The training room hummed with radianite energy at 3:47 AM, its walls shifting between configurations as I pushed my abilities past their established limits. Sweat carved channels through the dust on my face, each drop hitting the floor with a sound like reality snapping back into place. With each rift I sealed, the dimensional feedback—that static-like echo that followed every closure—was getting louder, more insistent, as if the fabric of space itself was crying out in protest.
Static.
That's what I'd started calling it—the crackling aftershock that lingered in my ears every time I sealed a dimensional rift. The sound was akin to radio interference from a different universe seeping through. For weeks now, the sound had been growing louder with each training session. Tonight, it was deafening.
I raised my hands, wind coiling around my fingers as I targeted the training simulation's latest challenge: twelve micro-rifts opening simultaneously across the chamber. In the early days, sealing even one had left me drained. Now I moved through them like a dancer; my Gale Fist technique evolved into something more surgical, more precise.
Three rifts collapsed under targeted wind pressure in quick succession. My body moved with the fluid precision of my past life as Alex Han—gaming reflexes translated into dimensional manipulation. But something felt wrong. The static wasn't fading with each closure; it was building, layering like feedback from an overloaded system.
I stepped through a micro-rift, emerged behind another, and sealed it with a precisely controlled gust. The motion should have been effortless by now, but my chest burned with each transition. The air itself felt thicker, more resistant, as if reality was growing weary of its bend.
What's happening to me?
The thought crashed through my concentration as I closed the final rift. My hands trembled—not from exertion, but from something deeper. The training simulation ended with its usual chime, but I remained frozen in the center of the chamber, watching the wind still swirling around my fingers like it had developed a mind of its own.
"TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE," the room's automated voice announced. "DURATION: 4 HOURS, 17 MINUTES. RIFT CLOSURES: 847. RECOMMENDED REST PERIOD: 8 HOURS."
Four hours. I'd been here since midnight, chasing exhaustion that never came. Dreams and nightmares represented him, my reflection, my shadow, and the person I believed Minwoo to be.
I lowered my hands, watching the wind dissipate. In the sudden stillness, I could hear my heartbeat, rapid and uneven. When had that started? When had my body begun treating rift manipulation like a fight-or-flight response instead of a natural extension of my will?
The chamber's lights dimmed to a rest configuration, casting long shadows that appeared to move with malevolent purpose. I dismissed the idea, realizing that paranoia was not something I could afford. Not when Omega Earth was still out there, planning their next move. This was especially true when my team relied on me to act as a bridge between worlds, ensuring that the darkness didn't seep through.
I gathered my training gear, movements automatic and precise. The walk to my quarters felt longer than usual, every shadow in the Protocol headquarters seeming to whisper secrets I didn't want to hear. By the time I reached my door, the static in my head had faded to a barely audible hum.
Sleep, when it finally came, brought the same nightmare that had plagued me for weeks: visions of fractured reality where two versions of myself fought for control and silver hair that moved like wind given form—Jett's hair, but wrong somehow, twisted into something threatening.
Cypher
The numbers didn't lie, but I wished they would.
At 6:23 AM Seoul time, I sat in my surveillance hub three levels below the Protocol's main command center, surrounded by screens that painted my masked face in shades of blue and amber. Each display showed a different corner of the world, a different monitoring station, a different thread in the web of information I'd spent years weaving.
This morning, the web of information was rife with warnings.
"Fascinating," I murmured to myself, fingers dancing across holographic interfaces as I pulled up dimensional readings from the past seventy-two hours. The patterns formed by the data quickened my pulse, revealing not random anomalies but synchronized disturbances occurring at precise intervals across seventeen different global locations.
Rio de Janeiro: Radianite spike at 23:47 local time. Mumbai: Dimensional resonance at 04:12 local time. Lagos: Reality fluctuation at 18:33 local time.
Each incident lasted exactly forty-seven seconds. Each registered the same energy signature. Each occurred precisely eight hours and twenty-five minutes after the previous event.
"Someone is conducting experiments," I said to the empty room, my voice carrying the weight of certainty. But experiments for what purpose? Could these experiments be aimed at testing our defenses? Could the experiments be aimed at measuring our response times? The precision of the timing suggested something far more deliberate.
