Chapter 10: The Monster in the Mirror, Creation No. 01

3:00 p.m.

The upper floors of Baekgyeong General Hospital were still a deeply human battlefield, filled with the cries of people struggling to live and the efforts of those trying to save them.

The squeak of old wheelchair wheels scraping across marble floors.

The suppressed sobs of family members outside the intensive care unit.

The sharp smell of disinfectant stinging the nose.

Ironically, that chaotic and unpleasant noise of life always gave me a strange sense of comfort.

At least this was the ordinary, warm, one-times-speed world of humans where I had been born and raised.

But the moment I stepped into the special freight elevator hidden in the western corner of the main building, an area completely inaccessible to the public, all that warmth disappeared.

The thick steel doors closed.

The sounds of the outside world were cut off.

Only the mechanical hum of machinery remained.

When I pressed my metal security card against the reader, the display showed no floor number.

Instead, a cold message appeared:

AUTHORIZED ONLY

As the elevator plunged deep underground, my system reacted more sensitively than usual, making my vision waver.

[Real-Time Environmental Scan]

[Altitude: Descending to -45m below sea level.]

[Pressure: 1,023.5 hPa (Artificial pressure regulation system active.)]

[Biological Log: Heart Rate 94 bpm. Abnormal sympathetic nervous system activation detected. Adrenal hormone secretion increased by 12%.]

[System Status: Limited Body-2 (LB-2) Synchronization Rate 91.8%. Frontal lobe load index remains elevated following yesterday’s visual noise incident.]

Ding—

With a dry, emotionless sound, the massive doors opened.

Before me lay the sixth underground level.

The hidden heart of Baekgyeong Medical Foundation.

A slaughterhouse of evolution.

The hallways were covered entirely in titanium alloy panels designed to minimize light reflection.

The white LED lights overhead illuminated every corner with obsessive perfection, refusing to allow even a single shadow.

The air was so clean it almost felt painful to breathe.

“Welcome, Ji-hoon.”

“You look a little pale today.”

“Has there been a synchronization error in the system?”

Manager Kim appeared at the end of the corridor.

His navy suit was perfectly pressed.

His steps were measured with mathematical precision.

His voice was always polite and gentle.

Yet the coldness hidden within it was lower than the temperature maintained by the facility itself.

“Come on, Manager Kim.”

“I’m naturally sensitive to lighting.”

“This place feels like an operating room.”

“If my skin ages because of these lights, is the Foundation paying for cosmetic treatments?”

I gave my usual playful grin.

But inside my coat pocket, I clenched my fist tightly to hide the subtle tremor in my fingers.

Kim simply laughed and motioned for me to follow him.

The sound of his dress shoes echoed rhythmically through the metal corridor.

To me, each step sounded like a countdown ticking away the expiration date of my soul.

“Today, I’d like to show you a special mirror.”

“The Foundation’s first completed model.”

“And the great senior who is already walking the path you may one day follow.”

We stopped before a huge circular training area enclosed by reinforced glass.

Beyond the glass stood a man with his upper body exposed.

He looked less like a human being and more like a perfectly sculpted marble statue.

Every muscle fiber was visible with disturbing clarity, like an illustration from an anatomy textbook.

Even the beads of sweat running down his skin seemed to follow calculated trajectories rather than the laws of gravity.

His name was Choi Woo-jin.

Foundation Creation No. 01.

The only subject currently approved for Limited Body-3 (LB-3).

Then he moved.

Calling it training would have been inaccurate.

It was closer to watching the laws of physics collapse.

[Multidimensional Physical Analysis Layer Activated]

[Target: Choi Woo-jin (Subject-01)]

[Strike Acceleration: 14.2 m/s²]

[Muscle Fiber Efficiency: 315.4% of an average adult male.]

[Impact Energy: 880 J]

[Potential Result: Capable of crushing a human skull with a direct strike.]

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The explosive sounds echoed through the reinforced glass.

Even with LB-2’s enhanced visual processing, I struggled to track his movements perfectly.

It wasn’t just speed.

Every motion was completely free of hesitation, waste, or resistance.

It looked as though he wasn’t punching a sandbag.

He was tearing apart the space around him.

But what caught my attention wasn’t his overwhelming strength.

It was the tragedy hidden beneath it.

My enhanced vision scanned his body in microscopic detail.

Beneath the pale skin of his neck and arms were countless needle marks.

Thousands of them.

