Jin stood still.

  That alone felt wrong.

  The corridor was narrow, too narrow and the air inside it had that damp, metallic taste of old concrete that had been sweating for years.

  The walls were close enough that if he spread his arms, his fingertips would scrape both sides.

  Their surfaces were pocked with tiny cracks and long, ugly stains where water had seeped through and never fully dried.

  Above him, rusted pipes ran along the ceiling like dead veins, somewhere in the dark between them, something dripped.

  One drop.

  Then another.

  Each one hit the floor with a sound that was too clean for a place this filthy—plink… plink…—like a clock that didn’t care whether you were ready for the next second.

  The lights didn’t flicker.

  That was the worst part.

  They hummed.

  A deep, steady vibration that pressed into the bones behind Jin’s eyes.

  It made his skull feel slightly too tight, like the world was squeezing him very gently—just enough to keep him aware of it.

  Standing still made his skin crawl.

  His calves twitched, his ankle flexed without permission and a pulse ran through his thigh like an engine revving in neutral.

  He wasn’t anxious.

  He was wired*.*

  His body didn’t understand “wait.”

  His heartbeat refused to match his breathing. It ran ahead, impatient, as if his chest had decided the only safe place was five meters into the future.

  Jin swallowed.

  The sound of his saliva sliding down his throat was loud in the tunnel.

  “If I stop… I’ll hear it.”

  The thought surfaced like a reflex, like a trapdoor beneath his feet.

  One second passed.

  Then another.

  Jin’s heel slid back.

  And he shot forward.

  The first few steps were controlled.

  He kept his speed low—tested the floor, listened for loose rubble, counted the distance between the lights.

  He forced his breathing to stay calm, forced his shoulders to relax.

  His footsteps still echoed.

  Too loud.

  Too slow.

  The tunnel threw the sound back at him in layers.

  The echoes multiplied, ricocheted between the walls, and turned into a thin hiss that chased him from behind.

  Jin sped up automatically.

  Water on the floor splashed as he passed, droplets lifted and hung in the air for a fraction of a second then suspended by the violence of his movement before falling again as if nothing had happened.

  The walls seemed to curve inward.

  Not physically.

  But in that way spaces do when you start moving fast enough that the world has to work harder to look normal.

  The hum of the lights pressed deeper into his head.

  The air felt thinner.

  The tunnel felt longer.

  And somewhere in his chest, something cold shifted—an old, sealed thing that hated being touched.

  This place was too familiar.

  Jin knew exactly where this was, yet he absolutely did not want to remember.

  Because his body, his muscles, his nerves and bones all carried the shape of this tunnel like a scar that can’t never heal.

  Jin’s jaw tightened.

  He tried to outrun the feeling like the way he always did.

  He pushed harder.

  The lights stretched into pale lines.

  The tunnel became a smear of gray and damp.

  His mind stayed stubbornly anchored to one thought:

  Don’t stop.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Soft.

  Almost uncertain.

  “Hyung…?”

  Jin’s breath hitched so hard it hurt.

  His chest tightened as if someone had closed a fist around his lungs.

  The sound didn’t come from behind him.

  It came from ahead.

  Thin. Young. Shaking.

  Too familiar.

  Jin’s entire body reacted like he’d been stabbed with an electric needle.

  His speed spiked without him deciding it.

  His vision sharpened, then blurred, then sharpened again.

  “No.” he whispered—an instinctive refusal, not a denial.

  The voice came again, closer and farther at the same time.

  “Hyung…?”

  Jin’s throat went dry.

  He surged forward.

  “I’m here!” he shouted, voice ripped apart by the wind he created. “I’m coming!”

  The distance didn’t change.

  No matter how fast he ran, the voice stayed ahead—never closer, never farther.

  Always just out of reach.

  Like a carrot tied to a dog’s collar.

  Like mercy held one step beyond your fingertips.

  Jin’s teeth ground together.

  His muscles screamed as he forced more speed out of a body already running on old pain.

  Every step sent a sharp vibration up through his ankles and into his knees.

  The floor beneath him began to crack—hairline fractures spidering out in his wake.

  Blood warmed his nose.

  He wiped it away without slowing, smearing it across his cheek like war paint.

  “Hyung…”

  The voice trembled.

  And memory, no, worse than memory, certainty slammed into him.

  Fire roaring through twisted metal.

  Smoke so thick it felt like chewing cloth.