I pulled up secondary displays, cross-referencing the anomaly locations with Kingdom Corporation's known facilities. The overlap was too perfect to be a coincidence. Twelve of the seventeen dimensional disturbances had occurred within fifty kilometers of Kingdom research installations. But the other five...
My enhanced lenses focused on the data, zooming in on coordinates that made my blood run cold. Venice. Seoul. Mumbai. Istanbul. São Paulo.
The major population centers of Earth are represented by Alpha.
"No," I breathed, fingers suddenly still on the interface. "Not experiments. Mapping."
The pattern became clear as I overlaid the dimensional readings with population density charts. Someone was measuring Alpha Earth's radianite signatures, cataloguing the dimensional weak points in the world's most populated areas. The precision suggested advanced equipment, significant resources, and, most disturbing of all, intimate knowledge of Alpha Earth's dimensional geography.
My hands moved with renewed urgency, pulling up archived files from our recent encounters with Omega Earth. The attack patterns, the tactical choices, and the manner in which Ω-Jett moved through Seoul's dimensional landscape suggested she had studied it for months.
"They know us," I said, the words tasting like ash. "They know everything."
I swiftly navigated through the holographic interface to activate the priority communication system and compose an emergency alert. The message was brief but urgent: "Critical dimensional pattern detected. Omega Earth is preparing a large-scale operation. Please convene at the command center at your earliest convenience. I tagged it with the highest security clearance and sent it simultaneously to Brimstone, Sage, and all senior agents' secured devices. The timestamp on my message read 6:31 AM—seventeen minutes until the next predicted dimensional event. If my calculations were correct, if the pattern held, the next spike would occur somewhere in North America. The next spike is likely to occur near a major radianite research facility.
The next spike is likely to occur near VALORANT's contingency sites.
As I waited for responses to my summons, I pulled up one final file—the psychological profiles Kingdom Corporation had stolen during their London operation. The psychological profiles highlighted Phoenix's issues with abandonment. Jett's protective instincts towards her brother were evident. Sage's guilt stems from her past failures.
And Minwoo's file, marked with red priority flags: "DIMENSIONAL BRIDGE ENTITY. UNIQUE REINCARNATION PHENOMENON. PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION VECTORS: IDENTITY CRISIS, IMPOSTOR SYNDROME, FEAR OF INADEQUACY."
"They know exactly how to break us," I whispered to the empty room.
The screens surrounding me persisted in their silent surveillance, keeping a watchful eye on a world unaware of its imminent destruction.
Jet
At 7:15 AM, I discovered my brother in the command center, standing in front of the holographic displays, his mind calculating at a rapid pace. I'd seen this pose a thousand times during our childhood: Minwoo absorbing information, processing variables, and preparing to make decisions that other people would agonize over for hours.
The difference now was the weight he carried those decisions with.
"You're up early," I said, settling against the console beside him. "Or are you up late?" I inquired. Hard to tell with you these days."
Minwoo didn't look away from the displays, where Cypher's dimensional readings painted a picture of synchronized chaos across the globe. "Couldn't sleep. These readings..."
"Are terrifying, yeah." I studied my brother's profile, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his hands flexed unconsciously at his sides. "But that's not what's keeping you awake, is it?"
Finally, Minwoo turned to face me. His eyes held exhaustion that went deeper than lost sleep—the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear.
"I've been having visions," he said quietly. "Or dreams. Or something. He's been... talking to me."
I didn't need to ask who 'he' was. Ω-Minwoo had become a presence in our lives even when he wasn't physically threatening us, a shadow that followed my brother through dimensions of possibility and fear.
"What does he say?" I asked, keeping my voice level despite the protective rage building in my chest.
"That I'm not real. That I'm just a copy, a glitch wearing the original's face." Minwoo's hands clenched into fists, wind stirring around him unconsciously. "I feel that I don't belong here, with you, or with any of this."
"Minwoo..." I reached for his arm, but he stepped back, the movement small but decisive.
