The street was a graveyard of silence, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. Jin stood over the girl, her orange jumpsuit torn and bloodied, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. The wounds he'd inflicted—cracked bones, bruised flesh—leaked slowly, not deep enough to kill, but enough to keep her down. Her face, streaked with tears and blood, looked small, almost fragile, a stark contrast to the psychotic fury she'd unleashed moments ago. Jin's hands, numb from gripping the broken pipe, trembled slightly, the jagged metal now useless, its fragments scattered across the pavement. Echo, Seul, and Joon stood nearby, their faces a mix of exhaustion and unease, the city's wreckage—shattered windows, abandoned cars, blood-smeared concrete—framing their silence.
No one spoke. The system's timer glowed in their minds: 21 hours, 35 minutes remain. The First Cull's demand—kill something—hung over them, a blade ready to fall. Jin's ribs ached, his breath shallow, but his mind was sharp, replaying the fight. The girl's delayed-impact strikes, her chilling cheer, her plea for help—they gnawed at him. He forced himself to look at her, her hands twitching faintly in the dirt, her body fighting to hold on.
Echo broke the silence, his voice low, glitching faintly. "She wasn't born like this." His gaze was distant, unfocused, as if seeing something beyond the girl. "Someone made her this way."
Jin glanced at him, a slight shift in his chest—guilt, maybe, or unease. "What do you mean?" he asked, though he already suspected.
Echo's jaw tightened. "Her pain, her anger—it's not just the system. Someone broke her long before this." His voice was rough, heavy with the weight of what he'd sensed through his skill. "She's just a kid. Not even eighteen."
Joon scoffed, arms crossing tightly. "So what?" His tone was flat, cold. "She killed people. Tried to kill us. Doesn't matter what made her." He gestured to the bloodied pavement. "She's dangerous. If we let her wake up, she'll come after us again."
Seul flinched, her eyes flicking to the girl, then to the desolate street—cars with doors ajar, glass crunching underfoot, bodies in the distance, some torn by monsters, others by human hands. "If things were normal," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "maybe someone could've helped her. Therapy, doctors, something." She shook her head, fists clenching at her sides. "But now? There's no system left to fix people like her."
Jin closed his eyes for a moment, his ribs throbbing, his arms heavy. The normal world—offices, coffee breaks, laws—felt like a dream, unreachable. The girl wasn't just a threat; she was a mirror of what they could become if they let the system's rules twist them. He opened his eyes, forcing his voice steady. "We can't help her."
The others looked at him, their faces tense. "She's too dangerous to take with us," he continued, meeting their eyes. "And we can't stay here trying to fix what's broken. Not with the system counting down."
Silence fell, thick and heavy. No one argued, but the weight of the decision pressed down on them. The girl's ragged breaths were the only sound, each one a reminder of what they were leaving behind. Her hands twitched again, fingers curling weakly, but she didn't stir.
Seul turned away first, her jaw tight, her fingers balled into fists. She looked like she wanted to speak, to protest, but her lips stayed pressed together. Joon exhaled through his nose, arms still crossed. "We're really leaving her like this?" It wasn't a challenge, just a question, his voice flat.
Jin didn't answer immediately. He looked at Echo, who'd been quiet, his posture tense, his eyes fixed on the girl. "Echo?" Jin prompted, voice low.
Echo exhaled slowly, his hands in his pockets. "She never had a chance," he said, voice rough, almost breaking. "Not with her family, not with this world." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "But Joon's right. Doesn't change what she did. What she'll do if she wakes up."
Joon muttered under his breath, too low to catch, his expression unreadable—relief or disappointment, Jin couldn't tell. Seul crouched beside the girl, pressing two fingers to her neck. A long pause. "She's still breathing," she said softly, her voice trembling. She bit her lip, hesitating. "Do you think she'll survive?"
No one answered. The uncertainty hung like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Jin's gut turned, a single pang of guilt he couldn't shake. They'd done what they had to, but it didn't feel right. "We should go," he said, voice firm, final.
No one argued. Seul stood, her movements slow, her face drawn. Joon gave a curt nod, turning away. Echo lingered a moment, his eyes on the girl, then followed. Jin didn't look back, his boots crunching on glass as he led them forward. The weight of leaving her—alive or not—clung to them, but stopping meant second-guessing, and the system offered no room for regret.
The city stretched before them, a wasteland of abandoned cars, shattered storefronts, and bloodstains drying in the cracks. The silence was heavier now, laced with exhaustion and the moral cost of their choice. Jin's hands felt empty without the pipe, its broken remnants left behind. For the first time since this nightmare began, he was unarmed, and the vulnerability gnawed at him.
"I need a new weapon," he said, breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the tension. He flexed his fingers, the absence of weight unsettling.
Joon frowned, glancing at him. "Something else?" His tone was skeptical, but his eyes scanned the street, searching.
Jin nodded, his gaze drifting across the wreckage. "The pipe's gone. I can't fight like this."
Echo sighed, hands still in his pockets. "No shit. You're useless without something to swing."
Seul's eyes flicked around, her voice cautious. "Where do we even find weapons? This place is…" She trailed off, gesturing to the chaos—overturned cars, broken glass, bodies in the distance, some mangled by claws, others by blades or worse.
Jin's jaw tightened. The bodies told a story the system had written. "It's not just monsters anymore," he muttered. "People are turning on each other." He pointed to a corpse slumped against a lamppost, a knife wound in its chest, no claw marks in sight. "The system's forcing them to kill."
Seul tensed, her fists clenching. Echo exhaled sharply. "Yeah. We noticed."
Joon rubbed the back of his neck, his voice low. "This is fucked up. At first, it was about surviving. Now it's about who can kill faster."
Jin nodded, his mind racing. The First Cull wasn't just a test of survival; it was a crucible, burning away trust, morality, everything that made them human. "We need to be prepared," he said, voice steady. "Weapons, shelter, a plan."
Seul hesitated, her eyes scanning the street. "What about a police station?" Her voice was uncertain, but she pressed on. "If people are turning on each other, the police might still be holding things together. They'd have weapons, maybe answers."
Joon scoffed, his tone sharp. "You think the cops are still playing hero? Look at this place." He gestured to the wreckage—blood, broken glass, bodies. "They're either dead or killing like everyone else."
Seul bit her lip, her gaze lingering on a crumpled police cruiser half-buried in a storefront. "But if they're not?" she countered, voice soft but firm. "If they're organized, they could protect us. Have guns, supplies, maybe even know what's happening."
Jin frowned, considering. She had a point. A police station could offer structure—weapons, barricades, maybe information about the system. But Joon wasn't wrong either. The city was a slaughterhouse, and law enforcement might be just another casualty—or worse, part of the chaos.
Echo spoke, his voice calm but tired. "It's a risk, but it's better than wandering aimlessly. If they're still there, they'll have what we need. If not…" He shrugged, his hands still in his pockets. "We grab what we can and move on."
Joon exhaled sharply, rubbing his neck again. "Fine. But if it's a mess, we're not staying."
Jin nodded. "Agreed. We check it out, get weapons, get out." He glanced at Seul, her face still uncertain but resolute. "Let's move."
Echo started walking, his steps steady despite the weight in his eyes. "Let's find out what's left," he said, voice low. Seul followed, her limp slight but her posture firm. Joon brought up the rear, his hands loose but ready. The city loomed, its silence a threat, the system's timer ticking relentlessly: 21 hours, 30 minutes remain. They moved forward, leaving the girl behind, her fate a shadow they couldn't shake, their survival hinging on what lay ahead.