  The sound of something collapsing that you couldn’t stop no matter how fast you were.

  A small shape flickered in the corner of his vision.

  Not fully formed.

  Just the idea of a child.

  “Hyung… save me…”

  Jin’s heart punched his ribs.

  He forced his legs to go even faster, to the edge where his body stopped being a body and became a weapon.

  The tunnel screamed around him.

  The lights exploded one by one as he passed, glass raining down behind him.

  He reached out.

  His fingers stretched forward toward something that finally appeared clearly.

  A boy trapped in rubble. Small. Skinny. Face streaked with soot. Eyes wide and wet and trying so hard not to be afraid.

  Jin’s little brother.

  The distance shrank.

  For one miraculous moment, Jin was close enough to feel it.

  Heat. Breath. Life.

  Jin’s fingertips finally brushed the boy’s hand.

  And then—

  BOOM.

  The ceiling tore open like rotten fabric.

  The tunnel collapsed in a single brutal gulp of concrete and rebar.

  The boy disappeared beneath the falling mass.

  Jin’s hand snapped shut on air.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  His feet skidded.

  The world lurched.

  Jin screamed—raw, ugly, unfiltered—like something inside him had finally found the correct sound for the shape of grief.

  He had been an arm’s length away.

  But he was still late.

  He was The Speedter.

  The Fastest.

  And it still didn’t matter.

  Silence.

  Then—

  The tunnel was normal again.

  The lights hummed.

  The pipes dripped.

  Jin stood at the beginning.

  His lungs dragged air like he’d been drowning.

  His nose bled again.

  His hands shook.

  The voice returned—soft, patient, and cruel.

  “Hyung…?”

  Jin stared down the corridor, pupils tight.

  “Again.” he muttered, voice cracked. “This time, I’ll make it.”

  He ran.

  He ran like the word “again” could overwrite the word “never.”

  He ran until the tunnel became streaks, until his thoughts lagged behind his body, until the world began to skip frames like a broken film.

  The voice stayed ahead.

  Always ahead.

  Always exactly the same distance.

  Jin’s chest burned.

  His muscles trembled.

  His heartbeat chased his steps like a dog chasing a car.

  He pushed harder anyway.

  He didn’t know how to stop.

  He never had.

  The third time, the tunnel changed.

  Not visibly at first.

  But the air thickened.

  The darkness between the lights stopped being empty and started being… present*.*

  Like tar waiting at the edge of the lamp glow.

  Jin’s speed pulled wind through the corridor, but the darkness didn’t move with it.

  It clung.

  Heavy.

  Patient.

  The voice came again, but it sounded wrong now—layered, like two recordings playing on top of each other.

  “Hyung…”

  Then, underneath:

  “Why are you still running?”

  Jin’s stride faltered.

  Just half a beat.

  The tunnel seemed to stretch sideways, like his hesitation warped reality.

  The walls flexed inward.

  The lights dimmed.

  The hum deepened until it felt like pressure on his teeth.

  “I’ll save you.” Jin panted, forcing his legs to go.

  The voice laughed—quiet, tired, not mocking.

  “You always say that.”

  Jin’s foot slipped.

  His heel hit a patch of water.

  He slid sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall hard enough to make his arm go numb.

  Pain shot down his elbow.

  His knee buckled.

  He caught himself on the wall, chest heaving.

  He wasn’t running anymore.

  The tunnel was still endless.

  Still humming.

  Still dripping.

  But now the voice…

  Was behind him.

  Right behind his back.

  Jin didn’t turn.

  His fingers dug into the damp concrete.

  “I…” he whispered, throat tight. “I came too late.”

  The words tasted thin.

  Hollow.

  Like saying them didn’t change anything, which was the point.

  A footstep sounded.

  Not his.

  Slow.

  Wet.

  Deliberate.

  Something touched his back.

  Cold.

  And then the voice became many voices.

  His brother’s voice.

  His own voice.

  The voice he hated most: the one that spoke inside his skull when there was no one else left to blame.

  “You’re the fastest…”

  “You said you’d come back…”

  “I waited…”

  “I was so scared…”

  “Where are you?”

  Jin opened his mouth.

  No sound came out.

  The darkness wrapped around his ankles like cold tar.

  It didn’t pull him away.

  It pressed him down.

  Forced him to kneel.

  “You’re so fast.” the voice continued, heavier now—accusation turning into a weight. “So why did I still die?”