"What if he's right?" The words burst out of me like water through a broken dam. "What if I am just some cosmic mistake? What if the real Han Minwoo died that day, and Alex Han's soul was never supposed to be here? What if I'm just... interference in your brother's story?"
The question hung between us like a live wire. I felt my wind respond to my emotional state, creating small whirlwinds around my feet. For all our recent conversations about equality and trust, Minwoo was still trying to protect me—this time from his own existential crisis.
"Do you know what I remember most about the day you woke up?" I said, Finally. "It wasn't relief that you were alive, though that was huge. It wasn't confusion about the memory gaps, though that was scary. It was the way you looked at me."
Minwoo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It was as if you were afraid I would disappear the moment you blinked." I stepped closer, not letting him retreat this time. "The Minwoo I grew up with loved me, but he also took me for granted the way family does. He assumed I would always be there. But you—Alex Han's soul in Minwoo's body—you looked at me like I was a miracle you didn't deserve."
"Because you were," Minwoo said softly.
"No, because you understood loss in a way my brother never had to." My voice carried the weight of certainty. "Alex Han lost people he couldn't save. That loss made you appreciate what you have here and made you fight harder to protect it. If that's not real, if that's not valuable, then I don't know what is."
Minwoo's emotional turmoil eased slightly, but his expression still showed signs of trouble. "But what if—"
"Hey." My voice carried the sharp edge I used in combat. "Ω-Minwoo is trying to break you because he can't beat you. If you were really just a copy, just a glitch, do you think you'd be strong enough to close rifts the way you do? To lead missions? To make the rest of us better agents?"
Before Minwoo could answer, the command center's doors slid open with their characteristic hiss. Brimstone strode in, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination, followed closely by Sage, whose usually serene expression showed cracks of concern.
"Team meeting in five," Brimstone announced without preamble. "Cypher's found something big."
As my brother straightened into his professional posture, I caught the grateful look he sent me—not for answers, but for the reminder that he didn't have to carry his questions alone. Whatever Cypher had discovered, we'd face it together.
That was what family meant, after all. It is not about shared blood or perfect understanding, but rather the choice to stand together when the world tries to tear you apart.
Sage
I entered the briefing room with a growing sense of unease. For weeks now, my intuition had been warning me that something was wrong—a feeling that manifested physically in how my healing orb responded to my emotions, its usual bright jade glow noticeably dimmer today.
Something was wrong with Minwoo. He was not physically unwell—my diagnostic abilities would have detected any illness or injury immediately. His condition was deeper, more complex, a disturbance in the balance I'd helped him achieve since his reincarnation. He isolated himself during training, showing dark circles under his eyes and micro-expressions of someone fighting battles others couldn't see.
I'd noticed similar patterns before. Agents often push themselves beyond safe limits, carrying psychological burdens that threaten to compromise their effectiveness. Usually, intervention was straightforward—mandatory rest, counseling sessions, and strategic reassignment until balance returned.
But Minwoo's case was unprecedented. How did you treat an identity crisis in someone whose very existence challenged conventional understanding of reality?
"The readings are confirmed," Cypher announced as the team assembled around the holographic display table. His voice carried unusual urgency—for someone who specialized in hidden knowledge, he seemed disturbed by whatever he'd uncovered.
I positioned myself where I could observe everyone's reactions, a habit developed through years of understanding that healing went beyond physical wounds. Brimstone stood with military bearing intact despite the early hour. Phoenix arrived looking disheveled but alert, flames flickering unconsciously around his fingers. Jett and Minwoo entered together, but their body language suggested a recent difficult conversation.
"Seventeen synchronized dimensional events across six continents," Cypher continued, manipulating the display to show global readings. "The timing was precise, the energy signatures were identical, and the locations were strategic." This isn't random experimentation—it's cartography."
I watched Minwoo's reaction as the implications became clear. His breathing changed subtly—not panic, but the controlled respiration of someone managing significant stress. His hands remained steady, but I caught the micro-tremor in his left eye that suggested sleep deprivation.
"Omega Earth is mapping our dimensional vulnerabilities," Brimstone concluded grimly. "Using equipment sophisticated enough to create perfect synchronization across global distances."
