77's first true memories began in the long, narrow corridor of the orphanage.
The corridor ran almost the entire length of the old building, stretching from the cafeteria on one end to the activity room at the far side. There were no bends, no corners. Standing at one end and looking toward the other compressed the line of sight into a single, rigid path. At the far end stood a frosted glass window. Light filtered through it, split by iron bars into evenly spaced rectangles that fell across the floor like motionless fragments of light.
The floor was laid with pale gray tiles. Smooth, but not reflective. Every afternoon, it was mopped repeatedly. When the water dried, faint curved streaks remained on the surface. When stepped on, the friction between shoe soles and tile produced a subtle yet distinct sound. In that narrow space, it was amplified—like a quiet reminder of each person's presence.
Fluorescent tubes hung overhead. Cold white light pressed down from above, devoid of warmth. The walls appeared unnaturally clean under it. Even shadows were hardened into sharp edges.
77's early memory of people was vague.
But his memory of space was exceptionally clear.
He remembered the angle of the light. The length of shadows at three in the afternoon. The rhythm of water dripping from the iron bars on rainy days. The faint electrical hum of the lights at night.
At that time, he was timid.
When standing in a crowd, his shoulders drew inward slightly. His back was not fully bent, but never truly straight. Before speaking, he would take a breath—only to give up before the words came out. His gaze rarely lifted. More often, it rested on the seams between floor tiles.
Children his age called him "Little Seven."
The name traveled quickly through the corridor.
At first, it was just a label. No clear malice. Even a trace of casual familiarity.
"Hey, Little Seven."
The voice would echo from one end to the other.
He would turn.
Later, the tone began to stretch.
"Liiittle—Seven."
Laughter slipped in between the syllables.
It wasn't sharp, but it left no way to respond.
The first time he realized the name made him smaller was one evening. Sunlight was sliced into narrow strips by the iron bars. He stood in the second row near the side, someone taller in front of him. From behind, someone called out "Little Seven," dragging the sound.
In that moment, he felt the word pin him in place.
He wanted to object.
But he didn't know how.
Someone took the blocks from his hands.
He let go.
His fingertips lingered on the edges for half a second before withdrawing.
Someone pushed his shoulder.
He stumbled forward a step. His shoe scraped sharply against the tile.
He lowered his head.
His gaze returned to the gray floor.
Ros always stood in front of him.
She was slightly taller. When she stood there, the back of her head blocked half his view. When someone approached, she would step forward—calm, unhurried, but firm enough.
"Don't do that."
"He didn't do anything."
"That's enough."
Her voice wasn't loud. Flat in tone. No anger. Yet it carried a quiet finality.
For a few seconds, the air would settle.
The crowd dispersed.
He stood behind her.
The tightness in his chest slowly loosened.
He didn't know what that feeling was.
Only that when she was there, things would stop.
—
As he grew older, the corridor remained straight.
The light remained cold.
But the voices changed.
"Little Seven."
The words grew heavier.
He began to lift his head.
His jaw tightened. His gaze stopped avoiding. The first time he argued back, his voice trembled. The second time, still unstable. The third time, louder.
Arguments became more frequent.
Footsteps struck the floor faster. Shoulders collided. Arms were shoved aside.
Ros still stood between them.
"Calm down."
She looked at him.
Her gaze was more serious than usual.
Heat rose in his chest.
Not just anger.
Something long suppressed, beginning to stir.
For the first time, he realized—
he didn't want to stand behind her anymore.
—
At age nine, the air felt heavy and suffocating.
The ground of the playground burned under sunlight. Shadows by the wall were short and thin. A few people surrounded him, closer than before.
Voices broke apart into fragments.
He couldn't make out the words. Only the pounding of blood near his ears. His throat tightened. His teeth clenched without awareness.
Ros grabbed him from behind.
Her fingers locked around his wrist.
"Let it go."
In that instant, something inside him snapped out of balance.
Not the peak of anger.
But the sensation of being pulled back into place.
Like being returned behind her once again.
The ground beneath his feet seemed to vanish for a split second.
A single, simple thought formed—
Don't touch me.
No structure. No language.
Just instinct.
The air contracted.
No flame. No color.
Only compressed vibration.
It expanded outward from him.
Sand lifted.
Those surrounding him were pushed away.
As he broke free, his movement struck her shoulder.
Ros's shoulder burst open.
Blood spilled.
Her body was lifted off the ground—
then dropped.
A dull, short sound.
The vibration traveled through the ground into his feet.
Ringing filled his ears.
The world hollowed out.
He stood there.
His hands shaking.
For the first time, he realized—
it wasn't caused by something outside.
It was him.
—
The infirmary door closed.
The metallic sound echoed down the corridor.
He stood against the wall.
Time stretched.
The door opened again.
77 rushed inside.
Ros was awake. Her ability had awakened—her body already recovering.
She saw him.
No blame.
"I'm fine."
The words were so light they were almost inaudible.
Yet they drove into his chest like nails.
From that day on, a rule formed in his mind—
He must never hurt her again.
—
After entering the Ability Academy, everything became structured.
Wider corridors. Brighter lights. Training followed fixed procedures. Ability tests had standardized scoring.
His ability was rated A-Class.
Teacher's evaluation: High burst. Poor control.
He listened.
Said nothing.
In third grade, the atmosphere began to shift.
Some approached him deliberately. Some whispered. Some tested his limits.
The trigger conditions became simpler and simpler.
He realized—
just a single provocation was enough to ignite the heat in his chest.
He tried to endure.
Tried to leave early.
Tried to breathe before the trigger.
But one conflict still escalated.
Desks were shoved aside.
The air tightened.
Ros reached out—
but he was already too late.
The explosion cracked a section of the classroom wall.
Dust fell.
No one was seriously injured.
But it was enough.
He was isolated.
—
The isolation room was small.
The lights never turned off.
No windows.
On the first day, he was angry.
On the second day, he began to review.
He replayed the trigger moment.
He realized—
what he called "explosion" was essentially automatic execution once conditions were met.
He wasn't out of control.
His conditions were just too simple.
On the third day, he stood up.
For the first time, he tried to dismantle the structure of his own ability.
—
He knocked on Seven's door.
"Seven, can you teach me how to fight?"
Seven looked at him.
"Why?"
"I want to protect Ros."
Seven was silent for a moment.
"Okay."
—
Training began from the most basic level.
Long-distance running.
Breath control.
Weight training.
Heart rate stabilization.
"Your ability is condition-triggered," Seven said.
"The simpler the condition, the faster the explosion. The lower the cost."
He continued:
"Your problem isn't power. It's condition design."
77 listened.
Sweat ran down his back.
"Make the conditions more complex."
"Give yourself time to think."
Training shifted into structural exercises.
Original condition:
Don't touch me.
Seven made him change it to:
Three contacts. Same person. Within half a meter.
The first time he successfully delayed the trigger, he stood still.
His heartbeat was steady.
The air did not tremble.
In that moment, for the first time, he understood—
power wasn't the explosion itself.
It was the choice of whether to explode.
He began to learn—
how to push detonation into the future.