothing remains but a cold shell.”

  The words felt like a cruel joke. As soon as my weight hit the plastic chair, the sheer heaviness of the last twenty-four hours crashed down on me. Delivery driver until 2 AM. A few hours of restless sleep. Then a double shift serving at a diner where the grease seemed to seep into my pores.

  I wasn't surviving on caffeine anymore. I was running on pure, stubborn momentum.

  My eyelids started losing the battle against gravity. The hum of the projector became a lullaby, dragging me under.

  “Professor?”

  The voice cut through the fog like a razor. My eyes snapped open, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs.

  I didn't need to turn my head to know who it was.

  Maya Thorne.

  She was sitting three rows ahead, posture perfect—a stark contrast to the slumping shadows of the exhausted students around her. Sunlight from the high windows caught the edge of her dark hair, creating a halo that made her look like she belonged in a different, brighter world.

  ?"Regarding the oxygen-carrying capacity of erythrocytes," Maya continued, her voice steady and confident. "If a subject experienced a localized mutation that increased iron-binding efficiency, would the metabolic cost be sustainable? Or would the body eventually... consume itself to keep up?"

  ?Professor Miller paused, actually looking impressed. "An intriguing thought, Miss Thorne. In theory, such a subject would be a biological marvel. In practice? They would be practically voracious. Starving every hour of the day just to keep the engine running."

  ?I watched her back, mesmerized. While I was calculating how many cents I'd save by skipping lunch, she was pondering the limits of human evolution.

  ?I leaned my head back, my vision blurring at the edges. A subject that consumes itself just to stay alive, I thought bitterly. Sounds like an international student in New York.

  ?I closed my eyes for just a second, letting the fantasy wash over me. Imagine actually talking to her. Not as the exhausted delivery boy she might pass in the hallway, but as an equal. Someone who wasn't just a ghost in the background of her life.

  ?"Bro, get up. The show's over."

  ?A sharp nudge to my shoulder forced my eyes open. The world was a smear of shifting shadows and screeching chair legs.

  ?"Ngh..." I groaned, my cheek still feeling the phantom pressure of the hard plastic desk.

  ?"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Unless you want to spend the night in the bio lab."

  ?"...erythrocytes," I muttered, the word tasting like copper on my tongue.

  ?Leo let out a sharp bark of laughter, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Seriously? You're dreaming about red blood cells now? Man, you've really lost it. Maya's nerdiness must be contagious."

  ?I rubbed my face aggressively, trying to scrub the exhaustion from my skin. "It's not… forget it. Is Miller still here?"

  ?"Yeah, but you better hurry. He looks like he's about to make a run for the faculty lounge." Leo tilted his head toward the front of the lecture hall.

  ?My heart sank.

  ?Professor Miller was there, packing his leather briefcase, but he wasn't alone. Maya stood by his desk, gesturing toward a diagram on the smart screen. They were engaged in a deep, animated conversation—the kind between two intellectuals that left no room for someone like me.

  ?"Go on," Leo whispered, giving me a supportive shove. "I'll wait by the door. Don't let the International Student Stress kill the vibe."

  ?I took a deep breath, smoothed down my wrinkled shirt, and walked down the steps. Each step felt heavy, like I was descending into a pit. By the time I reached the desk, I could hear her voice clearly.

  ?"...so if the iron-binding efficiency is bypassed, the oxidative stress would be the primary bottleneck, right?" Maya's eyes were bright with a genuine curiosity I hadn't felt in years.

  ?"Precisely, Miss Thorne," Miller replied, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "It's a fascinating, if impossible, hypothetical."

  ?I cleared my throat, feeling like a thief intruding on a temple.

  ?Both of them turned. Maya's gaze was polite but distant, as if she were looking at a smudge on a window. Miller just looked tired.

  ?"Ah, Mr. Kang," the professor said, his smile fading into a rigid professional mask. "I assume you're here about the presentation?"

  ?Maya stepped back, giving me space, but she didn't leave. She started organizing her notes, hovering just within earshot. Her presence made my tongue feel like lead.