"Which means they have resources we've underestimated," Phoenix added, his accent thick with morning roughness. "And probably inside information about our response patterns."
"Kingdom Corporation's stolen data," Jett said, her wind stirring slightly. "They know our psychological profiles, our tactical preferences. They're not just mapping territory—they're mapping us."
I felt my orb pulse as I absorbed the strategic implications. Omega Earth had been studying them like specimens, cataloguing their strengths and weaknesses with scientific precision. The personal violation of it—having their deepest fears and insecurities converted into tactical intelligence—was almost worse than the military threat.
"The next event is predicted for 8:47 AM Eastern," Cypher announced. "Likely location: somewhere near VALORANT's North American support facilities."
"This gives us exactly forty-seven minutes to figure out what they are really building," Brimstone said. "Ideas?"
I watched the team dynamics as they began strategic discussion. Phoenix and Jett immediately started tactical planning, their recent partnership creating natural coordination. Brimstone and Cypher exchanged the kind of meaningful looks that came from years of shared command decisions.
But Minwoo remained quiet, studying the dimensional readings with an intensity that seemed almost desperate. It was as if the data held answers to questions he couldn't express.
"Minwoo," I said gently, "your experience with dimensional manipulation—does anything about these patterns feel familiar?"
He looked up sharply, and for a moment his control slipped. I saw exhaustion, fear, and something else—guilt, as if he blamed himself for whatever Omega Earth was planning.
"The synchronization," he said finally. "It's too perfect for conventional technology. They'd need something that exists simultaneously across multiple dimensional layers."
"Such as?" Brimstone prompted.
Minwoo hesitated, his gaze flickering to Jett before returning to the displays. "Something alive. Something that can anchor consciousness across dimensional barriers."
The silence that followed carried terrible weight. I felt my healing orb dim as I understood what Minwoo wasn't saying directly—Omega Earth's weapon wasn't just technological. It was personal.
"They're using him," Jett said quietly, voicing what everyone had realized. "Ω-Minwoo is the synchronization point. He's coordinating these events through dimensional consciousness projection."
These words meant that Minwoo's recent visions were not random harassment. They were reconnaissance. Every conversation, every threat, and every moment of contact was gathering intelligence about Alpha Earth's defenses.
I made a decision that went against every protocol in my medical training. Instead of recommending Minwoo's immediate removal from active duty—the obvious choice given his compromised mental state—I stepped closer to him.
"We're going to stop them," I said simply. "But first, you need to tell us everything about these visions. Every detail, every word, every sensation. We turn their intelligence gathering against them."
Minwoo met my eyes, and I saw the moment his fear transformed into determination. The weight he'd been carrying alone became lighter when shared with people who refused to let him bear it in isolation.
"There's something else," he said. "There was something he kept saying that didn't make sense until now."
I nodded encouragingly, my orb brightening as the team's unity strengthened.
"He called me 'the anchor.'" Minwoo's voice grew steadier with each word. "He said that I was the key to convergence." I thought he meant I was important to their strategy, but what if it's more literal? Could it be that they require my specific involvement to ensure the success of what they are constructing?
The implications crystallized with terrifying clarity. Omega Earth wasn't just studying VALORANT—they were planning to use Minwoo as a component in their dimensional weapon. His unique nature, his ability to exist between worlds, made him not just a target but a requirement.
"Then we make sure they don't get you," Jett said fiercely, wind whipping around her in protective spirals.
I felt the team's resolve solidify around this core truth. Whatever Omega Earth was building, whatever they had planned, it would require breaking through VALORANT's defenses to claim their most unique agent.
Let them try.
Minwoo
By afternoon, the weight of dimensional conspiracy had settled into familiar patterns of analysis and preparation. I found myself walking Seoul's crowded streets toward the PC bang in Gangnam, seeking the one place where cosmic responsibility felt manageable. The route had become ritual—forty-three minutes of normal humanity before diving back into the complexities of interdimensional warfare.
The familiar chaos of urban life grounded me: businesspeople rushing between meetings, students clustered around street food vendors, and the constant symphony of traffic and conversation that meant the world was still functioning despite rifts in reality trying to tear it apart.
