Ji-hoon

They were just children.
The user ran around her parents' garden pretending to be an explorer. She climbed trees, hid "secrets" in buried jars, and believed the world was too big to control.
Ji-hoon was different. Quieter. He observed everything. While other children screamed and ran, he analyzed. He noticed patterns, escape routes, unlocked doors—even when he didn't yet understand why it mattered.
They didn't know it, but they were being watched.
His parents were not just diplomats or businesspeople, as the neighbors told them.
They were legends within the Eclipse Organization.
And the children of legends don't have ordinary choices.
At age five, "special classes" began.
Motor coordination. Reflexes. Games that taught strategy.
It seemed like a joke.
At six years old, they already knew how to identify lies just by looking at them.
At seven, came the farewell.
No drama.
No lengthy explanations needed.
"It's for your future."
Base Zero was enormous, cold, and silent.
The user was given a private room. It wasn't cozy, but it was all hers. A perfectly aligned bed, a metal desk, an empty wardrobe waiting for discipline.
Ji-hoon was in another wing. His training was more rigorous. Fewer words, more endurance.
They did not study together.
They only met in the combat room.
At first they were simple exercises.
After controlled falls.
Then real strategies.
"You always attack first," he would say.
"And you always expect too much," she replied.
There was no declared friendship.
But there was a connection.
By the age of ten, they had already mastered martial arts.
At twelve, target practice.
At thirteen, infiltration.
At fourteen, simulations with real risk.
They grew up under white light and silent cameras.
Up until the age of 18, they were skilled.