The black luxury van cut through the Seoul traffic like a shark, its tinted windows hiding them from the pouring rain.
In the back seat, Ryu Seung-jo stared out at the blurry neon lights of the city. He flexed his hands. The movement was entirely smooth. No arthritis. No lingering ache in his knuckles from a bad punch. It was intoxicating, but it also felt incredibly wrong.
Sitting across from him, Manager Kang Min-ho was vibrating with nervous energy. He kept glancing at his phone, then back at Seung-jo, as if expecting the idol to suddenly throw a tantrum.
"Seung-jo," Min-ho started, his voice completely strained. "Are you sure you don't want me to come up? You literally just died in that hospital bed for a minute. And the PR team is going crazy right now. The studio is trying to figure out how to handle the stuntman's death, and the internet is already making rumors—"
"I said I'm fine," Seung-jo interrupted. His voice was calm, but it carried a heavy, undeniable authority. It was the tone of a veteran on a movie set telling a rookie to step back.
Min-ho swallowed hard and nodded. "Right. Okay. I'll clear your schedule for tomorrow."
The van pulled up to the underground garage of a high-security, ultra-exclusive apartment complex in Gangnam. Seung-jo didn't wait for the driver to open his door. He stepped out, pulled the collar of his expensive trench coat up against the chill, and walked toward the private elevator without looking back.
He punched in the passcode. It felt like muscle memory. As the glass elevator shot up to the top floor, he let out a long breath.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
Seung-jo stepped out onto the private, covered porch that led to the penthouse door. The rain was drumming loudly against the glass awning above. He reached out to scan his thumbprint on the digital lock, but his hand stopped mid-air.
There was a sound.
It was tiny. A soft, muffled sniffle, barely audible over the storm.
Seung-jo looked down.
Sitting right in the center of his expensive, custom-made welcome mat was a soggy cardboard box. Half-covered by a clear plastic sheet to block the blowing rain, a thick, pink blanket was stuffed inside.
Seung-jo's dark eyebrows pulled together. Did a crazy fan bypass the building's security? Did a rival agency leave a threat?
He nudged the edge of the box with his leather shoe.
The pink blanket shifted. A tiny, pale hand reached out, gripping the wet edge of the cardboard.
Seung-jo's new, perfectly healthy heart skipped a beat. His combat instincts vanished, replaced by pure shock. He immediately dropped to one knee and pulled the plastic sheet back.
Staring up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes was a toddler.
She couldn't have been older than three. She had messy, dark hair plastered to her forehead, chubby cheeks flushed bright red from the cold, and she was clutching a cheap, battered stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest.
Seung-jo stared at the kid. The kid stared back at him, sniffling loudly.
Tucked into the folds of the damp blanket was a piece of folded notebook paper. Seung-jo grabbed it and unfolded it. The handwriting was messy and rushed.
Seung-jo. I know you hate me. I know we haven't spoken in four years. But he left me, and the debt collectors are coming. I have nowhere else to hide her. Please, just for a little while. Keep Hana safe. — Your sister.
Seung-jo read the note twice.
The original owner of this body was absolute trash. He had a sister out there who was struggling, and the old Seung-jo had completely cut her off.
Seung-jo looked back down at the box. The little girl shivered violently, her bottom lip trembling as she looked up at this tall, intimidating man. She looked absolutely terrified.
In his past life, Cha Tae-kyung never had a family. He didn't know the first thing about kids. To him, children were just the annoying background extras on movie sets that you had to be careful not to step on.
His first instinct was to call the police. But then he looked at the freezing rain blowing onto the porch. If he called the cops, she'd go into the system. He had grown up in the system. It was a nightmare.
"Damn it," Seung-jo swore under his breath, running a hand through his wet hair.
He bent down and awkwardly hooked his hands under her arms. He lifted her up, holding her stiffly away from his expensive coat like she was a live explosive.
