The rain starts as a suggestion.
A whisper against concrete. A warning tap on my shoulders.
Seoul never commits to the weather halfway; it either pretends nothing's wrong or drops the sky on your head. Tonight, it chooses the latter.
I'm halfway across the pedestrian bridge when the first real crack of thunder hits. Not the cinematic kind. The ugly one. The kind that feels like it comes from inside your chest instead of the clouds.
I stop walking.
Bad instinct.
I know that.
Bridges are exposed. Elevated. Metal railings on both sides. I clock it all automatically, like I always do—distance to shelter, crowd density, escape routes. The convenience store on the corner below is forty meters away. Too far if the rain worsens.
The stairwell entrance behind me is slick, already flooding.
People around me hesitate too. Umbrellas bloom like nervous flowers. Someone laughs. Someone swears.
I tighten my jacket and start moving again.
That's when the rain commits.
Sheets of water slam down, soaking through fabric in seconds. The city blurs, neon signs smear into color, headlights fracture into white streaks. My shoes slip once, just a half-step, enough to spike my pulse.
I hate storms.
Not fear. Not trauma. Just a deep, rational dislike. Too many variables. Too much noise. Too little control.
Another thunderclap, closer this time. The bridge vibrates. I feel it through the soles of my feet.
I glance up without meaning to.
The clouds are wrong.
Too low. Too fast. Like something coiling.
I speed up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message. Probably my mother is asking where I am. Probably my part-time boss is reminding me about tomorrow's shift. Probably something normal. Something boring.
I don't check it.
A guy to my left stumbles, umbrella snapping inside out. He curses loudly and draws attention. I instinctively move a step away from him.
Distance. Spacing. You never know—
The world turns white.
There's no sound at first. Just pressure. Like the air itself decides I don't belong in it anymore.
Then the sound arrives.
It isn't thunder.
It's everything.
Light slams into me. Not hits—claims. My vision shatters into negative space, black veins crawling across white. Every nerve ignites at once. I don't feel pain the way I expect to. There's no sharpness. Just an overwhelming presence.
Heat.
Force.
A hand closing around my spine.
My muscles seize. My jaw locks. I can't scream even if I want to.
Time fractures.
I register stupid details. The taste of metal. The smell, ozone, burnt fabric, something like hair. The way the rain seems to stop touching me, repelled outward.
I think, very clearly, this is it.
Not panic. Not denial. Just acceptance. I'd always imagined dying would come with regret. A reel of mistakes. Faces. Missed chances. Instead, my brain does inventory.
Age: too young.
Money: not enough.
Friends: a few good ones.
Enemies: none worth mentioning.
Love life: nonexistent.
I'd wanted normal. That's the thought that sticks. Not dramatic. Not heroic.
Just…tired.
I just wanted a normal life. The light intensifies. Then gravity gives up.
I fall.
Or maybe I'm already on the ground. I can't tell where my body ends anymore. Sensation disconnects in pieces, left arm gone, legs distant, chest numb. My thoughts drift like loose papers.
Sound returns in fragments. Shouts. Someone screaming. Sirens far away, already moving closer. Rain hammering down again, aggressive, uncaring.
I try to breathe. Nothing happens.
That's when fear finally arrives. It's small. Tight. Rational.
So this is how it ends.
I think of my mother again. Her hands are always cold. The way she overfed me whenever I was feeling unwell. I think of unfinished conversations. Of mornings that would happen without me in them. The darkness creeps in from the edges, soft and polite.
I let it.
There's no tunnel.
No light.
No voice asking questions. Just silence. And then—
Weight.
It slams back into me like an accusation. Air floods my lungs, violent and sharp. I gasp, choking, my body arching without permission. My heart stutters, then pounds like it's trying to escape my ribs.
I suck in another breath.
And another.
The smell hits me next.
Clean. Too clean. Sterile, with a hint of something floral. Not rain. Not smoke. Not blood.
My eyes snap open.
White ceiling.
Not hospital white. Rich white. Smooth. Unblemished. A chandelier hangs above me—crystal, tasteful, expensive.
I freeze. I don't move. Don't breathe too deeply. Don't blink more than necessary. Rule one in unfamiliar situations: observe before acting.
I'm lying on something soft. Sheets. High thread count. I can feel it even through my shock, cool against my skin, heavy in a comforting way.
Skin.
I feel…everything.
I wiggle my fingers slowly. They move. Too easily. I lift my hand into my line of sight. Long fingers. Clean nails. No scars. No calluses. The skin tone is familiar but…better. Healthier. Like someone edited me with more care.
My heart rate spikes again.
I sit up too fast.
The room spins, but my body compensates instantly, core tightens, balance adjusts. I don't slump. I don't wobble.
That's new.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They're long. Too long. My feet touch the floor silently. Plush carpet. I stand without effort, without dizziness, without pain.
