Chapter 8. Trauma related to smartphones?

A subway station— precisely: A ruined subway station, where chaos had taken place, corpses swarming on the ground, blood spattered everywhere. 

There weren't many survivors. Yet, amidst the destruction, corpses littering on the ground, my gaze locked onto a lone figure in the distance— a strong sense of nostalgia, sorrow, pity and an odd sense of happiness overtook me. No... I don't even know whether those words are accurate. I felt something that cannot be conveyed through words — something ambiguous.

A familiar white coat standing in the distance. Beneath it was a formal black business suit. Dark hair, mostly straight but slightly wavy at the ends, and those thoughtful and lonely eyes.

He hadn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever thoughts plagued him. His grip on his smartphone tightened, his knuckles turning white. His expression was pale, unreadable, complicated as he muttered something under his breath.

I took a step forward. Then another.

"Kim Dokja— or should I call you 'Demon King of Salvation'?" I said with joy while waving my hand.

Kim Dokja's gaze snapped toward me, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Of course, there wouldn't be. He didn't know me—because I wasn't from this world.

I am from a world without the 'constellations', 'scenarios' and other monstrous battles— a place where all those tragedies are nothing more than a mere imagination in the lines of text.

Still... As someone who had read that man's story, someone who was saved by that story, someone who lived alongside them. I had to do something, assist Kim Dokja. 

"Where's that sunfish bastard?" I tried to sound as calm and friendly as possible. But I guess I failed, since Kim Dokja expression slightly changed into a more cautions one.

"Well, if you have nothing to say about that bastard, I have something to say to you. I know you're story, Kim Dokja."

His expression hardened. His fingers clenched around his phone before relaxing just as quickly, as if suppressing an instinctive reaction.

"What do you mean by 'my story'?" he asked, the corners of his lips slightly curved up.

That's right. That's the Kim Dokja I know. Someone who was a coward, the most ordinary person out of his companions. Still, he sacrificed himself over and over again without hesitation, for the sake of his companions. Someone who had thought of himself as 'unworthy' of 'love', someone who had remained calm even at the face of death.

"I mean it literally," I replied. "But don't get me wrong — I'm not here to sabotage you. Quite the opposite, actually. You are Kim Dokja, 28 years old, working under a temporary contract at Minosoft. Your mother is behind bars. You've had lots of ups and downs — which you probably still do."

I paused, letting my words settle. His expression remained unreadable, but I could see the subtle shift in his posture, the way his fingers twitched slightly.

And this kind of reminds of the time when his companions also found out about the existence of the novel. So nostalgic!

"But one day, you came across a novel that would eventually end up as your biggest advantage in this world. "Three Ways to Survive in a Ruined World" by tls123.

That got his attention. Kim Dokja stood up, his serious eyes locking onto mine.

"How do you know that?" His voice remained calm, composed. But I could see it—the slight panic buried beneath his face.

We sat beside each other, just before the railroad tracks.

Surprisingly, Kim Dokja was a good listener. He didn't interrupt, didn't scoff, didn't dismiss my words as nonsense. He simply listened as I spoke—detailing key moments of the past and the future as I tried my best to make it understandable.

Then—

"You're late. Again."

A familiar voice shattered Clayton's fantasy.

Clayton's mind snapped back to reality. He blinked, the dim subway ruins vanishing in an instant, replaced by the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway of his school. And standing before him, arms crossed, was Mrs. Mae.

On a normal occasion— running into Mrs. Mae isn't something to fuss over. However, Clayton was late. 

"107 minutes," she said, exasperated. "God, you never learn, do you?"

Clayton shrugged, smirking slightly. "You know, the usual traffic." Clayton knew he couldn't deceive especially her, it was a lame act and a poor excuse. No one would buy it.

Her gaze flickered down to the bag in his hand. "And what's that?"

"This?" Clayton lifted it slightly. "Just the materials for the biology experiment."

Without waiting for further interrogation, he turned abruptly and strode toward his classroom, shoving his hands into his pockets. The plain white bag dangled from his wrist.

With that, Clayton turned right in fluster, heading towards his classroom with his arms shoved in his pockets. The materials for the experiment stuffed inside a plain white bag hanging from his left wrist.

As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment before pushing it open. "May I come in?"

9:49 AM. The English period was nearly over. The 15-minute break at 9:55 AM was approaching.

Mrs. Novella—his English teacher since late freshman year—looked up from her desk. Adjusting the 1900's circular glasses perched on her nose, she studied Clayton with a sharp, unimpressed stare.

"The class is almost over," she said flatly. "Why don't you wait outside?"

Clayton sighed inwardly. Dammit.

Still, he forced a grin. "Nice T-shirt, Mrs. Novella."

The gray fabric had a bold yellow print: DO NOT GIVE UP! surrounded by tiny illustrations of books and pens.

Mrs. Novella raised a brow. Then, to his mild surprise, she gave a small nod. "Well, thank you. You're free to leave."

Clayton exhaled, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

Now normally, Mrs. Novella wasn't really strict, or at least towards Clayton. She had lot of mood swings. One day, she would slide student's bad behaviors with a joke, and one day she would suddenly burst into anger. She was also an individual who happened to hate 'late comers'. That's why, when students arrive not just late — extremely late — she would take a deep breath to hold her anger and amiably kick them out.

That being said, Clayton took a seat at the small red couch located at the front of his classroom, in the hallway. Obviously, for students to get comfy during the break. However, hardly anyone except Clayton's class sits on it. 

The couch is quite long. When Clayton lays on it, there are approximately 60 centimeters left. Not to mention, Clayton is exceptionally tall, around 179 centimeters.

That couch.... is one of Clayton's favorite places to relax. The memories. 

He had been napping, sitting on that very red couch for quite a while now — from the cusp of his freshman years. 

Clayton resisted the urge of pulling out his smartphone and scroll on TikTok. Because he has learned his lesson — from his middle school days to his late junior year, he had always been a part of a 'mass phone takeaway'. He has had his phone taken so much for so long that he doesn't dare to use his phone in the hallway for more than few minutes.

And so, the thought of being separated from his phone brings back memories. The memories where his phone had been taken away for a week.

"Ethan, Clayton, Nancy phones!" A firm voice bolted me up from my seat and almost ripped my heart out of my chest.

The teacher had left the classroom for a break and hadn't come back for so long, that we thought he just left completely. So, obviously most of us would pull out our smartphones and start doing our business. 

However, the unlucky the ones who were caught, Me, Ethan and a girl from my class — Nancy had been forced to give up their phone for a whole week.

Honestly, what kind of teacher is he? Tricking us like that and taking our phone away for a week. So awful!

So, instead of doom scrolling and get his phone taken away, he covered his eyes with his right arm and prepared to take a short nap.