Thirteen
FLASHBACK
Minho (Age 11), Jisung (Age 9).
The sun was high over the neighborhood park, casting a golden warmth over the small field where a group of kids were chasing each other around, shouting and laughing. Among the chaos, two stood out—not because they were the loudest, though one of them certainly tried—but because they were never more than two feet apart.
Jisung was a whirlwind of movement and chatter, bouncing on his feet, mouth running a mile a minute as he circled Minho like an excited puppy. His brown hair was sticking up in several directions from all the running, and his chubby cheeks were flushed pink with exertion. Floating beside him was Quokka, mimicking his energy with small spins in the air and exaggerated gestures, clearly hyped from his human’s mood.
Minho stood off to the side, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, watching the others play with a cool expression—but there was a distinct smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Leebit floated lazily above him, ears twitching every time Quokka zoomed past.
“You’re not gonna join the race?” Jisung asked, breathless, plopping down in the grass next to Minho. “Wonwoo cheated, by the way. He totally shoved me with his shoulder.”
“Of course he did,” Minho replied, tone dry but fond. “He probably got tired of your mouth moving faster than your legs.”
“Hey! Rude,” Jisung huffed, then paused. “But kinda true.”
Leebit let out a dramatic little flip and floated down to nudge Quokka, who instantly started mock-fighting him midair, limbs flailing in cartoonish fashion.
Jisung smiled at that, a little quieter now, and nudged his shoulder against Minho’s. “You think we’ll get our powers soon?”
Minho shrugged. “Probably. You know how it is—everyone gets theirs at thirteen. Yours’ll probably be something loud and annoying.”
“Yours will be boring,” Jisung shot back with a snort. “Like… making people fall asleep.”
Minho tilted his head. “Could use that on you when you won’t shut up.”
They dissolved into laughter, heads tipping back, not a care in the world between them.
Across the field, one of their older friends called out, “Hey! You two coming or not?!”
Minho rolled his eyes. “Let’s go before they come over here and drag us.”
——·——
Minho (Age 13), Jisung (Age 11).
The sun filtered gently through the windows of the Lee household, golden rays reflecting off the decorations strung along the ceiling. Streamers, balloons, and a large banner that read “Happy 13th Minho!” adorned the living room. Laughter echoed as kids ran around, their Skzoos darting through the air like colorful fireworks.
Minho stood near the cake table, his expression calm despite the chaos. He was never the type to get overly excited—but today was different. Today, something had changed.
Jisung shoved a slice of cake into his mouth and bounded over, cheeks stuffed and eyes sparkling. “So?! Did it happen yet? Do you feel it?! Did it explode out of you like BAM?”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally the only one who expects people to combust when their powers show up.”
“But did it?” Jisung insisted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Quokka mimicked him midair, vibrating with shared anticipation.
Leebit floated beside Minho with a smug little tilt to its head, as if saying, Finally.
Minho let a small smirk tug at his lips. “Actually… yeah. It happened this morning.”
Jisung's jaw dropped. “WHAT?! AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?!”
“I wanted to show you.”
Minho stepped away from the table, raising a hand. The room went quiet as their friend group turned to watch.
A small orb of light formed in his palm, glowing faintly with soft flickers like a candle flame. Minho’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and the orb slowly floated upward, hovering over the table—right above a delicate arrangement of birthday flowers.
“Watch,” he said quietly.
The orb burst—not with a bang, but with a soft pop, releasing a spray of cool raindrops that fell gently onto the flowers, making them glisten.
Gasps and cheers erupted around the room.
“No way!” one kid shouted.
“That’s so cool!” another added.
Jisung clapped wildly, grinning from ear to ear. “That was awesome! Wait, wait—can you make it explode too? Maybe it could explode!”
Minho’s eyes gleamed with pride and curiosity. “Still practicing. But yeah.”
He conjured another orb, this one slightly brighter, and after a few seconds of concentration, it flared and cracked with a tiny burst of light—enough to make a sharp pop and sizzle a corner of a napkin.
Minho blinked. “Oops.”
