Hana was always different.
Long before the sky collapsed and the world folded in on itself, she had something simmering beneath her skin—anger, and conviction.
A refusal to accept the way things were.
A refusal to bow to the people who called themselves leaders while letting entire communities rot.
She burned with fury at the cruelty she saw every day. She burned with the need to fight back. She burned with the knowledge that the world was a rigged game, and she was expected to lose.
So she didn't lose.
She joined protests. She marched. She raised flags with shaking hands and a steady heart. She stood on rooftops with megaphones, shouting truths that made the powerful flinch. She dyed her clothes with the others—bright streaks of rebellion, splashes of color against a gray, suffocating system.
They said the colors symbolized hope, unity, resistance. For Hana, they symbolized something simpler.
I'm still here. And I'm not afraid of you.
But the world didn't reward bravery. It punished it. Despite the fact that she became a criminal, she refused to be silent.
The prison bus had been the final insult. Locked up while the real monsters walked free. Caged while the corrupt smiled for cameras and pretended everything was fine.
And then the apocalypse happened.
The sky tore open. The ground shook. The old world ended.
And Hana survived.
Not just survived—changed.
Now, as she walked through the ruins, the radioactive glow beneath her skin pulsed like a heartbeat. She could feel it in her bones, in her teeth, in the space behind her eyes. It was power—raw, volatile, immense. It was strong enough to kill a person a hundred times over.
But not her.
She was immune. She was overflowing. She was a walking reactor wrapped in human skin.
She didn't know whether that made her blessed… or cursed…
She stopped beside the crumbling remains of a storefront. The glass was shattered, but a shard large enough to reflect her face still clung to the frame. She leaned in.
Her eyes glowed faintly. Her hair, once dyed in streaks of rebellion, now shimmered with an unnatural sheen, as if the radiation had woven itself into every strand. Her skin looked almost normal—until she moved. Then the light beneath it shifted, like embers stirred by a breeze.
She touched the glass. It warmed instantly.
She stepped back, letting the shard cool. The wind carried ash past her boots, swirling around her like a ghostly tide. She watched it drift and thought of the old world—the one she'd fought so hard to fix.
Was that really what she wanted? To rebuild it? To return to a society that had labeled her as dangerous?
To a world where she was locked up for raising her voice, while the powerful crushed lives without consequence?
She clenched her fists. The glow brightened.
No. She didn't want that world back.
But what did she want?
A revolution? She'd joined one before. Many, actually. She'd stood shoulder to shoulder with people who believed change was possible. She'd bled for it. She'd screamed for it. She'd watched friends disappear for it.
And now, in the ashes of everything, she felt the old instinct rising again.
Fight. Resist. Rebuild.
...
But rebuild what?
A world that had failed her?
A system that had caged her?
A society that had called her criminal while letting true evil thrive?
She didn't know. For the first time since waking up, Hana felt something other than anger or adrenaline. She felt lost.
The apocalypse had wiped the slate clean. No laws. No prisons. No corrupt leaders hiding behind polished speeches. No one left to tell her who she was supposed to be.
She could become anything.
A hero. A monster. A weapon. A savior. A spark that ignited a new revolution—or the explosion that ended everything for good.
The glow in her chest pulsed again, warm and steady.
Hana took a slow breath.
The wind carried her words into the ruins. And somewhere in the distance, something answered. A low, rumbling sound—like footsteps. Hana turned, her radioactive light flaring.
The apocalypse wasn't done with her yet.