  The lights above him shattered.

  Not flickered.

  Shattered.

  Glass rained down in slow motion, catching faint reflections of Jin’s face—distorted, fractured, broken into a hundred pieces.

  Something tightened around his ankle.

  A black band. Thick. Sticky. Alive in the worst way.

  His instincts screamed one word:

  Run.

  Just one step.

  But his legs wouldn’t move.

  Speed meant nothing when guilt had your bones in its mouth.

  A small figure appeared ahead—again.

  A child.

  Skinny.

  But wrong.

  His brother’s face, stretched slightly too long.

  Mouth open a little too wide.

  Eyes hollow, glowing faintly, like someone had poured darkness into them and lit it from inside.

  The child whispered:

  “Run.”

  “Run the way you always do.”

  Jin closed his eyes.

  “I don’t want to be fast anymore.” he said, voice trembling.

  The darkness didn’t soften.

  It surged upward.

  And with it came the accusations, multiplied—like a crowd surrounding him, like a stadium chanting his sin.

  “You left me behind.”

  “You left me behind.”

  “You left me behind.”

  Each sentence was a nail hammered into his chest.

  Jin doubled over, clutching his head.

  Guilt became physical.

  Not an emotion—an object.

  A thick, choking substance that poured into his mouth, his nose, his lungs.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He gagged.

  He tried to inhale and only swallowed darkness.

  And then—

  His body began to shrink.

  Not metaphorically.

  Literally.

  His shoulders narrowed. His arms thinned. His legs shortened.

  His clothes sagged loose around him.

  His hands, those hands that had been so fast, so proud, so certain, became small.

  When Jin opened his eyes again, he wasn’t an adult.

  He was a boy.

  Twelve.

  Face smeared with dirt.

  Eyes red.

  Lip trembling as he tried not to sob and failed.

  The darkness around him leaned closer, like it preferred him this way.

  Smaller.

  Weaker.

  Easier to blame.

  His brother’s voice softened, gentle in the most painful way.

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “I just… don’t understand.”

  “You’re fast.”

  “So why… did I still die alone?”

  Jin’s throat made a sound that wasn’t a word.

  A broken, strangled gasp.

  Tears fell without permission, hot against his dirty cheeks.

  He wanted to say I’m sorry.

  But “sorry” didn’t rebuild rubble.

  “Sorry” didn’t reverse collapse.

  “Sorry” didn’t stop time from being a cruel machine.

  The darkness folded over him.

  Pressed him down.

  And speed, his only identity, was useless here.

  So this was it.

  This was his punishment.

  Not dying.

  Just reliving.

  Always arriving late.

  But then—

  The darkness ignited.

  Not with light.

  With violence.

  A thin violet bolt speared through the void like a blade thrown by a god.

  The sound wasn’t thunder.

  It was a roar, deep, furious, alive, like reality itself had been insulted.

  The tar-like darkness around Jin scorched and peeled away in charred chunks, blown back as if a storm had punched its face.

  A pale arm tore through the black curtain, veins raised beneath ash-gray skin, electricity wrapped around it like living chains.

  The void split.

  And a figure stepped out.

  Not the Z-69 Jin knew.

  Not the undead, sharp-eyed, hungry version who walked beside him now.

  This one was older.

  Older in the way war makes you older.

  Silver hair in violent disarray.

  A cloak scorched and torn, hanging off his shoulders like a flag that refused to surrender.

  His posture was straight, but there was a slight forward hunch—like he’d carried too many deaths on his back for too many years.

  One eye glowed with aged lightning.

  The other looked… burned.

  Not blind.

  Just exhausted.

  The air around him crackled with violet arcs that snapped against the darkness like whips.

  The accusations that had been chanting a second ago fell silent as if they had suddenly remembered fear.

  Old Z-69 didn’t shout.

  Didn’t announce himself.

  He raised one hand.

  And thunder swept across the void.

  It wasn’t a blast.

  It was a cleansing*.*

  A wave of violet pressure that tore the tar away from the walls, burned the voices out of the air, and left the space behind it clean and empty—like someone had scraped mold off reality with a giant knife.

  The blackness around Jin was gone.

  So were the chanting voices.

  So were the phantom footsteps behind him.

  Only silence remained.

  The kind of silence that hurts because it leaves you alone with yourself.