“Okay, you’re definitely gonna set something on fire,” Jisung said, but he was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
Their friends patted Minho on the back, congratulating him and tossing questions about how it felt, how strong it could get, and what he planned to do with it.
“I’m gonna train more,” he said, eyes flicking between the orb remnants and the creek. “Get stronger. Maybe become an agent someday.”
Jisung beamed, eyes shining as he nodded eagerly. “Then I’m gonna become one too. As soon as I get mine, we’ll be a team. Me and you.”
Minho turned to him, and that smile he gave—small and real—was the kind that said I believe you.
“You better,” he said. “Can’t have you falling behind.”
Jisung puffed up his chest. “Never.”
Quokka and Leebit twirled above them, watching their boys with visible pride.
———·———
Minho (Age 15), Jisung (Age 13)
The sun was already high when Minho reached the park. Leebit zipped around his shoulder, jittery with excitement, bouncing in place as if he could barely hold in the anticipation.
“Where is he?” one of their friends groaned, glancing down the path. “He’s usually the first one here.”
Minho shrugged but he was grinning. “Probably took a while for him to figure out how to not explode his house with whatever power he got.”
Laughter echoed between the group. Even the Skzoos hovered with heightened energy. Everyone was eager—curious. It was Jisung’s 13th birthday yesterday, and in their world, that wasn’t just any birthday. It was the day your gift appeared. The day everything changed.
Minho had been disappointed not to see Jisung on his birthday. They’d always spent them together. But Jisung’s parents had taken him out of town for the day, and Minho had figured he’d get the full scoop today.
“He’s probably gonna come flying in,” one friend joked. “Literally. Watch him be able to fly.”
Minho smirked, shaking his head. “He’s probably gonna vibrate through walls or something. That’d be totally him.”
And then, finally, footsteps.
Jisung appeared from the path, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, hair a little messier than usual, head ducked low. Quokka floated slowly behind him, unusually quiet.
Minho straightened, excitement flickering in his chest. “Hey! Birthday boy. Took you long enough. So? What is it?”
The group turned, leaning in expectantly.
Jisung hesitated. He glanced up, meeting Minho’s eyes for a brief second. His voice, when it came, was soft—barely above a whisper.
“…I didn’t get one.”
Silence.
“What?” someone asked.
Jisung looked down again, hands fisting in his pockets. “I waited all night, but nothing happened. My mom says it might be late or something. I dunno. I just…” He trailed off.
There was a beat of stunned quiet.
Then, a chuckle. One of the boys laughed. “Wait, seriously? Nothing? Not even, like, a spark?”
“No way,” another cackled. “You didn’t get them? On your birthday?”
“Wait—doesn't that mean…”
“Isn’t that like… it? Like, if you didn’t get ‘em, you’re just—”
“A zero?”
The group erupted into cruel laughter.
Jisung’s head snapped up, eyes darting nervously to each of them. He looked confused, hurt, like he hadn’t expected this reaction at all.
“I mean, maybe it’s just delayed,” he said quickly, forcing a laugh. “Maybe I’ll get them in a few days or someth—”
“That’s not how it works,” someone interrupted. “Everyone knows if it doesn’t come on your birthday, it’s not coming at all.”
The laughter began. Low at first, then bolder
His eyes shot to Minho—his Minho. His best friend. The one person who’d always stood by him, always made him laugh, always knew what to say when everything felt too loud.
He looked at Minho with something close to desperation.
But Minho hesitated. He glanced at the others—at their expectant gazes, their mocking grins. The weight of their attention pressed heavy on his chest.
Then, with a hollow chuckle, Minho looked away.
He laughed.
“Damn, Jisung. Guess you’re just gonna be the weakest one of us, huh? Maybe you can be our mascot or something—carry our bags when we become agents.”
The group roared even louder at that, slapping each other’s backs. The teasing got harsher, meaner.
And Jisung—
Jisung just stood there, frozen. Quokka floated closer to him, brows furrowed, clearly hurt and confused.
Leebit, who had been fluttering by Minho’s shoulder, stopped midair. He stared at him in disbelief, his little eyes wide and almost… betrayed.