She was already there when I arrived.
Hanna—I still didn't know her last name—sat at our usual corner station, already three kills into a warm-up game. She wore the same oversized hoodie that had become her signature; she hooded up despite the warmth of the PC bang, effectively hiding most of her face from casual observers. Her setup was meticulous: a high-end mechanical keyboard she'd brought from home, dual monitors angled for optimal viewing, and a ceramic mug of coffee that she nursed throughout our sessions.
"You're late," she said without looking up, but her tone carried teasing rather than criticism. "Rough day saving the world?"
The comment was more accurate than she could have imagined. I settled into the adjacent chair, noting that she'd already logged into my account and started a ranked queue. The consideration of that small gesture—saving me the mundane steps of setup—felt disproportionately meaningful after a morning spent discussing global dimensional threats.
"Something like that," I replied, accepting the second coffee she'd ordered without being asked. "Thanks for this."
"Energy drinks will kill you," she said, finally glancing at me. "Though you look like you haven't been sleeping anyway."
Her observation was casual, but I caught the undercurrent of genuine concern. In the three weeks since we'd started this routine, she'd become adept at reading my moods without prying into causes. It was a talent I appreciated more than she probably realized.
"Work's been intense lately," I said, which was truth enough. "Lots of pressure to perform at impossible standards."
Hanna's laugh held recognition of shared experience. "Tell me about it. My manager keeps pushing for 'authentic emotional connection' in performances, like you can schedule genuine feelings for maximum audience impact."
The loading screen dissolved into champion select, and I found myself relaxing as we fell into familiar patterns of strategic discussion. Hanna's game sense had improved dramatically over our weeks of partnership—she anticipated my movements with uncanny precision, set up plays I didn't know I was going to make, and covered my weaknesses before I exposed them.
"Yasuo and Nami again?" she suggested, already hovering over her champion.
"If you don't mind carrying me through another identity crisis," I replied, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
Hanna paused, her mouse stilling over the champion selection. "Identity crisis?"
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "Sorry, I just meant that my playstyle has been inconsistent lately. I can't decide whether I should adopt an aggressive or defensive playstyle.
But Hanna was studying me with the kind of attention that suggested she'd heard the more profound meaning in my poorly chosen words. When she spoke, her voice carried careful neutrality.
"You know, I've been thinking about that since we started playing together. You have this weird dual-nature thing going on—like you're two different players sharing one account."
The observation sent ice through my veins. "What do you mean?"
"Your micro-movements are pure Korean gaming culture—aggressive trades, precise timing, that kind of instant-reaction style that comes from growing up in PC bangs." Hanna delivered her analysis with the clinical precision of a person specializing in human behavior studies. "But your macro strategy is entirely different. I believe your strategy is influenced by Western culture. More patient, focused on long-term positioning rather than moment-to-moment dominance."
I stared at the champion select screen, where my Yasuo waited for confirmation. She'd identified the exact fusion of Alex Han's strategic thinking with Minwoo's cultural gaming instincts—something I'd never consciously recognized but which explained why my playstyle felt simultaneously natural and foreign.
"Maybe I just watch too many international tournaments," I said weakly.
"Maybe," Hanna agreed, but her tone suggested she wasn't convinced. "Or maybe you're more interesting than you pretend to be."
We loaded into the game, and for thirty-seven minutes, I lost myself in the precise dance of mechanical skill and strategic thinking. Hanna's Nami enabled plays that shouldn't have been possible—perfectly timed crowd control that let my Yasuo chain knockups across entire team fights, healing that arrived exactly when I needed it most, and positioning that created opportunities without exposing weakness.
It was the kind of coordination that usually took months to develop. We'd achieved it in weeks.
"How do you do that?" I asked during a respawn timer, watching a replay of a team fight where she'd predicted my movement three seconds before I'd made the decision.
"Do what?"
"Know where I'm going to be before I know where I'm going to be."
Hanna was quiet for several seconds, her champion moving in small circles while she considered her answer. "You have patterns," she said finally. "Not obvious ones, but... there's a rhythm to how you think. Like you're constantly processing multiple layers of possibility and choosing the path that protects the most people."
