Marin was done for the day. His body felt heavy from everything that had happened, but his mind wasn't ready to rest just yet. Before going to bed, a thought lingered in his head — the little girl. He had left her at the hospital, but she was alone. Something in him refused to let her stay like that another night.
He stepped into the academy's main hall, which was quieter now that most enforcers had gone to their quarters. The faint glow of enchanted lamps lit the marble floor in long, soft streaks. He spotted Caleb, who was lounging against the reception counter with a half-empty cup of tea.
"Do you know a nearby orphanage?" Marin asked without preamble.
Caleb blinked, surprised at the sudden request, but then nodded and reached under the desk for a small notepad. "Yeah, there's one about three kilometers from here. It's old, but they take good care of kids. Here—" He scribbled an address in quick, jagged handwriting and tore the page out.
Marin barely had the paper in his hand before he blurred into motion, darting off at super speed.
The city at night was a mess of quiet alleys and glowing signs. He moved past it all in streaks of color, the cool wind slapping against his face. It was intoxicating to move this fast—until he suddenly wasn't moving forward anymore.
Marin blinked and realized his feet were no longer on the ground. He was suspended midair, his surroundings frozen like a paused video. Even the blinking lights of streetlamps had stopped mid-flicker.
Hovering ahead of him was the Author, arms crossed, with that infuriatingly calm smirk.
"Warning," the Author said, voice casual yet carrying an edge. "You cannot run in the city at superspeed. If you sneeze even once, you'll be safe—sure—but the mess you'll make? You might end up ripping someone into pieces."
Before Marin could even form a reply, the Author gave him a lazy wave and vanished.
Marin was still in the air. Gravity reintroduced itself without mercy, and he hit the pavement with a grunt. Groaning, he muttered, Does he do this on purpose to me or what?
The fastest way was now off the table, so Marin started scanning for a taxi. The streets were dimly lit, the occasional late-night food vendor giving off warm yellow glows. A cab eventually stopped for him, but the fare meter seemed suspiciously high. Marin, not wanting to argue, paid anyway.
By the time he reached the hospital, the antiseptic smell hit him before the building came into full view. The fluorescent lights inside buzzed faintly, and the night staff moved in slow, practiced motions. He spoke to the nurse at the counter, had the girl discharged, and then—still avoiding super speed—opted for a bus. The ride was bumpy, the bus half-filled with drowsy passengers staring out at the dark city.
At the orphanage, the air smelled faintly of old wood and warm porridge. The matron, a short woman with wiry gray hair, welcomed them after he asked if they'd take the girl in. "We will," she said, nodding, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd said it many times before. Marin left the girl in her care, feeling oddly lighter.
Hunger crept in now, sharp and insistent. He didn't need food to survive anymore, not since his changes, but tonight… he wanted to eat.
He found a small restaurant tucked between two tall, shadowy buildings. Its sign buzzed faintly with neon light, the smell of fried food wafting into the street. Inside, it was modest—plain wooden tables, clinking cutlery, and the occasional hiss from the kitchen.
Marin chose a seat near the back. As he waited for his food, the door opened, letting in a man who looked like a beggar—clothes tattered, hair unkempt, skin weathered from too many days outside. He walked with a weary shuffle toward the counter.
A waiter stepped forward immediately, blocking his path with a polite but firm, "Sir, you can't—"
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of cash.
The waiter's demeanor shifted instantly, a full 180 in tone. "Oh! Right this way, sir," he said cheerfully, guiding him to a table. The man was asked to pay upfront, which he did without complaint, and soon a steaming plate of food was placed in front of him.
He ate like he hadn't seen food in days—stuffing mouthfuls in rapid succession. But just as he seemed to be hitting his stride, something went wrong. His chewing slowed, his eyes widened. A choking sound escaped his throat.
Marin's head snapped toward him. The man pushed his chair back, standing abruptly. His face flushed red, his hands clawing at his neck. He stumbled toward the bathroom, but before he could get far, his foot slipped on a worn patch of the floor.
The fall was brutal. His head struck the sharp corner of a table with a sickening crack. Blood spread fast, pooling around his head. He didn't move again.
Marin had risen to his feet, ready to help, but it had all happened too fast. The beggar—no, the man—was already gone. Around him, the restaurant fell into a strange, suffocating silence.
Then, voices.
"Poor man had his time up," someone murmured.
"He wasn't even able to finish his last meal," another said quietly.
"Such a shame… poor fellow."
A man in his forties turned to Marin. "Kid, stay away from the body. It's a police case. You'll contaminate the scene. Go on, finish your food."
Marin's stomach twisted. Why is everyone acting like this is normal? Shouldn't they be… concerned?
Yet, within minutes, people were back to eating. The clinking of cutlery returned, soft conversations resumed—just with a new topic. The death was already fading into the background like the sound of rain.
A voice cut into Marin's confusion. "Hey kid, aren't you the newest face of the Academy? I knew I'd seen you somewhere."
Marin turned to see a man pointing at him from a nearby table. "You must have a lot of experience dealing with situations like this, won't you?"
What? Marin's brain stalled. Why would they think I've been in situations like this before?
Feeling like his mind was teetering on the edge, Marin simply sat back down. The police arrived not long after, checked the CCTV footage, then cleaned up the scene. They didn't question a single eyewitness.
When Marin went to pay for his meal, he asked the manager, "What just happened here?"
The manager didn't even blink. "Kid, that beggar just now lost his plot armor. It was over. It stopped saving him from choking on his food, and once that happened, his luck ran out. Slipped on the floor, hit his head—dead. Happens all the time. Once your plot armor's gone, you're at the mercy of chance. So just forget about it and pray you're not the next one."
As Marin stepped out into the cool night, his mind wouldn't stop replaying the words. Do we really die like this? Just… in random, stupid ways once our plot armor runs out? The thought lingered as he made his way back to the academy.
Later, in the Author's office, the room smelled faintly of ink and old paper. AUDIENCE, the AI assistant, floated beside the desk like a silent wraith before speaking in her cold, precise tone.
"The gods are complaining about the MC being too clueless," she said. "They are pointing out that him being this unaware of his own world—without being isekai'd or an alien—is a plot hole."
The Author froze mid-scribble. The pen slipped from his fingers and rolled off the desk. Slowly, he stood, stretching until his joints popped, then dropped to the floor to do a few sit-ups.
Muttering to himself, he said, "Time to solve this plot hole now."
Then, without warning, he vanished.
Somewhere, in his collection of black holes, one labeled Clueless MC began to flicker—and it was bigger than all the rest.