  Jin, still a child, knelt in the emptiness, shaking, sobbing so hard his ribs hurt.

  Old Z-69 approached slowly.

  Each step left faint sparks in the air, like the world couldn’t decide whether to bow or burn.

  He stopped in front of Jin.

  Looked down.

  For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Then he knelt.

  A huge old hand, rough, warm, steady, rested on Jin’s head.

  The touch was heavy.

  Real.

  Not comforting like a lullaby.

  Comforting like a shield.

  “Kid,” old Z-69 said, voice hoarse as gravel. “You’ve run fast enough.”

  No philosophy.

  No grand speech.

  Just a sentence that sounded like it had been earned the hard way.

  Jin’s sobs hitched.

  “But… I didn’t…” He tried to speak and failed. He swallowed, forced the words out. “I didn’t come back…”

  Old Z-69 watched him like he was watching a wound.

  Then he exhaled.

  “You did come back.” he said.

  A beat.

  “Just… too late.”

  Jin’s face crumpled.

  The child version of him, small and raw, looked up with eyes that couldn’t hide the question anymore.

  “Then… what do I do?”

  Old Z-69 stood.

  Lightning crawled up his arm and vanished into his shoulder like it belonged there.

  He held out his hand.

  “Get up.” he said simply.

  Behind him, something appeared, faint at first, then clearer.

  A path.

  Not bright.

  Not holy.

  Just lit enough to take one step without falling.

  Old Z-69 looked back at Jin.

  “Keep going.”

  Jin hesitated.

  Because taking that hand meant admitting he couldn’t do it alone anymore.

  Because taking that hand meant letting go of the punishment he’d been using as proof he loved his brother.

  Because if he stopped hurting, it felt like betrayal.

  Old Z-69’s gaze didn’t soften.

  It didn’t need to.

  “Speed won’t save you in here,” he said. “So walk.”

  Jin’s shaking hand rose.

  He grabbed old Z-69’s hand.

  It felt like grabbing steel wrapped in warmth.

  Old Z-69 pulled him up, effortless, like lifting a feather.

  And when Jin took his first step onto the lit path, the world trembled.

  The void resisted.

  The darkness hissed.

  But old Z-69’s lightning cracked once, and the resistance broke.

  Jin stepped again.

  And again.

  Every step felt like tearing glue off his bones.

  But he kept stepping.

  And when he crossed the boundary of light, the world exploded into white.

  Jin gasped.

  His body jerked upright inside the pod like he’d been yanked out of deep water.

  His lungs dragged air in violently as if he’d been drowning for hours.

  Cold sweat soaked his back.

  His arms trembled.

  His eyes burned.

  An alarm shrieked then cut off abruptly.

  The room’s white lights stabbed into his pupils.

  Machines hummed around him, steady, clinical, indifferent.

  Jin blinked hard.

  The glass of the pod was fogged from his own breath and heat.

  Outside the pod, Z-69 stood right beside him.

  Too close.

  A connection helmet sat crooked on Z-69’s head.

  But the cables didn’t run into Z-69’s pod.

  They ran into Jin’s.

  Jin stared.

  His throat tightened.

  “You…” Jin tried to speak, voice raw. “You were… in there.”

  Z-69 yanked the helmet off.

  The cable snapped free with a crackle.

  Z-69 swayed.

  Just slightly.

  Like someone who’d stood up too fast after a long sleep.

  Then black fluid ran from his nose.

  Thick.

  Not blood-red.

  Ink-black.

  It dripped onto his lip.

  Then a darker line slid from his ear.

  Jin froze.

  “…You’re bleeding.”

  Z-69 wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the black smear like it was an annoying stain.

  “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Brain’s a bit fried.”

  Jin’s eyes widened.

  “Are you insane?”

  Z-69 shrugged, expression unreadable.

  “Probably.”

  Jin swallowed, chest tight.

  “…How did you even get into my PAIN?”

  Z-69 pointed at the side of Jin’s pod.

  An auxiliary access port, half-hidden behind a panel seam, the kind of thing you’d miss unless you were the sort of person who lived by breaking systems open.

  A scratched warning label was stamped beside it:

  AUX LINK — DO NOT CONNECT (NEURAL DAMAGE RISK)

  Z-69 tapped it once with a knuckle.

  “There,” he said. “Side door.”

  Jin stared at it like it had personally offended him.

  “You saw a label that says ‘neural damage risk’ and you—”

  “And I did it anyway.”

