The morning sun didn't dare touch him.
It cast pale, hesitant rays across the room, as if it knew — this boy was no longer the same.
Apollo sat.
Still.
His spine didn't shift.
He was a statue carved from last night's dream.
Apollo sat on the edge of his bed for a long time before moving. His body felt rested, but his mind hadn't slept at all. The dream lingered — the rain, the reflection, the boy in the puddle who wouldn't stop staring at him.
He exhaled slowly.
No panic. No confusion. Just a strange calm that settled deep in his chest.
The faint hum of the System flickered briefly across his vision before fading.
> [Status: Stable]
[Cognitive Sync: Perfect]
He stood, moving with the mechanical rhythm of someone who didn't need to think about motion anymore. His breathing, his balance, even the way his feet hit the floor — everything was deliberate.
When he looked in the mirror, the reflection didn't look tired.
It looked awake.
___
Breakfast
The smell of miso soup and grilled fish drifted through the house.
Sara sat by the counter, flipping through the morning news on her phone, while Tae-yun sipped tea, glancing up as Apollo entered.
"You're up early again," his father said, voice calm, measured.
Apollo nodded. "Couldn't sleep."
Sara smiled faintly, placing a plate in front of him. "Eat first, then think later. You'll hurt your brain before class."
He gave a small, polite smile, the kind that used to come easily — but something about it felt rehearsed now.
When he picked up his chopsticks, his grip was firmer than usual.
The morning chatter flowed around him — gentle, ordinary, comforting.
But inside, everything felt too quiet.
His mother asked, "Are things better at school now? After… that fight?"
Apollo paused mid-bite.
The clink of his chopsticks against the bowl was soft, but deliberate.
"Yeah," he said. "Quieter."
His father studied him for a moment. "Quieter doesn't mean peaceful."
Apollo looked up. "Peace doesn't exist where hierarchy does."
Tae-yun's eyes narrowed slightly — proud, but cautious.
Sara blinked, uncertain what to say. "Apollo—"
"I'll handle it," he said softly, finishing his soup.
He stood, grabbed his bag, and bowed slightly. "I'll be back before dinner."
Sara wanted to say something, anything, but her voice caught. He finished eating, bowed slightly, and left. The door clicked shut behind him — and Sara realized the boy she raised was gone.
____
POV: Apollo
The city smelled of wet asphalt and early smoke. Cars hummed, bicycle chains clattered, vendors called out faint greetings.
The air outside was cool and sharp.
The city hadn't fully woken yet; cars passed, vendors called out faintly, and the sound of bicycle chains clicked down narrow streets.
Apollo's steps were light, precise. Every movement was deliberate, every breath synced with his heartbeat — calm, steady, relentless.
You can't kill what's part of you.
He touched his chest. The drumbeat beneath his ribs wasn't panic. It was promise.
Apollo's shadow stretched long in front of him. Every step felt lighter, but his chest held weight — not guilt, not dread.
Something else.
Resolve.
He thought about the dream — the boy who said, You forgot us.
And for the first time, Apollo didn't feel haunted. He felt reminded.
> You can't kill what's part of you.
He touched his chest, feeling the faint rhythm of his heart. It beat calmly — like a drum waiting for war.
_____
Arrival
Cheongdam Middle High looked the same as always: walls cracked from rain, banners fluttering in the cold wind, students milling about with too much laughter and too little courage.
When Apollo walked through the gate, that laughter dimmed — like sound itself avoided him.
The laughter of students dimmed as he passed the gate.
Whispers slithered behind him:
> "That's him."
"I heard Han Dae-hon's looking for him."
"Didn't he beat Tae-min last week?"
"I heard it was brutal…"
Apollo ignored them.
He walked with his usual quiet pace, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes forward.
But there was something in his step — a subtle shift, like gravity bent around him.
---
Classroom
The door opened. Silence swallowed the room. Chairs scraped softly, a pencil fell.
Apollo took his seat by the window. Eyes on the gray sky, unblinking.
The room fell into that thick, uneasy quiet — the kind that wraps around your throat.
He didn't look at anyone.
He just walked to his seat, sat down, and stared out the window.
The sky was gray.
Fitting.
From the back row, one of Han Dae-hon's lackeys — a tall boy with a shaved head and bandaged nose — whispered to another. Their laughter was low, forced, but growing louder.
