Pain was the first thing I felt.
It settled deep within my body, dull and persistent, as though every bone had been struck one after another. Breathing wasn't difficult, but every inhale carried a faint ache beneath my ribs. My head throbbed with a steady rhythm, and even before opening my eyes, I knew this wasn't my body.
The thought should have frightened me.
Instead, I found myself accepting it with surprising ease.
Perhaps dying once changed a person's perspective.
I slowly opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was old, its once-white paint faded by time. Fine cracks stretched across one corner, and a small ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, producing an occasional squeak that echoed through the quiet room. Morning sunlight slipped through a half-drawn curtain, painting a warm rectangle across the wooden floor.
For several moments, I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
It was strange.
Only a short while ago, I had been on a plane bound for Beijing. I remembered reviewing my presentation, fastening my seatbelt, the sudden turbulence, and the unbearable pain that had exploded inside my head.
Then there had been darkness.
A black cat.
A contract.
The System.
None of it had been a dream.
I let out a slow breath before carefully pushing myself into a sitting position.
The movement sent a sharp pain through my side.
"..."
I instinctively pressed a hand against my ribs.
Definitely bruised.
Judging from the soreness, at least one or two ribs had been cracked, though not badly enough to puncture a lung. My left forearm had been stitched, and the skin across my knuckles felt tight whenever I curled my fingers into a fist. Whoever had treated this body before I arrived knew what they were doing.
If this had been one of my patients, I would've ordered another week of complete rest.
Unfortunately, I had never been very good at listening to my own advice.
I glanced around the apartment.
It was much smaller than I expected.
A narrow bed occupied one side of the room, its gray blanket folded neatly despite the obvious signs that someone had been resting there until recently. Against the opposite wall stood a wooden desk crowded with textbooks, loose papers, and several sharpened pencils arranged inside a ceramic mug. A bookshelf filled nearly an entire corner of the apartment, every shelf packed tightly with books whose spines showed signs of frequent use.
Near the window sat a tiny cactus in a white ceramic pot.
It was healthy.
Someone had remembered to water it.
For reasons I couldn't explain, that tiny detail lingered in my mind.
"This doesn't exactly look like the home of a wealthy family's youngest son."
A familiar voice answered inside my head.
[Max Smith has lived here for almost two years.]
I didn't jump this time.
Instead, I sighed.
"You really don't make any noise before speaking, do you?"
[I exist within the Host's consciousness.]
"So you're saying I have to get used to it."
[Correct.]
"...You're lucky I have a strong heart."
[The Host's previous heart has already stopped beating.]
I stared blankly ahead.
"...Was that supposed to be a joke?"
[I am unsure.]
For the first time since meeting Cub, I couldn't tell whether the system had intentionally made a joke or had simply stated a fact.
Either way, it somehow made me laugh.
The sound surprised even me.
It was quiet, almost bitter.
Perhaps because laughter felt strangely out of place after dying.
I stood carefully, allowing my body time to adjust before taking slow steps around the apartment.
Everything was... tidy.
Not spotless.
Lived in.
The books on the shelf were arranged by subject rather than size. Sticky notes peeked from between countless pages, each filled with neat handwriting. A forensic anatomy textbook lay open on the desk beside a notebook covered in careful diagrams and observations.
The handwriting was elegant.
Every line was straight.
Every heading underlined with a ruler.
I ran my fingers lightly across the notebook.
"Max was meticulous."
[Correct.]
"He studied hard."
[Correct.]
I smiled faintly.
"You really only know one word."
[I know many words.]
"You just don't use them."
Cub fell silent.
I had a feeling that counted as winning.
The apartment itself wasn't expensive, but it carried traces of its owner everywhere.
The pair of slippers placed neatly beside the bed.
A shopping list attached to the refrigerator with a small magnet.
Three library receipts tucked beneath a flower-shaped paperweight.
A half-finished crossword puzzle on the dining table.
None of these things were remarkable on their own.
Yet together they painted the image of someone quietly living his life one ordinary day at a time.
Someone who probably never imagined it would end in a dark alley.
My gaze drifted toward the refrigerator.
Opening it revealed exactly what I expected.
Half a carton of milk.
Three eggs.
A container of kimchi.
A few vegetables that were beginning to lose their freshness.
Instant noodles occupied the bottom shelf beside bottled water.
There wasn't much.
Not because Max lacked money.
Simply because there was only one person living here.
I closed the refrigerator and leaned against the counter.
"Cub."
[Yes, Host?]
"You said I'd inherit the original owner's memories."
[That is correct.]
"I don't remember anything."
[Memory synchronization has not begun.]
I turned to the empty room.
"And you waited until now to tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
"..."
I closed my eyes.
For someone who claimed to be a system, Cub had an irritating talent for answering only the exact question it was asked.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
"Fine."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose before speaking again.
