In the world, talent was the pinnacle of all virtues. Those born with it rose above the rest, shone with a force impossible to hide, and conquered greatness with powerful bodies and techniques that seemed to defy the human. For many, hard work was merely an illusion, incapable of matching what nature and the gods had granted to a chosen few.
Samuel understood this better than anyone. Even if he had been blessed with prodigious talent, he knew he wouldn't get anywhere. Deep down, he recognized his defective nature, that invisible crack that kept him from ambition. Because Samuel knew that talent alone wasn't enough; to reach the top, one needed conviction, hunger for glory, and the unbreakable will to give everything—even oneself. And he lacked that.
There wasn't even a flicker of that flame inside him. He didn't know ambition, didn't embrace motivation. He knew he was weak, that he resisted change, that he lived denying himself over and over again. He went unnoticed, like a shadow in the crowd, trapped in the monotony of identical days, despising himself with every sunrise, with every moment of silence.
The alarm rang every morning at 6:30. Always the same metallic tone, always the same apathy upon waking. Samuel didn't turn it off immediately. He let it ring a few seconds longer, as if that insistent buzzing confirmed he was still there, that he still existed.
He lived alone in a narrow apartment, with gray walls that reflected neither light nor hope. The kitchen was barely a hallway disguised as functionality. His mother had died when he was twelve. She hadn't abandoned him—she had simply stopped being. His father… had also died, much earlier, when Samuel was just beginning to form memories. He grew up among inherited silences and routines dictated by absence.
Each day he dressed in one of the three shirts he owned, rotated meticulously from Monday to Friday. Not out of aesthetic conviction or minimalist philosophy, but because there were no others. At university, he was a shadow among shadows. He didn't stand out for brilliance, but neither for clumsiness. His presence was so faint that when he was absent, no one noticed. And when he was there, no one did either.
That hurt. Not like a sharp wound, but like a dull, persistent erosion that wore him down from within.
He watched others make friends with an ease that seemed choreographed. He saw them shine on social media, receive attention, tags, comments, smiles. No one mentioned him. No one waited for him. No one asked about him.
Sometimes he thought: If I don't show up to class tomorrow, would anyone notice?
Once he tested it. He missed three days. No one wrote. No one asked. No one realized.
His only daily interactions were roll call, where professors always mispronounced his last name, and the neighbors in the building, who avoided eye contact when passing him on the stairs. Not out of contempt, but out of indifference. Samuel didn't generate reactions. He provoked nothing.
His world was silent. Repetitive. Invisible.
Until that night.
...….
The pain was real.
Not that emotional, diffuse, and silent pain that had accompanied Samuel for years, but something rawer, more physical. A sharp stab in the jaw, the metallic taste of blood, the burning in his ribs that screamed with every breath.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. It was dark wood, with exposed beams, nothing like the cracked white of the apartment he was used to. The lights flickered as if unsure whether to keep illuminating that corner of the world. Around him, the walls were bare, and the mattress beneath his back was thin and rough, barely a blanket over a board.
He blinked, confused. Then, like a wave dragging him without warning, the memories of the previous night returned.
The exhaustion. The sadness. The strange dream.
And then… this.
He sat up slowly, gasping. A dusty mirror in the corner reflected a face that wasn't his. Black hair fell messily over slanted, dark eyes, surrounded by deep circles. The skin was bruised, the lip split. The expression… dim.
"Who… am I?" he murmured. Then, memories came to him.
Jihyeon Kwak.
The name appeared in his mind as if it had always been there, but only now made sense. It wasn't just a new body. It was a new life. A story full of pain, isolation, and invisible scars.
He stood up, staggering, observing the small, damp room he would now call "home." The school uniform was hanging on a chair, poorly ironed, with the name "Kwak Jihyeon" clumsily sewn onto the lapel.
He remembered what it felt like to see perfect students on social media. The boys with radiant smiles, spotless lives, and he knew that in this new world, Jihyeon was even lower than he had been.
"What am I supposed to do with this…?" he asked, placing a hand on the wall to keep from falling.
But there was no answer. Only silence.
Yet within that silence, something was germinating. A determination that began to push, even if weakly, from some forgotten corner of his spirit.
A door opened with a harsh creak, as if the building itself protested. From the hallway, a woman's voice echoed loudly, cutting through walls and shame.
Probably the landlady.
"Hurry up! You'll be late again!"
The urgency was easily explained. The owner of the apartment didn't care about the tenants, only the payments. The money came from the government, as long as the boy fulfilled his minimum obligation: attending classes.
Jihyeon… No, Samuel… dragged his feet to the uniform, held it in front of him, and changed clumsily, the bruises making even the simplest movements difficult.
When he left the apartment, the sun hit him with a blinding light.
He instinctively closed his eyes, running a hand over his face as if he could erase the intense light that hurt his vision. When he opened them, the world seemed split into two landscapes.
In the distance, buildings rose like modern castles, bathed in colors that didn't belong to his reality. They were distant promises, decorations for others. But looking at his immediate surroundings, the contrast was brutal.
The streets around his apartment looked like a dumpster forgotten by time. The day here didn't shine. It was arid, aged, like broken glass under a sky without intention. The air had a somber density, as if breathing it meant accepting a silent defeat.
Those kinds of things were the only ones that welcomed him.
Jihyeon, with a smile, murmured as he walked away in his uniform and backpack.
"It's a miserable place."
And his back, growing smaller, vanished into the dust and noise.