Apollo didn't react.
But the lackey kept talking. Louder this time.
"Hey," he said suddenly, standing.
"Apollo."
The class tensed.
Apollo didn't move.
"You think you're tough, huh? Beating Tae-min? You think that makes you king?"
Still no reaction. Just the faint scratch of Apollo's pencil against paper.
The boy sneered. "I heard you used to be like that or something, huh? Guess some things never change—"
Apollo didn't react. But the lackey kept talking. Louder this time.
"Hey," he said suddenly, standing.
Apollo's hand stilled mid-stroke.
The pencil stopped moving.
His eyes lifted, slow, calm, but colder than winter glass.
The words died mid-sentence.
"What did you say?" His voice was soft. Not threatening. Not raised.
Just flat.
The lackey smirked. "Oh, so you do talk. Yeah, I heard—"
In the next instant, the boy's words turned into a strangled gasp.
Apollo's chair scraped back. The movement was fluid, silent — too fast for the others to register until it was over.
His hand gripped the lackey's collar, and before anyone could blink—
CRACK.
The boy's forehead slammed into the edge of a wooden desk.
The sound was sharp — bone against lacquer — followed by a dull thud as his body crumpled forward.
All while his face remained a blank mask
Gasps rippled through the class.
A few girls screamed softly, hands flying to their mouths.
The boy tried to push himself up, blood running down his nose, dripping on his uniform.
"Y-you—!"
BAM!
Apollo's fist buried into his gut — once, twice, precise and clean.
The strikes weren't wild; they were surgical. Each impact made the wood creak beneath the boy's weight.
He staggered back, coughing blood.
Apollo caught him again — by the hair this time — and drove his knee up into his face.
Crack.
A tooth flew.
Blood blossomed. The boy tried to rise. Apollo's fists drove into his gut — twice.
A knee slammed upward, teeth shattered, blood sprayed across Apollo's cheek.
But his expression never changed.
Every movement was perfect — step, cross, hook, pivot, elbow.
No wasted motion. Each strike precise, economical.
The first lackey collapsed with a broken rib, the second groaned on the floor.
Apollo's gaze swept the room. Calm, controlled, untouchable.
"Get up," he said quietly.
No one moved.
"Get. Up."
He stepped forward, weaving low — left hand catching the boy's shoulder, right hand coiling tight.
His movement was that of a trained boxer — chin tucked, rotation perfect.
He slammed a clean cross into the lackey's jaw.
Then a hook, snapping the head sideways.
Each motion was economical — no wasted effort, no emotion, just control.
The strikes echoed like drumbeats through the classroom.
The boy fell to the floor, groaning. Apollo stood over him, chest rising evenly, eyes blank.
"Get up," he said quietly.
No one moved.
The boy whimpered, crawling backward. Blood smeared the floor.
Two other lackeys — both from Dae-hon's crew — stood abruptly, fear mixing with adrenaline.
"Y-you bastard!" one shouted, charging forward.
Apollo turned his head slightly, just enough to register the movement.
The first came in swinging wild — a street brawler's punch, full of anger, no structure.
Apollo sidestepped, minimal effort. His body barely moved, but his arm lashed out like a whip.
A clean body shot to the ribs.
The boy's eyes went wide, air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
Before he could drop, Apollo twisted, pivoting on his right foot — and drove an elbow strike into the side of the boy's neck.
He collapsed instantly, gasping, clutching his throat.
The second lackey froze, fear written all over his face.
But fear can't stop momentum — it only delays it.
He shouted, "You think you're untouchable, huh?" and rushed in.
Apollo met him halfway — foot planting, shoulder lowering.
He ducked under the swing, grabbed the boy's wrist mid-punch, and twisted — a sharp joint lock that made the boy scream.
Then came the counter — a short-range kick that smashed into his thigh, followed by a brutal backfist across the cheek.
The sound was wet — impact and pain tangled together.
The boy hit the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers.
Apollo looked down at them all — quiet, steady breathing, faint steam rising from his skin.
The entire class sat frozen.
Desks were splattered with red. The air smelled of iron and sweat.
No one dared speak.
The Moment After
Apollo turned slightly toward the trembling third lackey — the only one left standing, his face pale.
The last lackey, trembling, barely able to speak, stammered, "Y-you're insane… y-you'll kill us…"
Apollo wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
Apollo's eyes held him still, calm, unblinking.
