Every single day was an eternity of boredom and existential dread, but yeah, I guess.
Yoo made a cooing sound.
Jae-sung laughed—first genuine laugh since Min-ah's death. "He definitely knows me."
Of course I know you. You're my father. Sort of. This is so weird.
That night, back in their tiny quarters, Jae-sung spoke to his son while changing his diaper—a task he'd gotten barely competent at.
"Your mom would've been better at this. She wanted to name you something meaningful. Something about new beginnings." He fastened the diaper badly—it would leak within an hour. "But I named you Seung-yoon. Don't know why. The name just... felt right. Like it was always supposed to be yours."
Because it was. In another life. Another timeline. Somehow.
"You probably can't understand me. But I'm going to tell you anyway." Jae-sung picked him up, held him against his chest. "This world is broken. Humanity is dying. Every day is a fight to see tomorrow."
Thump-thump.
"But you? You're going to survive. You're going to grow up strong. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I saw what you did. During birth. The way you moved. The intelligence in your eyes."
Yoo's infant heart skipped.
He knows.
"I don't understand it. Don't know what you are. But I know you're not normal. And that's okay. Because normal kids don't survive in this world."
Jae-sung kissed his son's forehead.
"So whatever you are—whoever you are—I'll protect you until you're strong enough to protect yourself. Deal?"
Yoo wanted to respond. Wanted to say yes, deal, thank you for accepting me even though I'm a reincarnated anomaly.
But he could only make infant sounds.
So he grabbed his father's finger with his small hand and squeezed.
Jae-sung understood.
"Deal," he agreed.
Four Weeks After Birth
Motor control breakthrough.
Yoo managed to lift his head and hold it up for three seconds before exhaustion set in.
"Milestone achieved," Akasha reported. "Motor cortex development: 47% complete. Neural pathway optimization: ongoing. Estimated time to achieve crawling: 8 weeks. Walking: 16–20 weeks."
That's still months away.
"Correct. However, speech development may occur sooner. Vocal cords and language centers developing rapidly. Estimate: first deliberate word possible in 6–8 weeks."
Six weeks until I can actually communicate?
"Affirmative. Though recommend caution. Speaking too early will mark host as supernatural anomaly. Suggestion: delay speech to 12–16 weeks to appear merely prodigious rather than impossible."
So I suffer in silence longer for the sake of appearances.
"Correct."
Yoo wanted to argue. But Akasha was right. Speaking at six weeks old would terrify everyone. Being a "genius baby" at four months was weird but acceptable.
Fine. Twelve weeks. But I'm counting every single day.
"Acknowledged. Current count: 28 days survived. 56 days remaining until speech capability."
Two more months of being trapped in his own head.
Yoo focused on his hand. Made a fist. Released it. Made a fist again.
Small victories.
Thump-thump.
It would have to be enough.
Six Weeks After Birth
The first breach near the slums happened on a Tuesday.
Yoo was lying in his crib at Ji-hye's tent when the alarms started. Not the bunker's mechanical sirens—those were gone. This was people shouting, bells ringing, general panic.
Ji-hye burst in, grabbed all four infants with practiced efficiency—two in a carrier on her chest, one in each arm.
"We're evacuating," she said to no one in particular.
Outside, chaos. People running. Someone screaming about "Fledgling swarm." The sound of combat in the distance.
Yoo craned his neck—motor control finally sufficient to move on his own. Through gaps in the running crowd, he saw them.
Monsters.
Actual monsters. Not on a screen, not in a game. Real creatures with too many legs and eyes in wrong places and movements that defied biology.
A woman twenty meters away went down, dragged into an alley by something that looked like a wolf made of shadows.
Her screams cut off abruptly.
Ji-hye ran. Didn't look back. Couldn't afford to.
She made it to a reinforced shelter—one of dozens scattered through the slums. Squeezed inside with forty other people. The door sealed.
Everyone waited in darkness, listening to the sounds of slaughter outside.
Yoo listened too.
This is my world now. This is reality.
An infant in Ji-hye's arms began to cry. She hushed it desperately—noise could attract attention.
Yoo stayed silent.
Because he understood something the other infants couldn't: sound meant death.
An hour passed. Two. The noises outside faded.
Finally, the all-clear sounded.
When they emerged, six people in the immediate area were dead. Seventeen wounded. The monsters had been driven off by hunter patrols.
This time.
Ji-hye carried the infants back to her tent. It was still standing—luck more than design.
She fed them, changed them, put them to sleep.
But Yoo saw her hands shaking.
Saw the tears she wiped away when she thought no one was looking.
This world is hell. And I'm barely strong enough to keep my own head up.
"Correct assessment. Recommendation: accelerate development at all costs. Current trajectory leaves host vulnerable for 6–12 months minimum. Unacceptable given threat environment."
Then help me get stronger. Faster.
"Acknowledged. Initiating enhanced neural optimization protocols. Warning: this will be uncomfortable."
Everything is uncomfortable. Do it anyway.
That night, while his body slept, Akasha worked.
Rewiring neural pathways. Optimizing muscle memory formation. Accelerating developmental processes that normally took months.
When Yoo woke the next morning, he could lift his head easily.
Could grasp objects intentionally.
Could roll onto his side.
Forty-two days old, and he was developing like a three-month infant.
Ji-hye noticed. "You're growing fast, little Seung-yoon. Too fast. But I suppose that's good. In this world, you need every advantage."
You have no idea, Yoo thought.
And kept pushing.
Because helplessness was death.
And he refused to die again.
Thump-thump.