Kim walked out of the commissioner's office like a ghost, his mind tangled in knots. He stepped out of the precinct, the night air thick with the remnants of smoke and sirens. His head was lowered, thoughts churning, when—Everything stopped.
The streetlights flickered—once, twice—then died. The neon glow of shop signs sputtered out, the electric hum of the city vanished in an instant. The distant skyscrapers, always adorned with blinking lights, plunged into absolute blackness. Then came the silence. For a heartbeat, the city held its breath. Then—chaos.
Car alarms screamed as vehicles collided in the darkness, their headlights winking out mid-traffic. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Horns blared. Drivers panicked, slamming brakes too late, piling onto each other in a cacophony of twisted steel. The elevated trains, once gliding smoothly above, jerked to a halt, stranding thousands mid-air. Some sections lost all power, sending train cars plunging off the rails into the streets below.
Buildings groaned as emergency power failed. Elevators trapped people inside. Hospitals lost life-support machines. Factories, reliant on precise automation, screeched to a halt, conveyor belts freezing mid-motion. Then the first explosion.
A substation blew, sending blue fire streaking through the skyline. Another transformer followed, bursting like a dying star, raining sparks onto the streets. Smoke rose, people screamed, and within minutes, looters took advantage of the absolute darkness. Gunshots cracked in the distance.
Kim stood frozen in the street, his breath shallow. Jinjahan hadn't experienced a blackout in over two hundred years. The city—always glowing, always breathing—had just died.
He looked up, expecting to see emergency drones, police spotlights, some sign of government control. Nothing. Not even the Capitol Tower—the very heart of Jinjahan's power—had a single light left on.
The streets of Jinjahan had never been safe, not even under the watchful glow of its neon lights. But now—drowned in absolute darkness—it was something else entirely. A feeding ground.
Kim turned, his heart hammering against his ribs. Screams. Cries. Gunfire. Every shadow in the city was now a hunting ground, every alley a trap. He saw figures rushing storefronts, shattering glass, grabbing whatever they could. Others, more sinister, moved through the chaos, their laughter sick and cruel. Then he saw her.
Just a few meters away, a young woman struggled against a group of men, her terrified shrieks barely piercing the madness around them. One had her wrist twisted behind her back, another reached for her clothes, and the third—the leader, judging by his grin—held a knife against her throat.
Kim moved. No thinking. No hesitation. "Let her go!" he barked, his voice cutting through the din.
The men turned, momentarily surprised. Then they laughed. "And what, officer?" the leader sneered. The dim light from a distant fire flickered against his face, his grin full of teeth. "You gonna arrest us? Who's gonna stop us? The city's already dead."
Kim didn't wait for a response. He lunged. His fist crashed into the leader's jaw, snapping his head back. The knife clattered to the ground, and Kim barely had time to shove the girl behind him before the others jumped him.
A boot slammed into his ribs. Another fist caught his cheek, sending him staggering. Kim fought back, elbows, knees, raw instinct, but it wasn't enough. Three against one. No backup.
A punch to his stomach. A kick to his leg. A fist colliding with his temple. The world tilted, his vision blurring with stars. He fell to his knees, coughing blood, the taste of iron filling his mouth. They were going to kill him.
Then—sirens. Loud, sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. The gang froze. The leader, still rubbing his jaw where Kim had hit him, cursed under his breath. "Tch. Not worth it."
Then they ran, disappearing into the blackened city like shadows retreating from the morning sun.
Kim stayed on the ground, gasping, his face throbbing, his body aching. The girl was gone—fled the moment she had the chance.
Kim groaned as he pushed himself off the ground. Every inch of his body screamed in protest. His ribs ached, his face throbbed, and the metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue. His uniform was torn, smeared with dirt and someone else's blood—maybe his own. But he had to move.
He stumbled forward, dragging himself through the streets of a dying city. The chaos still raged around him—gunfire in the distance, the flicker of fires, the occasional screams swallowed by the abyss of Jinjahan's first blackout in two centuries. The sirens had faded, either moving elsewhere or silenced entirely.
It felt like an eternity before he reached his building. Kim forced himself up the stairs, each step a battle against his failing strength. By the time he reached his door, his fingers trembled as he fumbled for the key. It took three tries before he got it in, the door creaking open into the darkness of his small, cluttered apartment.
The moment he shut the door behind him, his body collapsed against it. He slid to the floor, breathing heavily, his vision swimming.
For a long time, he just sat there. Then, slowly, he forced himself up. His legs barely held him, but he stumbled into the bathroom, flicking the faucet. A slow trickle of water. At least the plumbing still worked.