  “I saw you weren’t doing so great in there” he said. “So I helped.”

  Z-69 finished, as if that was the most normal sentence in the world.

  Jin exhaled a laugh that sounded halfway between relief and disbelief.

  “…Thanks.” he said quietly.

  Z-69 didn’t answer right away.

  For a second, he just looked at Jin, really looked.

  Not like a commander.

  Not like a monster.

  Like someone checking whether another person had returned intact.

  Then Jin asked softly, like the question might drag him back into the tunnel.

  “In the PAIN,” he said, voice lower, “why were you… old?”

  Z-69’s mouth twitched.

  “If I told you I’m actually over three hundred years old,” he said, “would you believe me?”

  Jin snorted.

  “You’re messing with me.”

  Z-69 didn’t respond.

  He only gave a small, unreadable smile.

  Jin’s laugh died.

  “…Wait. You’re serious?” Jin whispered.

  Before he could process it, a sound came from the third pod.

  A low groan.

  Ten.

  Jin’s spine went cold.

  He turned.

  Ten’s pod was still lit.

  Ten lay stiff inside, fingers twitching, jaw clenched, lips moving soundlessly as if he was trying to scream without air.

  The glass was fogged, condensation streaking down like claw marks.

  The monitor above the pod flickered with unstable images.

  Not a tunnel.

  Not darkness.

  Fluorescent light.

  Cold, white, merciless.

  Stainless-steel tables.

  Restraint straps.

  Metal beds.

  Figures in lab coats moving in and out of frame, but their faces were distorted with interference, as if the system itself refused to give them human features.

  And children.

  Too many children.

  Thin arms.

  Wide eyes.

  Numbers where names should be.

  Jin’s mouth went dry.

  “…What is that?”

  Z-69’s expression changed.

  It wasn’t dramatic.

  It was worse than dramatic.

  His face simply… emptied of humor.

  Something in his eyes darkened, like a storm cloud forming behind glass.

  On the screen, the image stuttered.

  A child, skinny, around seven or eight, appeared in the center of the frame.

  A number on his clothing.

  10.

  Ten.

  Bound.

  Eyes open.

  Staring straight at whatever was leaning over him.

  Jin felt his skin go cold.

  A chill ran from his neck to his lower back, the kind you get when you realize the horror is not imaginary, it’s personal*.*

  Z-69 didn’t move.

  But his hand clenched.

  Rage.

  Pure Rage.

  Such intense emotion awakened inside Z-69 just from this image.

  Such intense emotion awakened inside Z-69 just from this image.

  Z-69 didn't understand why he felt this way, but he knew what needed to be done.

  Jin swallowed.

  “Silverhead,” he said carefully, voice tight. “Don’t. You already…”

  Z-69 reached for the helmet again.

  Jin snapped forward and grabbed his wrist.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Jin hissed. “You want your brain to turn into cooked tofu?”

  Z-69 looked at Jin’s hand on his wrist.

  Then looked at the screen again.

  The child labeled “10” blinked once, slow, exhausted.

  Z-69’s voice was flat.

  “I’m fine.”

  Jin tightened his grip.

  “Bullshit.”

  Z-69’s gaze flicked to him.

  The next words came out like the most casual thing on earth.

  “Worst case,” Z-69 said, “it’ll just be a headache.”

  Jin stared at him, disbelief turning into anger.

  “That’s not just a headache. That’s—”

  Z-69 pulled his wrist free, not with force, just with certainty.

  “Let go.” he said.

  Jin hesitated.

  Then let go.

  Because something in Z-69’s eyes made it clear: this wasn’t negotiable.

  Z-69 fitted the helmet back onto his head.

  The cables trembled slightly as if they were alive.

  He reached to the side of Ten’s pod.

  Found the same auxiliary port.

  The same warning.

  DO NOT CONNECT.

  Z-69’s finger hovered for half a second.

  Then he plugged it in.

  The machine’s hum rose.

  The monitor flickered violently.

  Ten’s body twitched hard inside the pod.

  Jin’s breath caught.

  “Silverhead…”

  Z-69 didn’t answer.

  His eyes half-lidded.

  His posture straightened, like someone stepping into a storm by choice.

  And then his consciousness vanished.

  The helmet lights dimmed.

  The pod’s systems whined.

  The screen steadied and Ten’s nightmare opened like a door.