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Chapter 1 – Static
People always assume dying young is romantic. Noble, even. Like the flames that burn out early shine brighter or whatever poetic nonsense gets thrown around at funerals.
I disagree. Dying young is just inconvenient.
My name is—or was—Lysander Park. Not Caspian, not yet. Just Lysander Park, 27 years old, single, average height, average looks, average job. Everything about me was… tolerable. Not quite impressive enough to be noticed, not miserable enough to be pitied.
I worked as a sales analyst for a mid-tier IT company in Seoul. Not the kind of job you brag about at reunions, but it paid the rent, funded my instant ramen addiction, and occasionally allowed me the pleasure of overpriced convenience store beer. My days blurred into one another: spreadsheets, meetings, deadlines, rinse and repeat. A hamster wheel powered by caffeine and quiet resentment.
My apartment was a 10-pyeong box in a neighborhood where the plumbing gurgled like it was haunted and the walls were thin enough to hear my neighbor's nightly sobbing—or moaning, depending on the day of the week.
Romantic, right?
They say hell is other people, but I found mine in buzzing fluorescent lights, malfunctioning printers, and bosses who wore fake smiles like plastic masks. They were always talking about synergy and optimization, as if those words meant anything other than "do more with less or else."
Still, I endured.
Why? Honestly, I don't know. Maybe because I didn't hate it enough to leave. Maybe because it was easier to stay numb. Or maybe because I was waiting. For something. Anything. A sign, a twist, a sudden change in plot—like in those novels I read during lunch breaks, where average guys like me wake up in worlds of sword and magic with cheat powers and destined fates.
Pathetic, huh?
I wasn't even one of those delusional types who believed they'd get hit by a truck and wake up with abs and a harem. I knew life didn't work that way. I knew the rules.
The system was rigged. Always had been.
Even so, I fantasized. Not about dragons or leveling up, but about freedom. Real, messy, unfiltered freedom. No deadlines. No meaningless targets. Just raw instinct and the thrill of being in control for once.
Instead, I got long commutes in a city that never shut up, passive-aggressive coworkers who stole your ideas and smiled about it, and weekends that disappeared faster than my will to live every Monday morning.
My parents called sometimes. Mostly to ask if I was eating. I lied and said yes. My younger sister was doing well, last I checked. Married, two kids, living in Canada with a husband who didn't look like he hated his job. Good for her.
I wasn't bitter. At least, not all the time.
Sometimes I'd look in the mirror and wonder when the light in my eyes had dimmed. Other times I didn't bother to look at all.
But here's the thing about monotony—it's safe. Predictable. There's comfort in knowing what tomorrow holds, even if it's boring. That's what made what happened next so… jarring.
It began with a nosebleed.
Harmless, right? I thought so too. I was in the elevator heading up to my floor, half-asleep with my earphones in, some lo-fi beat buzzing in my ears. Then, drip. Crimson hit my shirt like an accusation. Warm. Unexpected.
I pinched my nose, leaned forward, tilted my head. Did all the usual things. But it wouldn't stop. By the time I stumbled into my apartment, my hands looked like they belonged to a butcher.
Maybe I should've gone to the hospital. Maybe I should've called someone. But I didn't. I was tired. More tired than usual. My limbs felt heavy. My eyelids, heavier. So I crawled into bed with tissue stuffed up my nostrils and blood smeared across my chin like war paint.
I dreamt of static.
Not nightmares. Not images. Just white noise. An ocean of whispering nothing.
And then… a voice.
"You were not supposed to exist."
I jolted awake, heart pounding like a jackhammer. My room was quiet. Too quiet. I blinked at the ceiling, the flickering bulb painting shadows on the peeling wallpaper. My phone buzzed on the desk—6:03 a.m., one missed call from my manager. Probably about some meeting I was supposed to prepare for.
But the voice lingered.
It hadn't sounded like mine. It hadn't echoed like dreams usually do. It was… too clear. Like someone had whispered it directly into my ear. Cold and sharp. Surgical.
I told myself I was just stressed. Overworked. Maybe I needed a break. A day off.
Instead, I showered, dressed, and got on the train like always.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Not drastically. Just a sliver. Like a hairline crack in the glass. Invisible, but fatal over time.
All day, I felt watched. Like someone—or something—was waiting. Patiently.
That night, I stayed up late scrolling through conspiracy threads online. Demonic awakenings, AI simulations, astral projection, you name it. Anything to give meaning to a voice I couldn't unhear.
Then the nosebleeds returned.
This time, the blood was darker.
Thicker.
It didn't feel like mine.
And somewhere in that blur of dizziness and static, I heard it again.
"Lysander... mistake-born…"
This time, I didn't wake up.
Not in that room, not in that world.
But that's a story for another chapter.
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End of Chapter 1