  ?"Yes, Professor," I started, my voice thin. "I wanted to ask… if it's possible to get a small extension. I've had some… personal scheduling conflicts with my jobs, and—"

  ?"Mr. Kang," Miller interrupted. It wasn't unkind, but the finality of his tone made my stomach churn. "The syllabus was handed out months ago. I understand you have commitments outside of this institution, but science waits for no one. If I give you an extension, I have to give it to everyone."

  ?I involuntarily glanced at Maya. She was looking down at her notebook, but I could feel the weight of her silence. She probably didn't even have a job. She probably spent her nights reading the journals I used as pillows.

  ?"I understand," I whispered, the humiliation burning hotter than the exhaustion. "I'll… I'll have it ready."

  ?"Good. I look forward to it," Miller said, snapping his briefcase shut with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the empty hall.

  ?As I turned to leave, a wave of dizziness hit me. My foot caught on the leg of a chair, and I stumbled, nearly crashing into the front row.

  ?"Are you okay?"

  ?It was Maya. She had reached out a hand, though she didn't touch me. Her expression wasn't mockery. It was worse.

  ?It was pity.

  ?"I'm fine," I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended.

  ?I didn't look back as I hurried toward Leo. I just wanted to get to my shift, disappear into the gray New York rain, and forget I existed.

  ***

  ?“Keep your head up, Eun. Or at least try not to fall asleep on your feet,” Leo called out as I walked away.

  ?“I’ll try,” I muttered, though my voice was swallowed by the roar of New York traffic.

  ?I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my 'rest' for the day wasn't sleep. It was a war zone.

  ?My first shift was a babysitting gig for Mrs. Gable, a woman whose cramped apartment smelled perpetually of mothballs and overcooked cabbage. She needed someone to watch her son, Toby. It was supposed to be easy. Sit on the couch, make sure he didn't set the rug on fire, and collect thirty bucks. Easy money.

  ?I was so, so wrong.

  ?“Stop! Toby, stop it right now!”

  ?Splat.

  ?A jet of ice-cold water hit me square in the eye. I blinked, wiping the moisture away with a trembling hand. Toby stood across the living room, a neon-green, oversized water gun gripped in his sticky hands like an assault rifle. He wasn't just a child; he was a pint-sized insurgent.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  ?“Who even gives a six-year-old a pressurized water cannon?” I hissed, lunging for him.

  ?“You’re a zombie! Die, zombie!” Toby shrieked, cackling maniacally as he dove under the dining table.

  ?Zombie. Kid has no idea how right he is.

  ?He fired again. This time, the water soaked my last clean shirt—the white button-down I needed for my delivery shift. The frustration that had been simmering since Miller’s class finally boiled over. I wasn't a student anymore; I wasn't a hero. I was a wet, exhausted man-child chasing a demon through a minefield of Lego bricks.

  ?“Hey! Come here, you little—”

  ?I dove. My knee slammed into a wooden chair leg, sending a jolt of white-hot pain shooting up my thigh, but I managed to snag his ankle. We collapsed into a heap of discarded toys and soggy cushions. The living room looked like a hurricane had hit a Toys "R" Us.

  ?Just as I managed to wrestle the plastic weapon away from him, the front door creaked open.

  ?Mrs. Gable stood there. Her eyes went wide, taking in the scene. The overturned lamp. The puddle on her hardwood floor. Her son, red-faced and fake-crying, and me—soaked to the bone, panting like a rabid dog.

  ?I stood up slowly, ignoring the screaming pain in my knee, trying to force a professional smile. “Mrs. Gable… We were just… playing. He’s fine, he just—”

  ?“My floor!” she shrieked, ignoring me completely as she scooped up Toby. “You’ve ruined the finish! And look at my son! He’s traumatized!”

  ?“He was the one shooting me, ma’am,” I said, my voice cracking with desperation. “About the payment for today…”

  ?She turned on me, her expression hardening into something ugly. “Payment? You expect to be paid for destroying my home? You’re lucky I don’t call the police for property damage. Get out! Now!”

  ?I opened my mouth to argue. I wanted to scream that those thirty dollars were my food budget for the next three days. I wanted to beg.

  ?But then I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror.

  ?Pale skin, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, wet clothes clinging to a shivering frame. I looked like a wet, pathetic ghost.

  ?No. I look like a zombie.

