Chaos spread through the office faster than I could process it, with people screaming over each other, chairs falling to the floor, and the sharp sound of glass crunching under frantic footsteps as everyone tried to run in different directions at once.
The monster didn’t rush.
It watched.
Its head tilted slowly, as if it was curious, as if it was deciding which movement would be the most entertaining to respond to, and that hesitation alone made my stomach sink.
This thing wasn’t mindless.
“Help—!”
The scream cut off suddenly.
Someone had slipped near the windows, their hands scraping uselessly against the floor as the creature’s shadow loomed over them, and before anyone could reach out, it moved.
Too fast.
There was a sickening sound, wet and final, and the screaming stopped as abruptly as it had started, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the noise ever had.
Blood spread across the floor.
That was when it truly hit me.
This wasn’t a warning.
This wasn’t a tutorial.
People were already dying.
“DO SOMETHING!” someone yelled, their voice breaking as they looked around desperately, searching for anyone who seemed like they knew what was going on.
Their eyes landed on Choi Han.
Probably because of the glowing text still hovering faintly in front of him, refusing to disappear no matter how much he blinked or shook his head.
“I—I don’t know how!” Choi Han shouted back, his voice cracking as he backed away, nearly tripping over a fallen chair, his hands shaking so badly he could barely keep them clenched.
The system had chosen him.
But it hadn’t taught him anything.
I watched him carefully.
His breathing was wrong.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
He was panicking.
If this followed the same rules as the game, then a protagonist who panicked in the early stages didn’t last very long.
The monster lunged again, forcing people to scatter, and I moved at the same time, not toward it, but away from it, keeping my distance while my eyes tracked its movements closely.
It favored sudden bursts.
It paused before attacking.
It reacted to noise.
Small things.
Things you only noticed after dying a few times.
“Over here!” someone screamed.
Bad move.
The creature turned instantly, its body twisting unnaturally as it followed the sound, and I clenched my jaw, already knowing what would happen next.
I didn’t look away this time.
I needed to remember.
“Choi Han!”
I shouted his name without thinking, my voice cutting through the panic as I grabbed a fallen metal trash can lid from the floor, the weight of it unfamiliar but solid in my hands.
“Don’t run straight back!” I yelled. “Move sideways—!”
He hesitated.
That half second almost killed him.
The monster’s claw slammed into the desk where he had been standing just moments earlier, splintering the wood as Choi Han stumbled away, barely keeping his balance.
Ding 一
[ SKILL ACTIVATED ]
The text flared briefly in front of him, and a dull glow surrounded his arm as something unfamiliar settled into his posture, stiff and awkward, like he was wearing clothes that didn’t fit him yet.
“What—what did I do?” he gasped.
I didn’t answer.
Because I already knew.
The system wasn’t responding to fear.
It was responding to movement.
Choi Han raised his arm again, almost by instinct this time, and when the monster lunged, something invisible collided with it, knocking it slightly off course, just enough to save the people standing behind him.
The office erupted into louder screams.
Not just fear.
Hope.
“That’s it!” someone shouted. “He can fight it!”
The words made my chest tighten uncomfortably.
Hope was dangerous.
Hope made people reckless.
The monster recovered faster than expected, its head snapping toward Choi Han as if it had finally found what it wanted, and I took a step back, my grip tightening around the trash can lid as a familiar thought crossed my mind.
In the game—
Protagonists drew aggro.
“Everyone, move away from him!” I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the noise, drowned out by panic and blind trust.
People crowded closer to Choi Han instead, believing that standing near the chosen one would keep them safe.
They were wrong.
The creature screamed.
A sharp, piercing sound that made my ears ring as it charged straight toward him, its claws tearing through desks and chairs like paper, and Choi Han froze again, his confidence shattering the moment the distance closed too quickly.
This time, the system didn’t save him.
I threw the lid.
It wasn’t heroic.
It wasn’t precise.
But it was loud.
The metal clanged against the wall, echoing sharply through the office, and the monster’s attention snapped away just long enough for Choi Han to stumble backward and fall hard onto the floor.
I didn’t wait.
I grabbed his arm and pulled.
“Get up,” I hissed. “Now.”
For once, he listened.
As we ran, my lungs burned and my thoughts raced, because I finally understood something the game had never told me directly.
Being chosen didn’t mean being ready.
And being normal didn’t mean being helpless.
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