Dark purple bruises stained his flesh.

His skin was paper-white.

His eyes were lifeless.

Fixed.

Empty.

“Wow…”

“Three times enhancement really is impressive.”

“Definitely more exciting than my two times.”

“But why does he look so pale?”

“Doesn’t the Foundation give him vitamins?”

“I can recommend a pharmacy near my university.”

“They sell cheap supplements.”

I forced out a joke while secretly diving deeper into Woo-jin’s biological data.

Then a red warning icon flashed violently in the corner of my vision.

A sharp pain stabbed through my brain.

[Biological Hacking and Deep Neural Scan]

[Synaptic Activity: Constantly exceeding critical thresholds.]

[Brain Cell Death Rate: Accelerating.]

[Neurotransmitter Consumption: 1,200% above natural production capability.]

[Current Status: Sustained only through external injections.]

[Conclusion: Human identity no longer maintainable.]

[Transition into organic computational machine complete.]

Woo-jin suddenly stopped.

Then he slowly turned toward me.

His movement was mechanical.

Precise.

When our eyes met, an icy chill spread through my entire body.

There was no hostility.

No curiosity.

No recognition.

Nothing.

His eyes resembled a sensor locking onto a target every 0.001 seconds.

Not the eyes of a living person.

They were bottomless voids.

“Ji-hoon.”

“There is a cruel equation hidden within the LB system.”

“One you don’t know yet.”

“But one you will inevitably face.”

Manager Kim summoned Woo-jin’s biological chart as a hologram.

His finger pointed toward a section of tangled graphs.

“The more you push your abilities beyond their limits, the more neurotransmitters your brain consumes.”

“Consumption eventually exceeds production.”

“When that happens, the engine begins to fail.”

“The injection we administer every six months merely delays that moment.”

He displayed Woo-jin’s treatment records.

The dosage schedule was impossible.

Not medically unusual.

Biologically impossible.

“Woo-jin abused his abilities in the early stages.”

“He became intoxicated by the feeling of omnipotence that came with triple enhancement.”

“He ran his brain at maximum capacity continuously.”

“As a result, the six-month lifespan no longer applies to him.”

Kim looked at me calmly.

“He now requires a renewal injection every twenty-four hours.”

“If he misses one, every synapse in his brain burns out.”

“He becomes a vegetable.”

“He survives only by begging for the Foundation’s mercy.”

“In terms of efficiency, he’s a failed god.”

I swallowed hard.

Every day.

Not every six months.

Every day.

That wasn’t life.

That was slavery.

A contract signed with a needle.

A zombie existence where you paid for your identity one day at a time.

The more power you used, the shorter the leash became.

That was the true horror hidden behind Limited Body-n.

“But you’re different, Ji-hoon.”

“Our data shows that you have the best efficiency in Foundation history.”

“You maximize system performance while minimizing physical burden.”

He smiled.

“The way you controlled the soccer field yesterday.”

“The fact that you dominated the game without even running.”

“That efficiency is exactly what we’ve been searching for.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

The touch was warm.

But it felt like an ice-cold surgical blade piercing my chest.

“We don’t want you to break down like Woo-jin.”

“You’re our most valuable hybrid model.”

“Maintain that efficiency.”

“It’s the only way you’ll remain human.”

“And it’s the reason the Foundation is obsessed with you.”

Inside the training room, Woo-jin stepped closer to the glass.

His breathing sounded like the steady pumping of a machine.

Then he spoke.

His voice was flat.

Emotionless.

Artificial.

“Han Ji-hoon.”

“Can you hear it?”

“The sound of your brain burning.”

[Analysis: Ocular vibration frequency 145Hz. Extreme information processing detected.]

“When emotions disappear, data fills the empty space.”

“That’s when you’ll finally become free.”

“No pain.”

“No sadness.”

“No attachment.”

“A perfect freedom identical to death.”

His eyes never changed.

“You’ll stand here someday.”

“A machine that can’t survive even one second without an injection.”

His words felt less like a warning and more like a prophecy.

Or perhaps a curse.

I hid my fear behind my usual joking smile.

“Come on, hyung.”

“Getting injections every day sounds exhausting.”

“I’m too lazy even to come here once every six months.”

“My specialty is fuel efficiency.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’ll keep living like a human.”

“I’ll walk into a barbecue restaurant and eat pork belly with my own two feet.”

“I don’t want to survive on medicine like you.”

