POV: Marino Soohyuk (The Watcher)
I have watched the birth of stars and the death of empires. I have seen light swallowed by nothingness and life blossom in the shadow of oblivion. I was never meant to feel, never meant to care. I was a whisper before time, a gaze that observed but never touched. They called me The Watcher, though I bore no name, no shape, no desire.
And yet… for the first time in eternity, my heart trembles.
It began not with a cataclysm nor a cosmic anomaly, but with a single human tear — hers. I do not know her name. I do not know why she was chosen to suffer. All I know is that every sob she swallowed carved a fracture into the silence of my existence.
The Architects — those who forged the laws of reality — spoke of her fate in hushed tones.
"She is born to despair."
"A life written in pain, a death written in isolation."
I had no right to interfere. But I could not bear to watch.
The choice was simple and irreversible. To descend — to live — I would have to surrender everything: my omniscience, my eternity, my very essence. The Architects laughed when I made the request.
"You will regret this," they said.
"Mortality is agony. It is limitation, hunger, fear, heartbreak. You will despise it."
"Perhaps," I answered. "But if she must suffer, then I will suffer beside her."
And so, I signed the Pact.
The fall was not like plunging through air. It was like being shredded — torn apart and stitched back together into something new. I felt weight for the first time. Breath. Cold. Heat. Noise. My senses screamed, and my mind — once infinite — shrank to the size of a fragile skull.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer a formless presence. I was a seventeen-year-old boy, lying in a hospital bed in Tokyo, Japan.
"Marino… Marino Soohyuk?" a voice asked from beside me — soft, worried, unfamiliar. "Are you awake?"
I turned my head slowly. A woman in her forties hovered near me, tears gathering in her eyes. "Oh, thank god… you're awake. You've been unconscious for three days."
Marino Soohyuk. The name belonged to this body — my body now. The contract had anchored me into an existence already in motion, complete with a history, a family, a place in this world.
"...Mom?" I whispered, the word foreign yet natural on my tongue.
She sobbed and threw her arms around me. "Yes, sweetheart. Mom's here. You're safe now."
Safe. I wondered if that word would ever mean anything again.
The days that followed were an exercise in humility.
I, who once perceived the pulse of galaxies, now struggled with the mundane. Eating. Dressing. Attending school. Pretending to know people I had never met but who thought they knew me. It was disorienting, humiliating — and strangely… human.
Marino's "family" was kind. His mother, Ayumi, was a nurse who fussed over my health. His younger sister, Mina, teased me relentlessly but with affection. The house smelled of miso soup and fabric softener. The walls were filled with photos of a boy who was me, yet not me.
I played my part. I smiled. I studied. I laughed when expected. But every night, when the house fell silent, I stared at my hands and remembered the infinity I had lost.
Was she here? Was she near?
I did not know her face — only her suffering. But the Architects had promised: if I walked this path, our fates would cross.
It happened on the 12th day.
The sky was pale blue, the air crisp with autumn's approach. I walked to school under a canopy of golden ginkgo leaves, the weight of a textbook-laden bag pulling at my shoulder. Students streamed past me — laughter, gossip, the clatter of shoes — but none of it mattered.
Until I saw her.
She stood by the school gates, a few meters ahead, half-hidden behind a row of vending machines. Shoulder-length black hair framed a face too delicate to belong to this noisy world. Her uniform was neat, almost meticulous, but her eyes — gods, her eyes — were hollow. Like a void I had once called home.
I didn't know her name. I didn't need to. The moment our gazes met, something ancient stirred in my chest.
Pain.
Not mine — hers.
A fleeting image seared itself into my mind: a dark room, shattered glass, a trembling hand reaching for nothing. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a phantom ache.
"Marino!" someone called from behind — a classmate. I blinked, and she was gone.
Weeks passed. Life fell into a rhythm: school, homework, small talk. But she was always there — always somewhere. In the library, sitting alone by the window. On the rooftop at lunch, staring at the sky. Walking home beneath a raincloud, umbrella forgotten.
Each time I saw her, I felt the same pull. The same ache. And yet, I could not approach her. I didn't know how. I was a being who once commanded storms, yet I couldn't form a single human word.
Until the universe forced my hand.
It was raining that day — not the gentle drizzle of autumn, but a torrential downpour that turned the streets into rivers. Classes had ended early, and most students had rushed home. I lingered by the school gates, watching the storm rage, when I saw her again.
She stood in the rain without an umbrella, motionless, staring up at the sky as if daring it to drown her.
Something inside me snapped.
Before I knew it, I was beside her, my umbrella held above her head. "You'll catch a cold," I said — simple, clumsy words, but they were all I had.
She blinked up at me, startled. "...Why do you care?"
"Because…" I paused. Because I have watched you break a thousand times. Because I have fallen from eternity for you. Because I would rather burn than see you cry again.
"Because no one deserves to stand in the rain alone."
Her lips parted — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. "You're… weird."
"Probably," I admitted.
She hesitated, then stepped closer beneath the umbrella. "I'm Aizawa Reika," she said softly. "Second-year, class B."
"Marino Soohyuk," I replied. "Second-year, class A."
And just like that, the silence between us changed.
We walked together in the rain — two strangers bound by something neither of us understood. She didn't talk much, and I didn't press. But for the first time since I fell, the weight on my chest felt lighter.
"Hey," she said quietly as we reached a crossroads. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For noticing."
I watched her disappear down the street, her figure swallowed by the storm. And for the first time in countless ages, I smiled — a small, fragile thing that felt more powerful than any cosmic truth.
But the universe is not kind.
That night, as I drifted toward sleep, a familiar voice echoed in the darkness — cold, metallic, merciless.
"The Architects do not approve."
"You have begun to alter her fate."
"Interference has consequences."
My eyes snapped open. Shadows coiled at the edge of my room — shapes that did not belong to this world.
I had known this would happen. Still, I whispered into the dark:
"Let them come."
Because for the first time in eternity, I had something worth defying the universe for