It was a dream. That's how it felt in the first seconds, when Ryu Song-yeon's consciousness — back then still a boy named Kang Ji-han — tried to grab hold of any logic. He and I-Hun really had gotten into the car with the man who introduced himself as the secretary of their future adoptive parents. But after a blink the world had changed.
A bluish light spilled across the enclosed space, reflecting off metal walls. The air smelled of chemicals and iron. Everywhere there were grates, narrow cells, and on the floor lay the bodies of boys in identical blue coveralls that looked like prison uniforms. Faces motionless, eyes closed.
He didn't immediately realize he was wearing the same thing — the synthetic fabric scratched his skin, and the number 93 was embroidered on his chest.
Panic hit in a single surge. Ji-han ran to check the others until he found I-Hun. He was lying at the end of the row — warm, but unconscious, marked with number 85. Ji-han shook his shoulder, whispered, then nearly screamed, but to no avail.
Heavy footsteps. Two men entered — wearing white coats like doctors. One squinted when he saw the awake boy.
— Number 93's awake already? That's some endurance.
His tone was as if he were appraising merchandise.
— Who are you? Where is this place? — Ji-han tried to speak confidently.
They only exchanged glances.
— Probably resistance to the drugs is above average, — one said.
— If he passes the test series — we can put him forward as a candidate for the VIP group, — replied the other.
— Main thing — no incidents. The last mistake upset the client.
The words "client," "VIP group" sounded alien. Ji-han raised his voice.
— Let us go! I'm with my friend and my sister! We're supposed to be in Virein!
They looked at him coldly, like a broken machine.
— You're mistaken, — one finally said. — You don't have parents. And we don't need money.
He stepped closer and almost whispered:
— You were bought. At the orphanage.
The world tilted. And then something sharp hit him in the back. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was a needle and the glint of metal in a stranger's hand.
The beeping of machines became the lullaby of hell. Ji-han woke only to fall back into black emptiness. His veins were riddled with needles, his skin darkened from injections. They drew blood, infused solutions, tested responses. Sometimes he woke and thought it was a dream, that he would wake up in the orphanage's room or in the house where they'd adopted him. But the next moment the scent of sterile air and the hum of the lamps returned.
He didn't know how much time had passed — days, weeks, years. Only one thing kept him conscious: he had to get the children out. At least I-Hun. At least Lo.
At first they kept them in a common cell, then separated them. Only he remained with I-Hun — probably because of his drug resistance. Ji-han tried to convince himself that Director Cho Minsan didn't know what was happening, that he'd been deceived too. But the more he overheard the staff's conversations, the weaker his faith became.
He heard them say: "Experiment 93 shows stability. Continue the course of the X-drug." He heard the word "enhancement." And he realized: they were turning them into something.
That day the footsteps sounded particularly loud. Ji-han, pressing I-Hun to the wall, pretended to sleep. Flashlights traced the children's faces.
— The ninety-third still alive? — a man's voice asked.
— Yes. Holding on. VIP is interested in him.
— And the eighty-fifth?
— Useless. Lost speech after the last cycle. Disposal tomorrow.
The word "disposal" hit his ears like a blow. Ji-han barely kept from leaping up. But then came something that stopped his heart.
— And the girl who came with the ninety-third — she's going to the VIP tomorrow, right?
He opened his eyes. A girl. Lo.
Sweat broke out over his body. They laughed, chattered about her as if she were an object.
— Yes, — the man said. — He refused to go without her, so we had to take both. The director got a good price.
After that he couldn't sleep anymore.
When the next cycle came, he did what he had thought about all those nights. While the researchers leaned over him, he ripped off his restraints in a single motion, struck a man in the jaw. A crack, blood, a scream. A woman reached for her radio — he grabbed it, pressed her against the wall.
— Take me to my sister. Say you don't know and I'll snap your neck.
She trembled, but nodded. They walked down corridors narrow as intestines, past metal doors. The air smelled of ozone and sweat. Through the woman's skin he felt her pulse — fast, jagged.
A door with a biometric lock opened. Inside it was dark. A voice from the darkness said:
— What are you doing here? This is the VIP zone.
He shoved the woman forward, shouting:
— Lo! It's me!
The answer was the clatter of gun bolts. Silhouettes of armed men emerged from the gloom. Too many. They knocked him down, hit him with something heavy on the head. Through the pain he heard a faint, trembling voice:
— …Brother…
He jerked up, but didn't make it — soldiers pressed his face to the floor. From the back of the room came the squeal of wheels.
— Make way, — a dry, metallic voice ordered.
They parted and an old man in a wheelchair entered the light. Blood crusted his lips, his eyes glittered crimson. Something was tossed forward — a child's body in a blue uniform was thrown to the floor. The skin on the neck was torn.
— Is this what you were looking for? — one of the guards sneered.
Ji-han couldn't move. Only then did he see the mole by the right ear. Lo.
The world collapsed. All sounds ceased.
The old man wiped his lips and lazily turned to the researcher.
— Was he restrained?
— S-sir, he tore off the restraints, — she gasped. — Killed an assistant.
The old man's eyes flashed with interest.
— Excellent. Tough shell. Possibly the next one.
For a moment his pupils glowed red. The soldiers hauled Ji-han up. He didn't struggle. The world dissolved into a roar of blood. In his head only his sister's voice echoed, beating like a heart: brother… brother…
After that day he stopped being human. Anyone who came near provoked only rage. He smashed needles, bit hands, beat his head against walls. They didn't kill him — the order was: "no damage."
Experiment 93 became an animal even the guards feared. But inside it one rational flame remained — hatred.
When one of the researchers, tired of constant fear, approached the bars and began shouting about the "great immortal observer Lirena," about how all these children were sacrifices for a new humanity, Ji-han simply grabbed him by the throat and twisted. The sound of breaking bones was quieter than his breathing.
He watched the falling body and laughed. Madly, quietly, while the others shrieked and backed away.
— Kill me, — he told them. — While you still can.
But they didn't kill him. They were afraid of ruining the specimen.
Thus the beast was born. Thus the boy named Kang Ji-han died.
And among the endless hum of fans, the clink of drip lines and the echo of footsteps, he whispered to himself:
I will survive. And I will kill them all.