Jisung turned away slowly, shoulders stiff, blinking rapidly like he was trying to understand what had just happened. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t yell or cry or defend himself.
He just quietly sat down beside the tree and looked at the grass.
And Minho looked away—because for the first time, he couldn’t meet his best friend’s eyes.
~~~~~•
The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into months. Seasons changed. The leaves fell. Snow came and melted. Jisung felt every second of it, more alone than he’d ever been in his life.
He still came to the park sometimes—mostly out of habit, sometimes because Quokka nudged him out of the house so he wouldn’t stay curled up under the covers all day. But the second he saw them, he always regretted it.
His old friends had all awakened their powers, and they loved nothing more than showing off. Especially when he was around.
One afternoon, as Jisung sat quietly on the edge of the playground, tracing idle patterns into the dirt with a stick, one of the boys—Jinyul—waved a hand lazily, causing a gust of wind to blow the dust right into Jisung’s face.
He coughed, blinking hard, but didn’t complain. He never did.
Another boy, Taegyu, grinned. “Watch this,” he said, and stomped the ground. His earth control powers rippled beneath the surface, cracking the soil until a tiny stone popped up from the ground. He flicked it with one finger—straight at Jisung’s shoulder.
“Target practice,” he said cheerfully.
Jisung winced but didn’t react. He just dropped the stick and kept his eyes on the dirt.
Taegyu sent another. Then another.
Then came Minho. Leebit floated close, looking uncomfortable.
Minho, whose glowing orbs of light could hover like stars before exploding into whatever he programmed them to. At first it was harmless—bright flashes or water droplets. But now…
Now it was confetti. Dust. Paint. Bits of shredded paper that clung to Jisung’s clothes, his hair, his books.
Sometimes he summoned orbs of water, letting them hover before splashing down on Jisung’s head with perfect aim, soaking his hoodie, his backpack. Other days it was dust, kicked up into tiny spheres and let loose to explode like a puff of smoke around Jisung’s face. Once, it was confetti—bright and colorful, exploding like a party popper right in front of him.
“Happy sixth month of being useless!” one of the others had joked.
Jisung didn’t react.
Not even once.
He stood there, drenched, coughing from the dust, or blinking through the stinging glitter—but he didn’t say anything. Not a single word.
He used to laugh the loudest. Used to trip over his own feet just trying to keep up with Minho’s longer strides. Used to fill the air with jokes and silly impressions, fingers smudged with graphite or cookie crumbs. But now he just walked with his head down, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for the next hit.
Quokka hovered protectively near him at all times, ears drooped and his tiny arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like he wanted to launch himself at every one of them—but he couldn’t. Not really.
Minho never looked him in the eye. Not once. Not during the laughing. Not during the teasing. And definitely not when Jisung wiped water off his face and quietly walked away, the glimmer in his eyes too faint to be tears—too tired to even cry. He stopped reacting altogether. His silence became a second skin, like armor.
His mother, already battling a worsening illness she had developed a few months after his birthday, never knew. Jisung made sure of that. He smiled at her bedside every evening, told her stories about how great school was going, how his teachers said he was improving, how his classmates liked his jokes. She'd smile weakly, fingers carding through his hair as she whispered how proud she was.
Quokka was the only one who knew the truth.
He never left Jisung’s side.
The tiny companion would float protectively close, often glaring at the other boys from behind Jisung’s shoulder, his bright energy dimmed into something sharper. He’d nudge at Jisung’s arms when he wouldn’t eat. Curl around his chest when the tears came late at night, muffled against his pillow.
But Jisung never let his mom see him cry.
He couldn’t.
~~~~~~•
They moved during the rainy season.
It wasn’t dramatic or sudden—just a quiet decision made in the corner of a hospital room, with the muffled voices of doctors and the low hum of machines in the background. His mom had grown weaker. Her hands shook when she held chopsticks now. She coughed until her lips bled sometimes. And their old apartment was too far from the hospital, too full of memories that hurt to breathe around.
So they packed up and left.
