The error message on my screen hasn't changed in the past hour:
Stack overflow in line 147. Maximum recursion depth exceeded.
I lean back in my chair, the cheap plastic creaking in protest. The clock on my laptop reads 3:17 AM, and the recursive function I'm trying to debug is still refusing to cooperate. My eyes burn from staring at lines of code that seem to blur together:
def process_data(input):
if len(input) <= 1:
return input
else:
return process_data(input[1:]) + [input[0]]
Simple enough to make me feel stupid for not fixing it, complex enough to keep me here at this hour. The assignment is due in five hours, and my scholarship depends on maintaining a GPA that seems to be slipping through my fingers with each failed compile.
The computer lab in Seoul National University's basement is my regular haunt these days. It's quieter than the dorm I share with three other students, and the ancient air conditioning actually works most of the time. The fluorescent lights flicker occasionally – a familiar morse code of maintenance neglect.
I reach for my energy drink, the cheap grape-flavored one that was on sale at the convenience store where I work nights. The taste makes me wince, artificial sweetness mixing with the aftertaste of the previous four cans. My phone shows three missed calls from Mr. Kim, my manager. Another graveyard shift he needs covered, no doubt. I'll deal with that after I fix this code.
Professor Lee sits in his corner desk, the one closest to the ancient coffee machine that sounds like a dying car engine every time someone uses it. His round glasses reflect cascading lines of code as he grades our midterm projects. The coffee in his "World's Most Patient Teacher" mug – a joke gift from last year's graduates – has gone cold hours ago.
Two rows ahead, Kim Min-ji types at her laptop, each keystroke precise and deliberate. She's in her final year, working on a thesis about machine learning algorithms that probably won't try to kill themselves like my current code. The soft click of her keyboard provides a steady rhythm to the night's silence.
Park Sung-min occupies the desk by the window, though 'occupies' might be generous. He's fast asleep, face pressed against his keyboard, adding random characters to his code every time he shifts. The university's star athlete only takes CS classes because his parents threatened to cut off his sports scholarship funding otherwise. The drool slowly forming a puddle near his spacebar suggests he's given up on understanding binary search trees for tonight.
The basement windows show nothing but darkness and the occasional pair of shoes walking past at street level. Sometimes rainwater trickles down the glass, though it hasn't rained in days. The building's ancient plumbing has its own mysteries.
The air conditioning hums, then makes a sound it definitely shouldn't – a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth on edge. The fluorescent lights flicker, not their usual sporadic pattern, but in sequence, like a wave of darkness rolling across the ceiling. The static feeling on my skin grows stronger, like the moment before lightning strikes.
My monitor flickers once, twice, and instead of my code, a black text box appears.
The black text box hovers on my screen, its message written in a font that doesn't exist in any CSS library I know:
[SYSTEM ALERT: EARTH SERVER MAINTENANCE BEGINNING IN 10 MINUTES]
[ALL USERS WILL BE TEMPORARILY DISCONNECTED]
[PLEASE PREPARE FOR THE TRANSITION]
I rub my eyes, but the message remains. Worse, it's not just on my screen anymore – it's floating slightly above it, like a hologram in those sci-fi movies I can never afford to watch in theaters. The text casts a faint blue glow on my hands, making my energy drink look radioactive.
"Hey, Professor Lee?" My voice sounds strange in the quiet lab. "Are you seeing this?"
He doesn't look up from his grading. Neither does Min-ji from her typing, nor does Sung-min stir from his keyboard-drool combination. The air conditioning's whine rises in pitch, and the lights continue their wave-like flickering pattern.
My phone buzzes. Instead of Mr. Kim's message, my screen shows:
[SYSTEM ALERT: 9 MINUTES REMAINING]
[INITIATING PRELIMINARY SCANS]
[DETECTING POTENTIAL ABILITIES...]
The static feeling intensifies. My skin prickles like I'm covered in invisible ants, and the taste of copper fills my mouth. Through the basement windows, I notice something wrong with the darkness outside. It's shifting color, taking on a purple tinge that spreads like ink in water.
The air conditioning stops completely. In the sudden silence, I hear something that makes my blood run cold – a sound like reality itself being unzipped, starting somewhere far above the university and getting closer.
My laptop screen flickers again, code replaced by new messages:
[SYSTEM ALERT: 8 MINUTES REMAINING]
[WARNING: TRANSITION MAY CAUSE SIGNIFICANT DISCOMFORT]
[SURVIVAL RATE: CALCULATING...]
That's when I notice the text boxes appearing above people's heads, faint at first but growing clearer with each passing second. The information burns itself into my vision, whether I want to see it or not.
The first text box appears above Min-ji's head, the characters glowing with the same blue light as the system messages:
[Basic Information Sight]
Target: Human
Name: Kim Min-ji
Threat Level: E
Status: Unaware
Distance: 12m
Basic Traits: Dormant Fire Affinity
Current Action: Studying
Warning: None
My head throbs as more appear. Professor Lee's information hovers above him like a digital halo:
[Basic Information Sight]
Target: Human
Name: Lee Jung-hoon
Threat Level: E
Status: Unaware
Distance: 15m
Basic Traits: Mental Enhancement Potential
Current Action: Grading
Warning: Ability awakening imminent
The purple light outside intensifies. Through the basement windows, I watch shoes stop moving. Their owners stand still, perhaps noticing the wrongness in the air. The sound of unzipping reality grows louder, now accompanied by a deep vibration that makes my teeth ache.
[SYSTEM ALERT: 5 MINUTES REMAINING]
[INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE ACTIVATED]
[SECTOR DESIGNATION: 23 - UNIVERSITY ZONE]
Sung-min stirs in his sleep, mumbling something about binary trees. His status window flickers into existence:
[Basic Information Sight]
Target: Human
Name: Park Sung-min
Threat Level: E
Status: Unconscious
Distance: 8m
Basic Traits: Physical Enhancement Potential
Current Action: Sleeping
Warning: Vulnerable during transition
The copper taste in my mouth turns to iron. Blood. My nose is bleeding, drops hitting my keyboard as more information floods my vision. The air feels thick, like trying to breathe underwater. Outside, the purple sky pulses like a diseased heart.
[SYSTEM ALERT: 2 MINUTES REMAINING]
[ABILITY MANIFESTATION BEGINNING]
[PREPARE FOR INITIAL CALIBRATION]
Professor Lee finally looks up from his grading, his expression shifting from tired to confused. He rubs his eyes, probably feeling the same static in the air, but his gaze passes right through the text boxes only I can see. His mouth opens to say something, but he's interrupted by the sound of glass breaking somewhere above us.
Then the screaming starts.
[SYSTEM ALERT: TRANSITION COMMENCING]
[ETHEREAL REFORMATION BEGINS]
[PHASE 0: ADAPTATION]
The fluorescent lights explode in sequence, and the world turns purple.