"Begin the memory synchronization."
[Understood.]
The apartment disappeared.
The floor beneath my feet dissolved into darkness, replaced by warmth.
The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air.
Somewhere nearby, a child laughed.
I blinked.
The world before me slowly came into focus.
A little boy no older than five ran across a garden with clumsy steps, chasing after a bright yellow butterfly. His silver-blond hair shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, and every few seconds he would burst into another fit of laughter whenever the butterfly escaped his tiny hands.
"Max."
A woman's gentle voice called from behind him.
"Slow down."
The little boy turned immediately.
"I'm coming!"
Without hesitation, he ran toward the woman standing beneath a cherry blossom tree.
She laughed as she caught him before he could trip over his own feet.
"What did I tell you about running?"
"...Not to."
"And?"
"I forgot."
"You always forget."
The woman smiled before kissing his forehead.
Watching the scene, something inside my chest tightened.
The memory didn't belong to me.
Yet I could still feel the warmth lingering within it.
The simple happiness of a child who had never doubted he was loved.
Then...
The memory shifted.
The garden faded.
The laughter disappeared.
Dark clouds gathered overhead as the sound of falling rain slowly replaced everything else.
The rain fell without pause.
I stood in the middle of a cemetery, surrounded by rows of black umbrellas. The cheerful garden from a moment ago had vanished as if it had never existed. In its place stood two polished coffins resting beneath a white canopy.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the rain seemed unwilling to disturb the silence.
The little boy from before stood between an elderly couple. His tiny hand clung tightly to the old woman's sleeve while his wide eyes remained fixed on the photographs resting atop the coffins.
He didn't understand.
Not completely.
He only knew his parents were sleeping inside those wooden boxes, and everyone around him kept crying.
"Why is Mommy sleeping there?"
His small voice sounded especially clear amidst the silence.
Nobody answered immediately.
The old woman beside him lowered herself until they were at eye level. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but she still forced a smile.
"They're going somewhere far away."
The little boy frowned.
"When will they come back?"
This time...
No one could answer.
The memory blurred before I could see what happened next.
The scene shifted once more.
I found myself standing inside a large mansion.
Its high ceilings and crystal chandeliers reflected wealth that most people would only ever see in magazines. Servants moved quietly through the halls, careful not to make unnecessary noise.
At the center of the living room sat a young boy.
Max.
He looked smaller than the room itself.
His feet dangled from the sofa as he hugged a stuffed rabbit against his chest.
Every few minutes he turned toward the front door.
Waiting.
The grandfather clock chimed.
Seven o'clock.
He smiled.
"They'll be home soon."
Eight o'clock.
The smile remained.
Nine.
The smile began to fade.
A maid approached him with a gentle expression.
"Young Master Max, dinner is ready."
"I'll wait."
"But Young Master Ivan and Miss Claire called. They won't be coming home tonight."
"...Again?"
The maid hesitated before nodding.
"They're still at the company."
Max lowered his head.
"...Okay."
He climbed down from the sofa and quietly followed her to the dining room.
The table was absurdly large.
Large enough for a family of twelve.
Only one plate had been prepared.
The little boy climbed onto his chair and ate in silence.
The servants stood nearby, pretending not to notice that he kept glancing toward the empty seats across from him.
The memory ended there.
...
Another replaced it.
Max was older now.
Maybe ten.
He sat on the living room floor surrounded by wrapping paper.
His grandparents had come to visit from overseas.
Grandpa laughed as Max eagerly opened another present.
"What is it this time?"
"A camera!"
"I've always wanted one!"
His grandfather chuckled.
"Then take lots of pictures for us."
"I will!"
Grandma smiled before looking toward the staircase.
"Ivan and Claire aren't home yet?"
One of the housekeepers answered quietly.
"The young master is attending a board meeting."
"And Miss Claire has a charity event this evening."
Grandma's smile faltered.
"I see."
She glanced toward Max.
The boy was pretending not to listen.
He carefully placed the camera back inside its box before asking in a voice that sounded much too mature for his age.
"Grandma..."
"Hm?"
"They're busy again, right?"
"...Yes."
"It's okay."
He smiled.
"I understand."
Watching him say those words hurt more than watching him cry.
Children shouldn't have to understand everything.
...
The memories continued.
Time passed quietly.
Birthdays came and went.
Holidays passed one after another.
Max grew taller.
The mansion somehow grew emptier.
I watched countless dinners where one seat remained occupied while the others stayed untouched.
Sometimes Claire came home long enough to eat dessert before rushing back to the office.
Sometimes Ivan arrived after everyone else had gone to sleep.
There were days when the three siblings lived under the same roof without seeing each other once.
Nobody argued.
Nobody shouted.
There simply wasn't enough time.
...