  ?I didn't say a word. I just grabbed my bag and walked out into the cold New York evening. The silence of the hallway felt heavier than the scream of the city outside.

  ?I didn’t have time to cry over thirty dollars. I didn’t even have time to dry my clothes. I just pedaled. My lungs burned with every breath of the damp, smog-filled air as I arrived at 'Fast-Byte Deliveries.'

  ?The dispatch hub was a hole in the wall that smelled of stale pizza, wet cardboard, and despair. I pushed the door open, the bell ringing with a tinny, annoying sound.

  ?"You're late, Kang," a voice barked before I could even wipe the rain from my forehead.

  ?Sal, the night manager, didn't look up from his monitor. He was a man who measured human value in minutes and star ratings. When he finally glanced at me, his lip curled in disgust.

  ?"Look at you. You look like a drowned rat. What happened? Decide to take a swim in the Hudson on your way here?"

  ?"I... had another job," I panted, my hands shaking as I leaned against the grimy counter. "It went sideways. I'm ready for the next route."

  ?Sal let out a snort, tossing a thermal delivery bag onto the counter. It landed with a heavy thud. "You look like you're about to drop dead. If you faint and spill the food, it’s coming out of your deposit. You hear me?"

  ?I stared at the bag. My vision swam for a second, the neon lights of the shop blurring into streaks of aggressive yellow and red.

  ?"I won't faint," I whispered, convincing myself more than him. "Just give me the address."

  ?"Midtown. 52nd Street. Penthouse suite. And they want it now." Sal checked his watch and pointed a greasy finger at me. "The customer already called twice to complain about the delay. If you make it in ten minutes, I might forget you were late. If not? Don't bother coming back for the morning shift."

  ?I froze.

  ?Ten minutes.

  ?In this rain. Through Midtown traffic. On a bicycle.

  It was impossible. It wasn't a delivery; it was a suicide mission.

  "Understood," I whispered.

  I grabbed the bag. The warmth of the food radiating through the thermal insulation felt like a mockery against my frozen skin. As I stepped back into the downpour, the wind hit me like a physical wall, trying to push me back into the gutter where I belonged.

  I hopped onto my bike. My chain groaned, protesting the lack of oil, mirroring the ache in my own rusted joints. I didn't feel like a person anymore. I felt like a cog in a machine being ground down into dust.

  Just one more, I told myself, teeth chattering violently as I pedaled into the dark, rain-slicked streets of Midtown. Just finish this, get the five-dollar tip, and you can sleep.

  I didn't know that "sleep" was exactly what was waiting for me at the next intersection.

  My legs weren't muscles anymore; they were pistons of agony. I ran red lights. I ignored the taxi drivers screaming at me as I weaved through gridlock. My vision was a flickering mess of raindrops and neon, but I saw the address.

  Penthouse B. The Sterling Heights.

  I skidded to a halt, breath coming in ragged, wheezing gasps. I checked my phone with trembling, numb fingers.

  13 minutes.

  I was three minutes late. Sal's voice echoed in my head: "Don't bother coming back."

  I didn't care. I just needed that tip. I needed to know this hour of suffering wasn't for nothing. I bypassed the doorman's judgmental gaze and took the service elevator up. The gold-plated doors opened to a hallway that smelled of expensive sandalwood and silence.

  I knocked on the door of Penthouse B.

  It opened, revealing a blast of warm, dry air that stung my cold face. A man stood there in a silk robe, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He looked like he hadn't worked a hard day in his life. He looked at me, nose wrinkling as if I were a bag of trash that had wandered into his sanctuary.

  "You're late," he said, his voice smooth and cold.

  "I... I'm sorry, sir," I panted, water dripping from my nose. "The rain... the traffic was—"

  "I don't pay for excuses. I pay for hot food." He snatched the thermal bag from my numb hand, opened it, peered inside, and scoffed. "The bag is damp. The fries are probably soggy. And look at you... you're dripping all over my Italian marble."

  "Sir, please," I whispered, my pride long gone. "I just... I really need the—"

  "You need what? A tip?" He let out a short, mocking laugh. "Kid, look at yourself. You look like you've already given up on life. Maybe you should find a job that doesn't involve moving faster than a turtle. Or better yet... maybe this city is just too fast for you."

  He didn't give me a cent. He didn't even give me the thermal bag back.

