lookism: Apostle

In a stark white room, a frail ten-year-old boy lay motionless, clothed in a white hospital gown that matched the sterile surroundings. His body, unnaturally thin and weak, contrasted with the healthy appearance typical of boys his age. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and he scanned the room. There was nothing—no windows, no furniture, just a single bed and the cold, blinding whiteness of the walls.

As the boy tried to process his surroundings, memories flooded his mind. He remembered sitting in the passenger seat of a car, his heart racing with excitement. It was supposed to be the happiest day of his life—his wedding day. He was about to marry the love of his life, the woman he had dreamt of building a future with. Then, the crash. A truck had appeared out of nowhere. And now... this.

Confused, he looked down at his hands. They were small and delicate, entirely unlike his own. Panic set in as he examined the rest of his body—a child's body, frail and unfamiliar. His breath quickened.

"What the hell? Where am I? What happened to me?"

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "Is this some kind of reincarnation? Like those stories in manhwa?" He shook his head. "Why me? I was happy… so close to starting the life I always wanted. And now this? God, this is cruel."

Sorrow welled up in his chest as he thought about his fiancée. "She must be devastated. I hope she finds happiness, even if it's not with me. She deserves better than this mess."

Gingerly, he sat up on the bed. His body felt foreign, as though it didn't belong to him. His legs trembled when he tried to stand, too weak to hold him upright. Before he could gather his bearings, a door he hadn't noticed before creaked open.

A man in his fifties entered, dressed in a pristine white lab coat. Despite his age, the man exuded an intimidating presence, his sharp features framed by a neatly trimmed white beard. He looked down at the boy with a strange glint in his eye.

"Ah, you're awake. Good," the man said, his deep voice echoing in the empty room. "Welcome back, Number 8. You're the only one who survived out of the ten subjects. It seems you're… special."

The boy's heart sank. Number 8? Subjects? Survivors? A sickening feeling crept up his spine.

The man continued, a twisted smile spreading across his face. "You've been in a coma for a month, but it was worth it. You're going to be my perfect weapon. My masterpiece. A perfect human."

The boy stared at him, his mind reeling. Weapon? Perfect human? What the hell is this psycho talking about?

The man turned to leave but paused at the door. "Rest up. You'll need your strength for what's to come." And with that, he was gone.

Moments later, two men in surgical gowns entered the room. Without a word, they grabbed the boy by the wrists and began dragging him toward the door.

"Let me go!" he screamed, struggling against their grip. His voice echoed in the empty hallway.

One of the men delivered a sharp blow to his neck, and everything went black.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself strapped to a cold metal table in a room filled with machines. Bright overhead lights blinded him. The smell of antiseptic burned his nose. Around him, figures in surgical gowns moved with practiced precision.

"Don't worry, Number 8," the man from earlier said, his voice dripping with mock reassurance. He stood in the corner, watching with gleeful anticipation. "This is the beginning of your transformation."

The boy's protests were cut short as a needle pierced his arm, injecting a strange green liquid into his veins. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness again was the man's twisted grin.

When he woke up, he felt… different. Stronger. Healthier. His body, which had been frail and weak, now felt like it was brimming with energy. Sitting up, he noticed the muscles on his arms, the sturdiness of his legs.

"What the hell did they do to me?" he muttered, clenching his fists. His mind raced as he tried to piece together the events that had led to this transformation.

The door swung open, and the man in the white lab coat entered once again. He approached with a pleased expression, like a craftsman admiring his finished work.

"Congratulations, Number 8. You've exceeded my expectations. You're stronger now—better. But this is only the beginning. Soon, you'll undergo training to hone your abilities. You'll learn everything you need to become the perfect human. You'll be my masterpiece."

The boy nodded silently, fear gripping his heart. He knew he couldn't resist—not yet.

As the man turned to leave, he called over his shoulder, "Your training begins tomorrow. Don't disappoint me."

When the door closed, the boy sank to the floor, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. Perfect human? Masterpiece?

"God," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "If you're listening… please, get me out of this nightmare."

To Be Continued…