When Max turned eighteen, he returned to New York.
I saw the day Ivan picked him up from the airport.
He looked exactly as I expected.
Tall.
Composed.
Wearing a perfectly tailored black suit despite it being nearly midnight.
He took Max's suitcase without saying much.
"Long flight?"
"A little."
"You should rest."
"...Okay."
That was the entire conversation during the drive home.
The silence inside the car wasn't uncomfortable.
It was unfamiliar.
Like two people trying to remember how to speak to each other after years apart.
The mansion hadn't changed.
It was still beautiful.
Still spotless.
Still painfully quiet.
The servants welcomed Max warmly, carrying his luggage upstairs while congratulating him on returning home.
One of them even said they had watched him grow up.
It should have felt comforting.
Instead...
It felt like everyone knew him except the people he wanted to know him most.
The first week passed peacefully.
Ivan left before sunrise every morning.
Claire usually returned after midnight.
Whenever they met, it lasted only a few minutes.
"Morning."
"Morning."
"How are your classes?"
"They're good."
"That's great."
Then one of them would receive another phone call.
Another meeting.
Another emergency.
Another reason to leave.
Max never complained.
Not once.
Every time Grandpa called from overseas, he smiled and said everything was fine.
"Ivan cooks breakfast sometimes."
A lie.
"Claire took me shopping."
Another lie.
"They're taking good care of me."
The biggest lie of all.
I could feel the guilt twisting inside his chest every time he said those words.
Not because he blamed them.
Because he didn't want his grandparents to worry.
...
After a month, Max quietly rented a small apartment near the university.
Ivan didn't stop him.
Claire tried to convince him to stay.
"You don't have to move out."
"I'll still visit."
"You can stay here and commute."
"It's closer to campus."
Claire looked at him for a long moment before forcing a smile.
"...Then promise you'll answer my calls."
"I promise."
He meant it.
He really did.
...
The apartment felt different from the mansion.
It was smaller.
Older.
The wallpaper had begun peeling near the kitchen.
The faucet leaked whenever it rained.
The heater barely worked during winter.
Yet somehow...
It felt warmer.
For the first time in years, Max had neighbors who greeted him every morning.
He learned the owner's name at the bookstore.
He knew which bakery sold fresh bread after six in the evening.
He even adopted the tiny cactus sitting by the window because the flower shop owner said nobody wanted it.
Life wasn't exciting.
It was ordinary.
And Max liked ordinary.
...
Then came another memory.
A birthday.
The apartment was quiet.
A small cake rested on the table.
Only one candle had been placed in the center.
Twenty.
Max looked at his phone every few minutes.
No calls.
No messages.
At exactly nine that evening...
A notification finally appeared.
Claire
Happy Birthday, Max.
I'm sorry.
I'll make it up to you next week.
Five minutes later...
Another notification.
A bank transfer.
Sender: Ivan Smith
No message.
Just the amount.
Max stared at the screen for a long time.
Eventually...
He locked the phone.
The smile on his face never disappeared.
But neither did the disappointment hidden behind it.
He blew out the candle by himself.
The room became dark.
...
Standing within the memories, I couldn't help closing my eyes.
None of them hated each other.
That was what made it so painful.
Ivan believed providing for Max was enough.
Claire believed there would always be another chance.
Max believed waiting a little longer would eventually bring them back together.
None of them realized they were slowly drifting apart.
Not because they lacked love.
Because they lacked time.
And time...
Was the one thing nobody could ever earn back.
The warmth of the apartment slowly faded.
Another memory surfaced.
This one was much quieter than the rest.
I found myself standing inside the bookstore where Max worked.
The bell above the entrance chimed softly as a customer stepped inside. It wasn't a large store. Most of its shelves were old enough to have been repaired more than once, and the scent of paper lingered in every corner. Unlike the grand libraries I had visited before, this place felt lived in. Books were stacked on tables waiting to be shelved, handwritten recommendation cards were tucked between novels, and someone had left a cup of coffee on the cashier's counter.
Max liked this place.
I could feel it.
He greeted every regular customer by name. He remembered which books children enjoyed, which mystery novels the old man who lived two blocks away always bought, and even which shelf a university student would inevitably wander toward before exams.
He belonged here.
"Max."
An elderly man emerged from the storage room carrying a cardboard box.
His hair had already turned white, but his smile was warm.
"Don't forget to lock up before you leave."
"I won't, Mr. Dawson."
"And stop skipping dinner."
"I'm not skipping dinner."
Mr. Dawson raised an eyebrow.
"You've been living on coffee for three days."
"..."
"I'll eat."
"You always say that."
The old man sighed before patting Max on the shoulder.
"You're a good kid."
The memory paused there for just a second.
Good kid.
It was such an ordinary compliment.
Yet I felt Max's heart tighten.