"If I was weak…" he murmured, voice low, "I wouldn't even know how I died. Freedom doesn't wait for mercy. Neither does anyone in my path."
He stepped forward — slow, deliberate.
Each footstep echoed louder than any word.
Third froze, terror in his eyes. Apollo stepped forward slowly. Calm. Dominant.
"Tell me," he said, eyes locking onto the boy's. "Where is Han Dae-hon?"
The boy shook his head frantically. "I-I don't know! He—he's probably in the cafeteria!"
Apollo tilted his head. "Good."
The boy backed up another step. "Please—"
But Apollo wasn't listening anymore.
____
He looked at his hand — smeared with someone else's red.
For a moment, he saw his reflection in the puddle forming on the floor.
Not the boy from the rain.
Not the dream.
Just himself — now.
Everything made sense.
Every memory, every question.
The dream wasn't warning him.
It was reminding him.
He wasn't meant to be a hero or a savior.
He was meant to end weakness — in himself and everything that stood in his way.
He turned toward the exit, students parting instinctively, the air thick with fear.
He murmured softly, almost to himself,
"If I was weak… I wouldn't even know how I died."
The class stayed silent, watching as he adjusted his collar and turned toward the door.
"Freedom," he whispered, "doesn't wait for mercy."
---
The Hallway
Dead quiet. Students averted their eyes. Some pressed against lockers.
Whispers followed him:
> "Did you see him? He—he took down three guys in seconds."
"I heard Tae-min himself was terrified."
"I don't think anyone can stop him…"
When Apollo stepped out, the hallway went dead quiet.
Students turned away, eyes dropping instantly.
Some backed up against lockers, clearing a path instinctively.
He walked calmly, not rushing — the rhythm of his footsteps steady, measured.
He passed mirrors, bulletin boards, and half-shut doors, all reflecting fragments of his expression — unreadable, emotionless, but alive.
His knuckles still trembled faintly — not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration.
His heart wasn't racing.
It was pacing — like a drumbeat, steady and precise.
He could feel it — the blood remembering.
___
At the far end of the hall, the cafeteria doors loomed open.
Voices echoed inside — laughter, noise, chaos.
Han Dae-hon's voice was among them.
Apollo stopped outside the door, adjusting the strap of his bag.
The faint wind from the hallway brushed his hair aside, the smell of antiseptic and blood still lingering faintly.
He took one deep breath.
The last image from his dream returned — the younger version of himself whispering:
> "Don't forget this time."
His lips curved into a small, cold smile.
"I won't," he said quietly.
And then, he pushed open the cafeteria door.
Cafeteria
The cafeteria erupted in chatter. Students froze as Apollo entered. Even Han Dae-hon's laughter faltered.
Whispers ran like wildfire.
> "That's him!"
"He's here… the boy from last week!"
"Do you think he'll fight Dae-hon?"
Dae-hon's eyes snapped toward him. A smirk masked sudden tension. Apollo didn't run, didn't hesitate. Every step exuded dominance.
> The room grew thick with tension. Chairs scraped. Whispers became gasps. Every student instinctively cleared a path.
Apollo's gaze swept the cafeteria. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Every movement — measured, precise — radiated threat.
The stage was set.
> The reckoning had begun.
---
Author's Note,
This chapter is the bridge between Apollo's internal rebirth and his external dominance — the point where introspection transforms into action.
It's not just a fight scene; it's resolution made physical.
The violence here isn't meant to glorify brutality, but to illustrate control — Apollo doesn't lash out because of rage. He acts with purpose, precision, and conviction, embodying the evolution of someone who's decided that restraint without power is meaningless.
When I wrote the classroom fight, I wanted the pacing to feel cinematic but grounded — like a Lookism sequence where each strike reveals character, not just strength. The slow choreography, the students' silent shock, the rhythm of motion — it all mirrors Apollo's growing detachment from fear.
Emotionally, this marks the end of his uncertainty from The Faded Memories.
The boy who doubted himself has merged with the man he once imagined — not kind, not cruel, but certain.
For Apollo, this isn't a descent into darkness — it's alignment with truth.
If any pacing feels abrupt, or if the fight choreography could flow better — please let me know. Every detail helps refine Apollo's progression into something believable and human, even within the intensity of his awakening..