The new place was quiet—too quiet. The walls were thin, the ceilings low. There was no park nearby, no familiar streets or corners where he and Minho used to race with their companions. Just traffic. And silence. And the soft hum of machines in the next room where his mom stayed.
At first, she tried to keep up her energy. Smiling whenever he walked in. Asking about school. Trying to cook. But it didn’t last.
Her body started failing her.
And Jisung, still just a kid, was left to take over everything.
He learned how to shop for groceries with a crumpled list and barely enough money. How to do laundry, even though the washer always leaked. How to coax his mom into eating even when she said she wasn’t hungry. How to stay quiet when she slept because the slightest sound made her stir.
He still went to school.
He still tried to study.
But the dark circles under his eyes got worse, and the weight on his shoulders grew heavier by the day.
Quokka rarely left his side now. The tiny companion wasn’t loud like before, didn’t bounce off walls or chase shadows. He helped where he could—dragging a spoon closer when Jisung was too tired to reach, flicking light switches off when he fell asleep with the lamp on. And sometimes, when the boy would stare too long at the ceiling in the dark, Quokka would settle gently onto his chest, the quiet warmth of him saying what words couldn’t.
But even then, Jisung was retreating further into himself.
You okay?” one of the teachers asked one day, after class. Jisung nodded.
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
Sometimes, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, panic clawing at his chest, thinking—what if mom doesn’t wake up tomorrow? What if I forget something important? What if I can’t do this?
But he’d breathe.
He’d press his face into Quokka’s soft fur.
And he’d get up anyway.
Because he had no choice.
Sometimes, on long nights, he found himself staring at his hands. Willing something to spark. Anything. A flicker. A pulse. A whisper of the power he was supposed to have.
But there was never anything.
He was just Jisung. Powerless. Stretched thin. And slowly fading under the weight of the world.
~~~~~•
The sky was already dimming as Jisung walked home from school, backpack slung low on one shoulder and Quokka tucked tightly against his chest. His steps were slower than usual, dragging, weighed down not just by the day, but by everything. His mom hadn’t been able to get out of bed that morning. He’d left her water, food, her medicine—promised he’d be back soon. Promised he’d take care of everything.
As he turned onto the quiet road that led to their small apartment, a black car rolled up beside him. Jisung paused, cautious. Three men stepped out, dressed sharply in suits that didn’t match the crumbling sidewalk or broken streetlamps around them. They didn’t look like they belonged.
“You’re Han Jisung, right?” the one in the middle asked, voice smooth but chilling. His smile was too rehearsed to be kind.
Jisung’s grip on Quokka tightened, and he gave a slow nod. “Who’s asking?”
The man exchanged a look with his companion before stepping forward. “We’ve been watching you. We know your power didn’t awaken.”
That made Jisung flinch. “What…? How—?”
“And we know your mother is sick. That you’re all alone.” The man smiled again, wider this time. “But it doesn’t have to stay that way. You’re special, Jisung. Your ability didn’t show up because it’s different. We can help you awaken it. Help you become something more. Useful. Powerful.”
Quokka hissed soundlessly at the man, shaking his head, eyes wide with alarm. But Jisung barely registered it.
“Why?” he asked, voice barely audible.
“Because we believe in potential,” the man answered smoothly. “You work for us—just a few missions, nothing dangerous—and in return, we’ll help your mother. Medical bills, treatments, food. All taken care of. And you’ll finally get to unlock what’s inside you.”
Jisung stared at them, heart hammering. His first instinct was to run. To scream. But then his mind filled with the image of his mom coughing violently that morning, too weak to even sip water without help.
“Can I think about it?” he asked, voice trembling.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card with a strange emblem—sleek, unfamiliar. No name. Just a number.
“You have until tomorrow. Don’t take too long.”
They got back in the car and drove off like they’d never been there, leaving Jisung frozen under the flickering streetlight, Quokka shaking in his arms.
He looked down at the card.
And that night, as he fed his mother soup with trembling hands and watched her smile weakly at him like he was the strongest person in the world, Jisung made his choice.