He smiled as though he had heard those words many times before, but somewhere deep inside him, he still longed to hear them from someone else.
The scene blurred.
Days passed one after another.
University.
The bookstore.
Home.
University.
The bookstore.
Home.
His life settled into a routine that rarely changed.
He wasn't lonely all the time.
That was the strange part.
He had classmates who greeted him in the hallway. His professors liked him because he was diligent. Mr. Dawson often invited him to eat after closing the store, and the elderly couple downstairs occasionally knocked on his door just to share homemade soup.
There were people around him.
Yet every now and then, usually late at night, an emptiness crept into his chest.
It happened when he returned to an apartment where no lights were waiting for him.
It happened when he finished cooking more food than one person could eat.
It happened when he looked at his phone after accomplishing something he wanted to tell someone.
His fingers would hover over Ivan's contact.
Then Claire's.
In the end...
He always locked the screen.
"They're busy."
That sentence became his excuse for everything.
When Claire forgot to call.
"They're busy."
When Ivan didn't reply to his messages.
"They're busy."
When holidays came and went without seeing them.
"They're busy."
He repeated those words so often that eventually, he almost believed they didn't hurt anymore.
...
The memory shifted once again.
Rain.
Cold.
The sound of droplets striking the bookstore's glass windows filled the quiet evening.
Mr. Dawson glanced outside before reaching for his umbrella.
"Looks like it's getting worse."
Max followed his gaze.
"It'll probably rain all night."
"You should wait until it eases up."
"I'll be fine."
Mr. Dawson frowned.
"You always say that."
"I promise."
After closing the register, Max began arranging the last few books before turning off the lights one by one.
The bookstore became dark.
Only the streetlights outside illuminated the entrance.
He checked the lock twice before slipping the keys into his pocket.
The rain greeted him the moment he stepped outside.
It wasn't heavy.
Just enough to soak his clothes if he stayed out long enough.
Max pulled his hood over his head and started walking.
The streets were unusually empty.
Most people had already gone home to avoid the weather.
His apartment wasn't far. Twenty minutes if he took the main road.
Ten if he cut through the alley behind the convenience store.
He hesitated for a moment.
Then turned into the alley.
The memory slowed.
As though even Max's own mind wanted to stop him.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
One pair.
Then another.
He frowned and looked over his shoulder.
Three men emerged from the darkness.
None of them looked familiar.
One stepped forward.
"Wallet."
Max didn't answer immediately.
His eyes swept over them, measuring the distance between each man almost out of instinct.
There was no easy way out.
"I don't carry much cash."
The tallest man laughed.
"Then we'll take everything else."
Max sighed quietly.
"...I was hoping you'd say that."
Before the man could react, Max swung the paper bag in his hand straight into his face.
Books were surprisingly heavy.
The man stumbled backward with a curse.
Max didn't wait.
He ran.
For a brief moment, he thought he might actually escape.
Then someone grabbed the back of his jacket.
He twisted instinctively, driving his elbow into the attacker's ribs.
Another punch landed across his cheek.
His vision blurred.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
Still...
He refused to stay down.
Even after falling to one knee, he pushed himself back up.
He had spent too many years learning to endure.
One more hit.
Another.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
The alley spun around him.
His legs finally gave out.
As he collapsed onto the wet pavement, the rain washed away the blood pooling beneath him.
The three men searched his pockets in a hurry.
"That's all he's got?"
"What a waste of time."
Their voices sounded distant.
As if they belonged to another world.
One by one, their footsteps faded.
Silence returned.
Max lay there alone.
His breathing grew shallower with every passing second.
A few feet away, his phone slipped from his pocket when he fell.
The screen lit up.
He stared at it through blurred vision.
No missed calls.
No new messages.
A weak smile appeared on his face.
"...Figures."
His fingers twitched, trying to reach the phone.
They wouldn't move.
The rain continued to fall.
It soaked through his clothes and chilled him to the bone, yet he barely noticed anymore.
His thoughts wandered.
Grandpa would scold him for walking home in the rain.
Grandma would insist on making ginger tea.
Claire...
She'd probably apologize again for being busy.
Ivan...
He was most likely still in another meeting.
Max closed his eyes.
For years, he had convinced himself that things would get better.
That one day, when the company was stable, the three of them would finally sit down and eat dinner together.
He had believed that hope for so long.
Until tonight.
His lips moved weakly.
"I guess..."
"...you really don't need me after all."
There was no anger in his voice.
No resentment.
Only quiet disappointment.
A disappointment he had carried alone for years.
Darkness swallowed the memory.
And before everything disappeared completely, I felt one last emotion lingering inside Max's heart.
It wasn't hatred.
It wasn't regret.
It was a wish so simple that it almost broke me.
Just once...
He had wanted to hear his brother call him home.