No pain.
I look down at myself.
Broad shoulders under a thin sleep shirt. Defined arms. Lean muscle. This body feels ready, like a coiled spring. Not tense, prepared.
I stumble to the mirror across the room.
Each step feels…right. Perfectly calibrated. No wasted motion. My posture aligns naturally, spine straight, shoulders relaxed. I stop in front of the mirror. And stare. The face staring back at me is mine.
And not mine at all.
Taller. Sharper. Jawline like it was sculpted instead of grown. Eyes dark and clear, alert in a way mine never were. Skin flawless, hair thick and dark, falling just messily enough to look intentional.
I reach up and touch my cheek.
Warm.
Real.
My reflection does the same.
"This isn't funny." I say.
My voice is deeper. Smooth. Confident without effort. No echo. No distortion. I laugh once, short and sharp. "Okay. Okay." I murmur. This is either a dream or I'm dead.
I test it.
Hard.
I pinch my arm.
Pain flashes, crisp and immediate.
I hiss, pulling back.
Not a dream. I scan the room again, slower this time.
Massive bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout curtains drawn halfway. A desk made of dark wood, minimalist but expensive. Bookshelves. A wardrobe that looks like it could hold a small country's GDP in clothing.
No medical equipment.
No IV.
No hospital smell.
This isn't an afterlife I recognize. A door creaks open behind me. I turn instantly, body reacting before my thoughts catch up. My stance is balanced, hands loose, ready. I note the distance, the angles, and the weight of the door.
A woman stands there.
Elegant. Mid-forties. Dressed in soft pastels that somehow scream money. Her eyes widen the moment she sees me standing.
"Hyun-Jae?" She breathes.
Her voice trembles. She rushes forward. I brace without thinking, then stop. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. Her perfume hits me, subtle and warm. Her hands clutch the back of my shirt like she's afraid I'll vanish.
"Thank goodness. You scared me so much." She whispers.
My brain scrambles.
Hyun-Jae.
The name echoes, settles. I don't hug her back at first. I just stand there, processing the way her heart races against my chest. The way her grip is desperate, loving. A mother's grip.
I slowly raise my arms and return the embrace.
Her body relaxes immediately, like something inside her finally unclenches.
"You fainted. The doctors said it was stress. Overexertion. I told them you train too hard." She says, pulling back just enough to look at my face. Her eyes are glossy.
Doctors.
Plural.
I latch onto that.
"I'm…fine." I say carefully.
My voice doesn't shake. She cups my face, scanning for injuries. "Don't scare us like that again."
Us.
Footsteps approach. Heavier. Measured.
A man appears in the doorway.
Tall. Broad. Sharp eyes that take in everything in a single sweep—me standing, my posture, my breathing, the lack of medical distress.
Approval flickers across his face before concern reasserts itself.
"Good. You're awake." He says.
Not, are you okay?
Just—good.
Authority. Confidence. Familiarity.
A father.
Something in my chest tightens.
"I told you he'd be fine. But we'll still run tests." He adds, though his gaze doesn't leave me. "Dae-Hyun." The woman scolds softly. He sighs. "Ji-Young." Names slot into place like puzzle pieces, clicking together.
Kwon Hyun-Jae.
Son.
Alive.
I nod once, measured. "Sorry. Didn't mean to worry you." I say. It feels right. His lips twitch. Just barely. "You always do."
The woman swats his arm.
I watch it all from behind my eyes, cataloging reactions, dynamics, and affection levels. Wealthy. Close-knit. Protective.
Real.
Too real to be a hallucination.
Something hums at the edge of my vision.
A pressure behind my eyes.
A flicker of light. I blink—and a translucent blue screen snaps into existence. Right in front of me. I don't flinch. I should. Anyone should. But my body stays relaxed, heart rate barely ticking up.
The screen floats, clean and sharp, filled with text and numbers I somehow understand instantly.
SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
I inhale slowly through my nose.
Of course.
Of course, there's a system.
My parents are still talking, Ji-Young fussing, Dae-Hyun making calls, but their voices fade into background noise as the screen updates.
WELCOME, KWON HYUN-JAE.
STATUS: STABLE
CURSE: PERFECTION — ACTIVE
The word curse sends a chill down my spine.
ERROR: NORMAL LIFE MODE — UNAVAILABLE
I swallow.
The screen flickers once more.
BEGINNING OPTIMIZATION…
I meet my reflection in the mirror again, this time with the blue glow overlaying my perfect face. My heart doesn't race.
It settles.
Because deep down, beneath the shock and the impossible reality, I know one thing for certain. This life won't be normal. And whatever struck me on that bridge didn't end me.
It chose me.
The system screen fades. But the feeling doesn't. Somewhere, far beyond this quiet, perfect room, something is watching. And it's waiting for me to move first.