  SLAM.

  The sound of the door closing echoed in the hallway like a gunshot. I stood there, staring at the polished wood. My reflection in the brass door knocker looked back at me—a shivering, soaking wet ghost with empty eyes.

  I was twenty-one years old. I was a student at one of the best universities in the world. And yet, I was nothing. Less than nothing. A nuisance to be wiped off a rich man's floor.

  I walked back to the elevator, movements mechanical. I didn't feel the cold anymore. I didn't feel hungry. I just felt an all-consuming, hollow emptiness.

  As I stepped back into the bone-chilling New York rain, I didn't even bother putting on my helmet. I just got on my bike and started pedaling.

  I didn't have a destination. I didn't have a job to go back to. I didn't have a home that felt like home.

  I just want it all to stop.

  As I steered my bike aimlessly toward the intersection of 5th Avenue, I saw a pair of blinding white lights cutting through the curtain of rain. They were growing larger. Brighter.

  For the first time in years, I didn't feel afraid.

  I felt... relieved.

  The twin suns of the truck rushed toward me, and for a heartbeat, I welcomed them. I waited for the impact, the silence, the end of the hunger.

  But the truck swerved.

  A deafening horn blasted in my ear, shattering the moment. A wave of dirty, freezing slush drenched me from head to toe as the massive vehicle roared past, missing my front tire by mere inches. The driver shouted something muffled behind the glass—likely another insult—and then he was gone.

  I was still alive. Even death didn't want me.

  ?I didn't have the strength to pedal anymore. I let the bike fall over with a hollow metallic clang and slumped onto a nearby park bench, right under the buzzing, flickering glow of a dying streetlamp.

  ?The "relief" of almost dying was gone. In its place, a cold, jagged spike of reality pierced my chest.

  ?"God... damn it," I whispered. My voice was a broken rasp, swallowed by the rain.

  ?I started to shake. Not just from the freezing water seeping into my skin, but from a sudden, violent surge of grief. It started as a lump in my throat and then exploded. I buried my face in my freezing hands and sobbed.

  ?I cried for the thirty dollars I didn't get. I cried for my mother in Seoul, who was probably bragging to her friends right now that her son was "living the American Dream," unaware that I was eating scraps from delivery bags. I cried for the hero I wanted to be when I was ten—the one who was supposed to be strong. The one who mattered.

  ?"Why is it so hard?" I choked out, tears mixing with the rain. "I didn't ask for a palace. I just wanted to live. I just wanted to... to be someone."

  ?Then, the sobbing stopped.

  ?The sadness began to curdle. It turned into something dark. Something hot.

  ?Anger.

  ?I looked at my hands—red, raw, and trembling. I looked up at the towering glass skyscrapers surrounding the park, their lights mocking me. They were filled with people like that man in the silk robe. People who looked at me like I was dirt on their Italian marble.

  ?This city didn't care. The world didn't care.

  ?"I hate this," I hissed, my teeth bared in a snarl. "I hate every single one of you."

  ?I wasn't just sad anymore; I was furious. I was tired of being the doormat. I was tired of being a ghost in my own life. If the world was going to be this cruel, why did I have to be the only one playing by the rules?

  ?I wiped my face with a soaked sleeve, my eyes burning with a new, dangerous light. I didn't want to die anymore. I wanted to burn this city's indifference to the ground.

  ?I stood up, my legs trembling so much I had to lean against the streetlamp. The "red haze" of anger didn't explode into a death wish. Instead, it settled into a cold, heavy stone in my gut.

  ?I was done with New York. I was done with tonight. I just wanted my bed—even if it was just a thin mattress on a creaking floor.

  ?"Let’s just... get home," I whispered to the rain.

  ?I swung my leg over the bike, ready for the long, agonizing pedal back to my apartment. But the moment I put my weight on the seat, a sickeningly familiar sound hissed through the air.

  ?Pssssssssst.

  ?I froze. I didn't even have to look down. The front tire had given up, likely pierced by a shard of glass from the earlier near-miss.

  ?It was the final insult. The universe wasn't just kicking me while I was down; it was stomping on my chest just to make sure I stayed there.

  ?I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just let out a hollow, dry laugh that sounded more like a cough.