Kim gripped the sink, staring at his reflection in the dim glow of the emergency lights outside. A wreck of a man stared back. A split lip, a forming bruise over his cheek, dirt and dried blood staining his face.
He turned on the shower. The water was freezing, but he didn't care. He stripped off his ruined uniform and stepped in, letting the water wash away the blood, the sweat, the filth of the city.
When everything done, Kim stepped out of the shower, his body still aching from the beating. The freezing water had numbed his wounds, but not the weight in his chest. He dried himself off sluggishly, tossing the bloodstained towel onto the floor.
His apartment was silent. No hum of the fridge, no distant noise from the neighbors. Just the eerie, suffocating quiet of a dead city. Drawn by some instinct, he walked to the window. Outside, Jinjahan was burning.
Even in darkness, the city pulsed with chaos. Fires flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the skyline. Sirens wailed and then died just as quickly. The streets were clogged with abandoned cars, some still smoldering from crashes. People moved through the night like ghosts, some looting, some running, some simply standing still—stunned by the sheer unnaturalness of it all.
Then—his phone rang. Not the normal tone. Not the default ringtone. It was a piercing, distorted sound, like a broken radio struggling to transmit.
Kim turned sharply, his heart hammering. The phone was on his desk, screen dark—yet it vibrated violently against the surface, rattling like it was possessed.
And then—it turned on by itself. The screen flooded with static, flickering, glitching, before text began to appear. Not just on his phone. Every screen in Jinjahan.
The neon billboards, the LED signs that had gone dark, the giant digital displays on corporate towers—they all burst to life at once. Even the streets outside fell into a stunned hush as the chaos screeched to a halt.
For the first time since the blackout, Jinjahan wasn't screaming. Kim swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto the message now plastered across every screen.
"THEY LIED TO YOU."
"THEY LIED TO US ALL."
"MUTANTS ARE BEING DETAINED. SILENCED. ERASED."
"EVIDENCE ATTACHED. SPREAD THE TRUTH."
And then—the files appeared. Government documents. Leaked reports. Classified files with the official seals of Jinjahan's Security Bureau and the Capitol Patrol Guard. Pages upon pages of names—mutants who had 'disappeared.' Facilities that never existed on public records. Experiments. Executions. Cover-ups.
The truth, raw and undeniable, was spilling into every single device in the city. People outside started screaming. Phones buzzed as the files auto-downloaded. Some tried to turn off their screens, but the broadcast was inescapable. Even the highest government systems were compromised.
Kim stood frozen, staring at his phone, at the lines of text burning into his retinas. His hands were shaking. Not just from shock—but because deep down, he already knew this was true.
He had been a cop long enough to suspect it. The disappearances, the restricted reports, the names that never made it into the public records. For a moment, there was silence.
Kim could still hear his own breathing, the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. The message still burned on every screen, the final words lingering like a ghost in the air.
Then—the lights came back on. Jinjahan roared back to life. Neon signs flickered. Billboards blazed. Streetlights buzzed to full brightness. The blackout was over, but it wasn't salvation. It was fuel—igniting an already collapsing city into something far worse.
The streets below erupted. Civilians, once frozen in shock, snapped. Fear turned to fury. Those who had stood paralyzed just moments ago now rushed forward, their voices raw with rage. The first Molotov flew.
It smashed against the side of a JPD vehicle, flames exploding outward, licking the sides of the armored truck like hungry mouths. Officers inside scrambled out—but the mob was faster. Gunshots cracked the air.
Some officers panicked and opened fire. Bullets tore through the crowd. A woman collapsed, her scream cut short. A man stumbled back, clutching his chest as blood sprayed onto the pavement.
The crowd didn't scatter this time. They charged. Civilians against JPD. Some had weapons—stolen from fallen officers, looted from gun stores, or just whatever they could get their hands on. Metal pipes, broken glass, even bricks ripped from buildings.
Kim watched as a group overpowered an officer, beating him senseless before dragging him into the shadows. A gunshot rang out—but no one knew who fired first anymore.
Gangs took advantage of the chaos. They stormed grocery stores, smashing shelves, ripping food from terrified clerks. Smoke poured from burning shops as looters rushed out, arms full of stolen goods.
A man hung from a balcony, desperately clinging on as someone pried his fingers loose—sending him plummeting into the street below.
Kim saw a teenager—no older than seventeen—stab a man in the stomach and steal his wallet. The boy barely hesitated before vanishing into the fire-lit streets.
He saw families trying to run—pushing through the madness, children screaming as they clung to their parents. But there was nowhere to go.
From window, Kim said nothing. He just watched. Watched as Jinjahan—his city—ripped itself apart. Then, slowly, his knees buckled. He sank to the floor, his hands trembling against the wooden panels, his breath shallow. Failure.