The accuracy of her assessment was unsettling. "That's very specific."
"I'm good at reading people," she said simply. "Comes with the job."
The game ended in victory, but I found myself more interested in studying Hanna's reflection in her monitor than celebrating our successful climb up the ranking ladder. She was beautiful in a way that seemed almost engineered for stage lights—delicate features that would photograph well and expressive eyes that could convey emotion across crowded venues. But there was something else, a quality that reminded me of my teammate's focus during critical missions.
"What job?" I asked quietly.
Hanna's hands stilled on her keyboard. For a moment, her carefully maintained anonymity wavered, revealing something that looked like vulnerability.
"I sing," she said. "Occasionally. When people want to listen."
The understatement was so profound it made me smile despite the afternoon's stress. "And they do? Want to listen?"
"Sometimes they do," she repeated, but this time the words carried weight that suggested stadium crowds and billboard charts rather than coffee shop open mic nights.
As the post-game statistics loaded, we sat in comfortable silence, both aware that boundaries had shifted slightly but not entirely dissolved. I found myself wanting to share my truths—the weight of interdimensional responsibility, the complexity of inherited identity, the way she made me feel like Han Minwoo rather than the Protocol's dimensional bridge.
Instead, I settled for smaller honesty.
"These afternoons," I said carefully, "they're the best part of my day." Even when everything else feels impossible, coming here... it reminds me that normal life still exists."
Hanna's smile was soft and genuine. "Mine too," she said. "However, I believe our definitions of normal may differ."
Before I could ask what she meant, my phone buzzed with emergency protocol communications. The text from Cypher was brief but urgent: "A dimensional event has been detected in the vicinity of Seoul." Return immediately."
"Work?" Hanna asked, noting my changed expression.
"Yeah," I said, already gathering my things. "Sorry, I have to—"
"Go," she said firmly. "Just... be careful, okay? Whatever you do for work, it seems like the kind of thing where being careful matters."
I paused at the threshold of our shared space, looking back at her silhouette against the glow of multiple monitors. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
"If you want me to be," she said, and something in her voice suggested the question meant more than scheduling gaming sessions.
"I want you to be," I said, and meant it with an intensity that surprised me.
The evening air outside felt sharp against my skin, reality reasserting itself with each step toward the Protocol facility. But for the first time in weeks, the static in my head had quieted. Hanna's presence lingered like a song half-remembered, grounding me in the certainty that whatever Omega Earth was planning, I had something worth protecting.
Something worth fighting for that existed beyond duty or cosmic destiny.
It was something that felt genuinely, inexplicably mine.
Emergency Assembly
The command center buzzed with controlled urgency as the team assembled for Cypher's emergency briefing. Evening shadows stretched across Seoul's skyline beyond the reinforced windows, the city's lights beginning their nightly transformation of the urban landscape into something that looked almost peaceful from our elevated perspective.
I arrived last, still carrying traces of normal life in my posture—the relaxed shoulders that came from laughter and genuine conversation, the slightly disheveled hair that suggested I'd been somewhere more comfortable than Protocol facilities. Jett noticed the change immediately, filing it away for future discussion.
"The pattern's accelerating," Cypher announced without preamble, his holographic displays showing dimensional readings that made everyone in the room unconsciously tense. "The next event will occur in forty-three minutes, and its estimated location is within Seoul city limits."
"This indicates that they are no longer just mapping the area," Brimstone concluded grimly. "They're preparing for direct action."
Sage studied the readings with clinical precision, her healing orb responding to the room's stress levels with increased luminosity. "The energy signatures are getting stronger. Whatever they're building is approaching activation."
Phoenix leaned against the display table, flames unconsciously flickering around his knuckles. "Any idea what we're dealing with? Invasion? Terrorist attack? Omega's version of aggressive urban renewal?"
"I believe it is something more sophisticated," I said quietly, as I focused my attention on patterns in the data that others might miss. "Look at the timing intervals. They're not random—they're following dimensional tide patterns. Someone with a profound understanding of interdimensional physics is coordinating this."