  ?I grabbed the handlebars and started to walk. The bike felt ten times heavier than usual, the flat tire dragging against the asphalt with a rhythmic, mocking thud-thud-thud. Every step soaked my socks further, the cold biting into my toes until I couldn't feel them anymore.

  ?Ten blocks. Ten blocks of dragging the wreckage of my life through the slush.

  ?Then, I saw it. The glowing neon sign of a 24-hour deli.

  ?7-Eleven.

  ?The bright, sterile white light spilling onto the sidewalk looked like heaven. My stomach gave a violent, painful growl, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I checked my pocket.

  ?Two dollars. Two crumpled, wet bills that had somehow survived the night.

  ?I parked the broken bike against the window and stepped inside. The bell rang—a sharp, cheerful ding-dong that felt like a slap in the face given my mood.

  ?The air inside was warm and smelled of cheap hot dogs, floor cleaner, and stale coffee. I stood there in the middle of the aisle, a puddle of rainwater forming around my sneakers, staring at the rows of colorful wrappers. I looked like a swamp creature that had wandered into a pharmacy.

  ?The clerk, a teenager wearing oversized headphones, didn't even look up from his phone. To him, I was just another late-night New York weirdo. Nothing new.

  ?I walked to the refrigerated section, my eyes landing on a single, lonely triangle of plastic-wrapped rice. A "Spicy Tuna Roll." The sad, Americanized cousin of the kimbap I grew up on.

  ?Price: $1.89.

  ?I picked it up. My hands were so cold I could barely feel the plastic wrapper.

  ?This is it, I thought. The grand total of my day's struggle. One triangle of cold rice and seaweed.

  ?I walked to the counter, placed the wet bills on the plastic mat, and waited. I didn't want to go back out into the rain. I wanted to stay here in this artificial, fluorescent warmth forever.

  ?But I knew the city was waiting for me outside. Cold, hungry, and patient.

  ?I took the kimbap, tucked it into my jacket like a precious treasure, and pushed the heavy glass door open. The humid, sterile warmth of the store was instantly snatched away by the biting teeth of the New York wind.

  ?I clutched the cold kimbap to my chest as if it were a shield and grabbed the handlebars of my broken bike.

  ?I was only two blocks away from my apartment now. Just one more intersection.

  ?Thud. Drag. Thud.

  ?As I crossed the street, a sudden burst of high-pitched laughter cut through the rhythmic drum of the rain. I stopped. Across the avenue, near a small, dimly lit playground, two young kids—maybe brothers—were splashing through the overflowing gutters. Their yellow raincoats were like bright sparks in the gray, dying world.

  ?One of them jumped, both feet landing in a massive puddle with a triumphant shout.

  ?I stared at them, and for a second, the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan began to dissolve. The cold didn't feel so sharp anymore.

  ?I was six years old again.

  ?The rain wasn't an enemy then. It was a playground. I could feel the rough, warm skin of my father’s hand gripping my left, and the soft, gentle touch of my mother on my right. We were walking home through a narrow alley in Seoul, sharing a single, oversized umbrella that leaked just a little bit.

  ?“Eun-Woo, don’t you dare!” my mother had laughed, but her voice didn't have any real anger in it.

  ?I had looked at the deep puddle forming near the drain, my eyes wide with mischief. I gave my father’s hand a tug, and he just winked at me. With a loud, childish grunt, I had jumped.

  ?Splash!

  ?The water had soaked my socks, and my mother had groaned about the laundry, but I didn't care. I was between them. I was safe. The world was small, warm, and filled with the scent of wet asphalt and my mother's perfume. I remembered looking up at them and thinking that as long as I held their hands, nothing bad could ever happen to me.

  ?HONK!

  ?A taxi blared its horn, shattering the memory like a mirror hitting the floor.

  ?I blinked, disorientation washing over me. My parents were thousands of miles away. My father’s hand was replaced by the cold, rusted metal of a handlebar, and my mother’s laugh was lost in the roar of the city's indifferent engines.

  ?I wasn't that boy anymore. I was a man dragging a broken bike, carrying a two-dollar dinner, shivering in a city that didn't even know his name.

  ?A lump formed in my throat, more painful than the hunger in my stomach. I lowered my head, the rain dripping off the tip of my nose.

