The corridor stretched ahead like something from a historical drama Jin-woo had glimpsed once through a shop window. His boots, scuffed, cheap things that had walked hundreds of kilometers of Seoul's unforgiving streets, sank into carpet so thick he could feel the pile through worn soles. Above, the ceiling soared at least five meters high, crossed with dark wooden beams carved with dragons and phoenixes that seemed to writhe in the soft golden light.
Paintings lined the walls. Not prints. Real paintings in gilt frames, each probably worth more than Jin-woo had earned in his entire life. Portraits mostly, stern-faced men in traditional Korean hanbok and modern suits, women with elaborate hairstyles and jewelry that caught the light. The Cheonha family tree, immortalized in oil and canvas.
Jin-woo's reflection flickered in the polished surfaces as they passed. His orange-gold eyes stared back at him from dark wood panels, from glass-covered artwork, from the occasional ornate mirror. Each glimpse reminded him he didn't belong here.
A young woman in an immaculate black uniform appeared around a corner, arms full of fresh linens. She froze when she saw them, then immediately bowed, the movement practiced and deep.
"Colonel Shin. Young master."
Young master. The words made Jin-woo's skin crawl.
Colonel Shin nodded curtly, and they passed. Jin-woo caught the woman's eyes lifting as they moved by, heard the sharp intake of breath. Staring at his eyes, probably. Or his dirty construction clothes. Or the blood that had soaked through the hospital bandage on his arm.
"The staff will bow," Colonel Shin said without turning around. "Standard protocol for family members."
Jin-woo said nothing. What was he supposed to say? Thanks, I hate it?
They turned down another corridor, this one lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking gardens that looked like they'd been transplanted from some emperor's palace. Perfectly manicured hedges, stone lanterns, a pond with a traditional wooden bridge. Beyond that, mountains rose against the darkening sky.
"The estate covers forty-eight hectares," the Colonel continued, his military bearing evident in every step. "Nine distinct zones, each with specific purposes. The main residence where we are now houses the family quarters, formal reception areas, and administrative offices."
Forty-eight hectares. Jin-woo's entire world for the past eight years had been twelve square meters of condemned apartment.
"Certain areas are restricted," Shin went on. "The Chairman's private wing, obviously. The security compound in the northeast sector. The vault levels beneath the main residence." He paused at an intersection of hallways. "The estate manager, Master Kwon, will provide a full briefing tomorrow. For tonight, focus on rest."
They passed another staff member, an older man this time, carrying what looked like a silver tea service. The same bow, the same widened eyes taking in Jin-woo's appearance.
Jin-woo caught his reflection again in a massive mirror hung between two paintings. The contrast nearly made him laugh. Dirty face, tangled hair, cheap jacket torn at the shoulder from the alley fight, jeans with holes that weren't fashionable but functional. He looked like he'd broken in to rob the place.
Has anything really changed? The thought crept in unbidden. Still the same street rat. Just in a fancier cage.
"Here."
Colonel Shin stopped before a set of double doors. Dark wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in patterns of flying cranes. Gold handles that probably cost more than three month's wages at the construction site Jin-woo no longer had.
The Colonel pushed them open.
Jin-woo stepped through and stopped dead.
The room, no, the suite, spread before him like something from a fever dream. The entire space was larger than the entire floor of his abandoned building. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, currently showing the last purple streaks of sunset over the estate's sprawling gardens. The floor was warm wood, partially covered by rugs that looked hand-woven and probably centuries old.
A bed sat against one wall. Not a bed, a monument. Easily three meters wide, with four carved posts supporting a canopy of deep blue silk. Pillows piled high enough to smother someone. Blankets that looked softer than anything Jin-woo had ever touched.
He thought of his sleeping mat. The thin, stained thing he'd found in a dumpster and considered a luxury.
"The suite includes a bedroom, sitting area, private bath, and study," Colonel Shin said, moving through the space with professional efficiency. "All furnishings were updated last month in preparation for the heir's arrival."
They'd been preparing. For months. While Jin-woo had been carrying cement bags and eating instant noodles.
The Colonel crossed to a sleek panel on the wall, pressing it to reveal a sophisticated control system. "Climate, lighting, and entertainment systems." His finger moved across the screen. "The bathroom is through that door. Full amenities, including a soaking tub and shower."
A private bathroom. With a tub.
Jin-woo hadn't had a proper hot shower in three years.
"The telephone beside the bed connects to the house staff." Shin indicated an elegant phone that looked like it belonged in a museum. "Press one for immediate assistance. Anything you need, food, clothing, medical attention, someone will respond within minutes."
Press one. Just press one, and someone would bring him food. Not instant noodles. Real food.
Jin-woo's stomach chose that moment to remind him he'd eaten exactly one bowl of rice porridge in the last eighteen hours.
"I'll leave you to rest." Colonel Shin moved toward the door, then paused. "Master Jin-woo, I know this is overwhelming. No one expects you to adjust immediately. Take tonight to process. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges."
The door closed with a soft click that somehow felt final.
Jin-woo stood in the center of the suite, slowly turning to take it all in. The bed, the windows, the sitting area with furniture that looked too expensive to touch. A desk with what appeared to be a state-of-the-art computer. Bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes.
He walked to the windows. Below, the gardens spread out in the gathering darkness, lit by soft lights hidden among the landscaping. Staff moved along distant paths. A fountain caught the light, water cascading in perfectly choreographed arcs.
"This is insane," he said to his reflection in the glass.
His reflection agreed. Dirty, bloody, exhausted. The orange-gold eyes looked hollow.
Jin-woo moved to the bed and sat. The mattress seemed to embrace him, so soft he sank several centimeters. He ran his hand across the comforter, silk, probably. Smooth and cool and completely impractical for someone who'd spent his life sleeping in his clothes.
Just yesterday, I was sleeping on cardboard. Today, I'm in a palace.
The thought should have felt triumphant. Instead, it felt surreal. Wrong, somehow.
He looked at the phone on the bedside table. Press one. That's all it would take.
"Do I just... yell 'food' and hope for the best?" The words came out before he could stop them, spoken to the empty room. "Is there an etiquette? A protocol for ordering from rich people?"
His stomach rumbled again. When was the last time he'd been full? Really, truly full?
Jin-woo picked up the phone, stared at it, put it back down.
"What if I pressed one and asked for pizza? Would they think I'm insane?"
He lay back on the bed, staring up at the silk canopy. The ceiling beyond was painted with more dragons and clouds, traditional artwork that probably dated back generations.
"Do I still wake up at 5:47 AM?" he asked the dragons. "Is there a wake-up service? Do rich people even have alarm clocks, or do they just pay someone to shake them awake?"
The absurdity of it hit him. Twenty-six years of fighting for every scrap, every won, every breath. And now someone would bring him food if he pressed a button.
"I might need a manual or something," he muttered. "How to Be Rich for Dummies. Chapter One: Don't look at the prices because you can afford everything. Chapter Two: Stop counting your money because there's too much to count. Chapter Three..."
His eyelids drooped. The bed really was impossibly comfortable. Soft in a way that made his battered body finally acknowledge how much it hurt. The stitches pulled. The bandages itched. His ribs ached with every breath.
But the bed. God, the bed.
"Chapter Four: How to sleep without one eye open..."
The room blurred at the edges. Jin-woo's last conscious thought was a half-formed image of himself at some fancy gala, still wearing his torn construction clothes, frantically trying to press one on a phone while waiters in tuxedos stared in horror.
Sleep claimed him before he could laugh at his own imagination.