Fallen from the Sky

Sometimes, stories don't start as they should.

There is no light. There isn't even an explanation.

Just darkness.

And cold.

Rok Soo used to mock transmigration stories. He found them ridiculous, adorned with clichés of power, redemption, and second chances. Stories to dream when reality was too cruel.

And yet, upon waking, I was not in Korea.

The body it occupied was small. Sore. Wounded.

And wings.

No golden or white wings like those that adorn the angels in the stained glass windows. No.
Theirs were black, as if they had been torn from the sky and thrown into the mud. Broken wings, torn, that hurt with every breath.

I didn't know if it was a fallen angel, an experiment, or simply a mistake.

Rok Soo didn't understand why.

But I did know one thing:

It was a story I hadn't asked for, in a body I didn't recognize, with scars that shouldn't be there.

A story that, inevitably, had already begun.