  ?"Just a little further," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling. "Just get to the apartment. You can eat. You can sleep. It's almost over."

  ?I was only a few steps away from the curb when I saw it.

  ?A flash of yellow.

  ?One of the boys from the playground had chased a runaway ball into the middle of the intersection. He was standing there, frozen, his small boots stuck in a deep puddle as he looked up at the two towering white suns rushing toward him.

  ?The truck. It wasn't slowing down. In this rain, it couldn't.

  ?Time didn't slow down like it does in the movies. It shattered.

  ?My brain, which had been foggy with exhaustion and hunger just a second ago, suddenly became razor-sharp. I didn't think about my rent. I didn't think about my failed presentation or my broken bike.

  ?I didn't even think about myself.

  ?I dropped the handlebars. The kimbap—my only meal for the day, my reason for enduring the last hour—slid out of my jacket and fell into the oily water of the gutter. I didn't even watch it sink.

  ?My legs, previously dead pistons, fired with a desperate, final strength.

  ?Move.

  ?I lunged.

  ?My feet pushed off the wet asphalt with a strength I didn't know I still possessed. For this single moment, I wasn't a ghost anymore. I was alive.

  ?I reached the boy in two strides, my hands slamming into his small, rain-slicked shoulders as I shoved him toward the opposite sidewalk.

  ?"Move!" I tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of the diesel engine.

  ?The boy flew through the air, tumbling safely onto a pile of trash bags. I saw him look back, his eyes wide, the ball still clutched in his hands.

  ?He was safe.

  ?Then, the world turned white.

  ?There was no pain at first. Just a massive, world-ending thud. It felt like being hit by a tidal wave made of solid iron. I felt my body being tossed like a ragdoll, the cold New York air rushing past me before I hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

  ?I slid across the wet pavement, finally coming to a stop in the middle of the street.

  ?The rain was still falling, but it didn't feel cold anymore. It felt... warm. Like the bathwater my mother used to prepare for me when I was small. The harsh neon lights of the city started to blur, turning into soft, glowing embers.

  ?I could hear people screaming. I could hear the truck driver sobbing as he kicked his door open. But it all sounded so far away. Like it was happening underwater.

  ?I looked at my hand, splayed out on the asphalt. It was covered in something dark and thick that the rain was trying to wash away.

  ?My blood, I thought detachedly. But I wasn't afraid.

  ?For the first time in years, a genuine smile touched my lips. I had done it. I wasn't a loser. I wasn't just a broken cog in the machine.

  ?I had saved him.

  ?A strange, golden warmth began to spread through my chest, chasing away the shadows of the city. It was hope. A pure, blinding hope that maybe, just maybe, my life had meant something in its final seconds.

  ?“I’m coming home,” I whispered, my eyes slowly fluttering shut as the sound of the city faded into a peaceful, eternal silence.

  ?“Mom... Dad... I did it. I was a hero.”

  ?The warmth peaked, wrapping around me like a blanket.

  ?And then, it vanished.

  ?The golden light didn't fade; it was extinguished. The warmth turned into an icy, piercing cold—colder than the rain, colder than the grave. The darkness didn't stay silent. It began to hum with a vibration that shook my very soul.

  ?And in that void, a voice—haughty, ancient, and impossibly beautiful—spoke.

  ?"So, this is your true nature after all... 'Hero' Kang Eun-Woo."

  ?The voice paused, amused.

  ?"Very well. I shall reward you for this... sacrifice."

  ***

  A man was standing right before me—looming, actually. He was muscular, imposing, and dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my entire four-year tuition at NYU.

  ?He looked down at me, checked a sleek black wristwatch, and then said the most ridiculous thing I’d heard all day.

  ?"Say that again?" I croaked. My voice sounded jagged, foreign to my own ears. Like gravel grinding together.

  ?The man let out a long, weary sigh, as if he had explained this a thousand times to a thousand confused idiots.

  ?"I said..." He crouched down, his cologne smelling of expensive wood and cold iron. He looked me dead in the eye, his expression completely serious.

  ?"Kang Eun-Woo, the mortal is dead. From this moment on, you are no longer human."

  ?He straightened his tie.

  ?"You are a vampire."