“Maybe I’ll see you at a barbecue place someday.”

“Assuming Manager Kim gives you permission.”

Woo-jin didn’t react.

Not even by 0.1%.

Without a word, he turned back toward the sandbag.

Watching his back, I saw something terrifying.

My own future.

On the elevator ride back to the surface, the chill refused to leave me.

LB-3.

Behind that sweet temptation of becoming three times stronger lay the complete destruction of the self.

A life spent as a replaceable component inside the Foundation’s machinery.

I stared at my reflection in the elevator mirror.

There was still life in my eyes.

But I felt the same visual noise from yesterday scrape across my brain again.

[Notice: Temporary System Stabilization Complete]

[Heart Rate: 115 bpm → 82 bpm. Stabilizing.]

If I reach three times enhancement…

Will I really become like that?

A corpse with empty eyes?

A monster begging for life at the tip of a syringe?

No.

I’m different.

I refuse to become their efficient little toy.

Efficiency? Fine.

I’ll use that efficiency to crack their skulls open first.

I clenched my fist deep inside my pocket.

My fingertips trembled.

Not because of the system.

Because the human being named Han Ji-hoon was still fighting back.

The Foundation called me an efficient model.

Then I would use that efficiency to hack the leash they had placed around my neck.

If they wanted to preserve me as a creation, I would become the most dangerous cancer cell imaginable.

A tumor capable of dissecting its creators.

If they wanted me to become a god, then I would climb to that throne and cut off the Foundation’s breathing tube myself.

By the time I returned to Seoksu-dong, the sun was setting.

The sterile white lights of the laboratory were gone.

Instead, old orange streetlights welcomed me home.

Almost unconsciously, I found myself walking toward the neighborhood’s only beacon.

Lucky Convenience Store.

The bell above the door sounded more beautiful than any music in the world.

Ding—

“Welcome—”

“Huh?”

“Hey, Sugar Daddy!”

“What happened to your face?”

“You look like you’ve been struck by lightning!”

Tae-ho looked up from sorting expired lunch boxes behind the counter.

His face carried the exhaustion of another long day.

But unlike Woo-jin’s eyes, his still held the warmth of a living human being.

“Tae-ho.”

“Give me one of those expired lunch boxes.”

“The worst one.”

“The most ordinary one you’ve got.”

“Right now.”

“If I don’t put something painfully normal into my mouth, I think I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You crazy idiot.”

“Did you see a ghost or something?”

“You look like fermented kimchi that’s been sitting around for a year.”

“What happened?”

“Did that Porsche princess dump you?”

“That’s what happens when a sparrow tries to follow a stork.”

Clicking his tongue, Tae-ho pulled out a sausage lunch box from beneath the register and tossed it to me.

“Here.”

“Five minutes before expiration.”

“Eat it quickly.”

“When you’re a famous hospital director someday, if you still want this kind of food, just tell me.”

“I’ll save one for you.”

“Seriously.”

“Yesterday you were eating premium beef.”

“Today you’re hunting expired lunches.”

“You’ve got weird tastes.”

I sat at the creaky plastic table in the corner and took a huge bite after heating it in the microwave.

Artificial seasoning.

Dry rice.

Cheap salty sausage.

Yet somehow it felt infinitely more alive than the nutrient capsules Woo-jin probably consumed.

“Tae-ho.”

“This lunch box tastes terrible.”

“But…”

“It tastes like real life.”

“Then stop eating it!”

“You keep saying it’s awful, but you’re practically licking the container clean!”

“I’m scared to even take it away from you.”

Listening to Tae-ho’s complaints, I finally felt the pressure from the underground laboratory leave my chest.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message from Manager Kim.

[Ji-hoon, I hope today’s meeting with Woo-jin was inspiring.]

[We are preparing the next stage.]

[A breakthrough test for your upgrade to LB-3.]

[We believe you can achieve results different from Woo-jin’s.]

[Please look forward to it.]

I chewed the last piece of sausage and immediately deleted the message.

Upgrade?

Give me a break.

I’ll become a god of efficiency my own way.

And then I’ll step on all of you.

I opened a cold $1.50 can of coffee and stared out at the streets of Seoksu-dong.

The lavender scent was still vivid in my memory.

My friend’s stupid jokes still made me laugh.

And I had absolutely no intention of giving up this shabby, warm world.

The effect of the second injection had only just begun.

And now, my sights were fixed directly on the heart of the monster called the System.