Cypher's masked face turned toward me. "Elaborate."
"The rifts I manipulate—they're easier to open at certain times, when the boundaries between dimensions are naturally thinner." I manipulated the holographic timeline, highlighting correlations between dimensional events and what I privately called 'rift weather.' "Whoever's doing this knows exactly when Alpha Earth is most vulnerable to interdimensional interference."
The implications settled over the room like gathering storm clouds. This wasn't random terrorism or even strategic warfare—it was surgery performed on reality itself by someone who understood the patient's anatomy better than the surgeons trying to save it.
"The question becomes," Sage said softly, "what are they trying to accomplish that requires such precise timing?"
Before anyone could speculate, the room's emergency lighting activated, bathing everything in red-tinged illumination that made shadows seem more alive than they should. Cypher's displays erupted with new data—energy readings spiking across Seoul's dimensional grid, reality fluctuations radiating outward from a central point.
"It's starting," Cypher announced unnecessarily. Everyone sensed the shift in air pressure, the subtle ambiguity that preceded interdimensional events, and the sensation of the world in a state of tension.
My sixth sense exploded into painful awareness, like someone had cranked the volume on a frequency only I could hear. The static that had been building in my head for weeks suddenly sharpened into something almost musical—complex harmonies of dimensional energy that seemed to be calling my name. No, not calling. Pulling.
"Minwoo?" Although Jett was standing right beside me, her voice sounded very far away.
"I can hear it," I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears. "The convergence they're building. It's not just about mapping our weaknesses."
The room whirled as my consciousness abruptly extended beyond my physical form, traversing dimensional boundaries akin to fingers traversing water. For a terrifying moment, I existed in two places at once—standing in the Protocol command center and somewhere else entirely. Omega Earth. I could see their preparations: massive facilities humming with stolen radianite technology, uniformed technicians monitoring equipment I didn't recognize, and at the center of it all, Ω-Minwoo.
And at the center of it all, a space shaped exactly like me.
"They're building a bridge," I gasped, reality snapping back into focus with enough force to make me stagger. "Not to invade—to merge. They want to collapse the dimensional barriers permanently."
"Merge how?" Brimstone demanded.
I met my commander's eyes, the terrible understanding hitting me like a physical blow. "By swapping us. Ω-Minwoo exists in their dimension—I exist in ours. We are reflections of each other, two incarnations of the same individual, separated by different realities. If they can switch our positions, use the unique dimensional signature we share..."
"They can rewrite the boundary between Alpha and Omega Earth," Sage finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
The emergency lighting pulsed as Seoul's dimensional grid registered another spike. Through the windows, we could see strange aurora-like phenomena dancing across the city's skyline—beautiful and terrifying proof that reality was becoming increasingly negotiable.
"How long do we have?" Phoenix asked, though his expression suggested he dreaded the answer.
Cypher's fingers flew across his interfaces, pulling up projections based on the accelerating pattern. "At current progression rates? Eighteen hours until dimensional barriers reach critical instability."
"We have eighteen hours to figure out how to stop them from stealing our bridge between worlds," Jett said, unconsciously moving closer to me.
I felt the weight of cosmic responsibility settling back onto my shoulders, but this time it felt different. Not the crushing isolation of a burden carried alone, but the distributed load of people who chose to stand together against impossible odds.
"Then we better get started," I said, wind stirring around me with newfound purpose.
Outside Seoul's windows, reality continued its beautiful, terrifying dance with possibility. But inside the Protocol command center, six agents began planning how to save the world from perfection.
The static in my head had finally resolved into something like clarity: whatever happened in the next eighteen hours would determine not just the fate of Alpha Earth, but the meaning of identity itself.
I thought briefly of Hanna, probably still at the PC bang, existing in blessed ignorance of dimensional warfare and cosmic stakes. Tomorrow, if there was a tomorrow, I would return to that small sanctuary of normalcy and maybe find the courage to tell her who I really was.
But first, I had a world to save.
The convergence was coming.
And somewhere in the static between dimensions, I could already hear Ω-Minwoo laughing.