There are days like that.
Days where you feel hollow, a mere shell of existence. Like a breathing corpse, moving but without purpose, without meaning. Days when your soul feels like it's detached from your body, drifting somewhere far away, while you're left behind in this fragile, rotting cage of flesh. Days where every glance in the mirror feels like a rejection of yourself—where self-loathing wraps around you like a suffocating shroud.
For most people, these are just days.
For me, it's every day.
I was condemned before I even existed. My genitors—if I dare call them that—saw my very conception as a curse. When they discovered I was coming, it wasn't joy they felt but horror. A horror so visceral that they named me "Mugyeol", meaning "absence." A name, not of hope or love, but of rejection, a brand to remind me daily that I was unwanted.
They never cared for me, not then, not now. Love was a concept foreign to them. Their affection, if you could call it that, came in the form of fists and bottles, bruises and broken bones. Sometimes they were drunk. Sometimes they weren't. It didn't matter; the pain was always the same.
As a child, I was a shadow, lingering on the edges of existence. Always alone. No one wanted to play with the unwanted boy, the ghost-child whose name carried the stench of abandonment. Children can be cruel—vicious, even. It starts with whispers, mocking words, the occasional shove. But soon, it escalates.
Adults, though, are worse. Their cruelty isn't born of immaturity or ignorance; it's deliberate, calculated. It's by choice. Children have the excuse of innocence, the potential to grow, to change. Adults choose their malice, shaping it with intent.
The scars they left weren't just on my body. They carved into my mind, into my soul, until I couldn't bear to be around people. Social interactions became a nightmare, each one a battle against the terror bubbling inside me. The fear of being judged, of being hated, of being hurt—it consumed me.
By the time I turned 12, my parents had given up entirely. They pulled me out of school. To them, I was a failure not worth the effort.
Now, I am 16.
No friends.
No future.
No family.
My father is in prison—ironic, considering the countless times he should have been there before. My mother… she didn't last long after he left. Perhaps she died of guilt. Or maybe she just ran out of reasons to keep breathing.
I live with a foster family now. They're not my family, but it's not all bad. I have a bed, I eat meals, I can shower without fear of a door flying open and fists crashing down. No one yells, no one hits. It's enough.
And here I am today, walking down an empty street with a bag full of groceries for dinner. The silence around me feels vast, the kind of hollow that resonates with me. There's something comforting about this kind of emptiness—it doesn't ask for anything. It just exists.
The air was crisp, almost biting, as I turned a corner. Then, without warning, a searing pain exploded in my head. I stumbled, dropping the bag, my hand flying to my temple as if I could hold the pain in place. My knees buckled slightly, but I caught myself against the wall of a nearby building, gasping for air.
The world blurred for a moment, spinning in slow, erratic circles. My heart pounded, my chest tightening like a vice. My head throbbed, a sharp ache radiating through my skull. I tried to steady myself, to push the pain away, but it clung to me like a shadow I couldn't escape.
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold, rough brick. But even so, something about the pain felt different this time—sharper, deeper, as if it wasn't just in my head but somewhere else entirely.
I lost consciousness.
───
When I woke up, I was cold. Not the kind of cold you feel on a chilly morning, but the biting, numbing cold that gnaws at your bones. My breath came out in shaky clouds, dissolving into the air. Slowly, I blinked my eyes open, my vision blurry at first.
But,
Why can't I see anything?
I rubbed my eyes, hoping to clear the fog that seemed to cloud my vision, but nothing changed. There was only darkness—total, impenetrable blackness. I couldn't see my hands in front of my face. I reached up to touch my eyes, feeling nothing but skin, but it felt strange, disconnected. My heart began to race, the panic creeping in as I struggled to process what was happening.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. Was I dreaming? No, this was too real.
I reached out with my hands, trying to feel where I was. My fingers brushed against something cold, rough, and unfamiliar. Concrete? Gravel? The texture didn't make sense. I pushed myself into a sitting position, but I could barely feel my legs. Everything seemed off, distorted somehow.
The stillness around me was suffocating. There was no sound—no hum of the city, no movement, just the breath in my chest and the pounding of my heart.
Suddenly, I heard it.
A faint hum. At first, it was so soft I thought I imagined it, but it grew louder, filling the air around me. The vibrations in the ground under my palms told me it wasn't just sound—it was coming from something, an energy or force I couldn't explain.
Then, as if it had been waiting for me to notice, a voice whispered in my ears. Not a voice like a person's, but something mechanical, a voice generated by a machine, robotic and precise. It wasn't loud, but it was clear.
SYSTEM INITIATED
*무결: Meaning "Absence" (무) and "Break or Severance" (결). Represents total and irrevocable solitude.