"Don't cry," he warned her, his deep voice totally flat. "I don't know how to fix crying. Let's just go inside before you freeze to death."
He pressed his thumb to the scanner. The door clicked open, and he carried the shivering toddler inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
The penthouse was massive, cold, and sterile. It looked like a modern art museum. Black leather, sharp glass tables, and white marble floors.
Seung-jo set Hana down right in the middle of the expensive living room rug. She stood there awkwardly, water dripping from her tiny sneakers onto the wool. She hugged her battered stuffed rabbit, staring at him with huge, cautious eyes.
"Uncle?" she whispered.
Seung-jo cringed. The word felt completely alien.
"Don't call me that," he muttered, peeling off his wet trench coat. "Just... stay right there. Don't touch anything sharp. I need a towel."
He marched into the luxurious bathroom, grabbed a ridiculously fluffy white towel, and returned to the living room. He didn't gently drape it over her. He tossed it completely over her head like he was throwing a blanket over a parrot cage.
Hana let out a muffled squeak.
Seung-jo crouched down and began rubbing her head through the towel. He used the exact same rough, efficient motion he used to dry off his own hair after a water-tank stunt.
When he pulled the towel away, Hana's dark hair was sticking straight up in every direction, full of static. She blinked at him, looking dazed.
Okay, Seung-jo thought, analyzing her like a stunt coordinator checking a rig. She's dry. Not shivering anymore. Next problem: Fuel.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
Hana nodded slowly.
Seung-jo walked into the massive, high-tech kitchen and pulled open the double doors of the refrigerator. He let out a bitter laugh.
The fridge was a complete joke. It was stocked entirely with expensive champagne, sparkling water, pre-packaged diet salads, and sheet masks. There wasn't a single piece of actual food.
"Useless," Seung-jo muttered, slamming the door shut.
He aggressively rummaged through the luxury pantry until he finally found a box of plain crackers and a single, forgotten apple. He grabbed a kitchen knife, chopped the apple into uneven, jagged slices with terrifying speed and precision, and shoved them onto a plate with the crackers.
He walked back out to the living room and placed the plate on the glass coffee table. "Eat."
Hana stared at the brutally chopped apple slices, then reached out and took a cracker with both hands. She sat right down on the floor and started nibbling on it.
Seung-jo let out a heavy breath and leaned against the kitchen island.
This was insane. Two hours ago, his spine was shattered on a concrete floor. Now, he was trapped in an idol's body, babysitting a toddler who looked like she had just survived a shipwreck.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the counter.
The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications. He picked it up, ignoring the dozen missed calls from Manager Min-ho, and opened the top news article trending nationwide.
[BREAKING] Tragedy on Set! Stuntman Dead. Was Ryu Seung-jo to Blame?
Seung-jo's eyes narrowed. He clicked the article.
...The production company released a statement tonight regarding the fatal fall of veteran stunt double Cha Tae-kyung. Studio executives claim the harness failure was due to the stuntman's own negligence in securing the clips, completely clearing lead actor Ryu Seung-jo of any blame...
A cold, murderous anger settled heavy in Seung-jo's chest.
They were blaming him. They were dragging his real name through the dirt, calling him an incompetent amateur, just to protect the studio and the pretty-boy idol who was too vain to wear a thick belt.
He gripped the phone so hard the glass screen protector cracked under his thumb. The terrifying, heavy aura of a man who had literally returned from the dead flooded the room.
I am going to destroy them, he thought, his eyes turning pitch black. I am going to bankrupt that entire studio.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The digital lock on the front door suddenly blared. Someone was rapidly punching in the passcode.
Seung-jo snapped his head toward the entrance, his combat instincts instantly flaring up. He subconsciously reached for a weapon, his hand gripping the heavy marble fruit bowl on the counter.
The heavy oak door banged open.
Manager Min-ho practically fell into the apartment, completely out of breath. Right behind him, looking like a furious thundercloud, was the CEO of their entertainment agency, Chairman Park.
"Seung-jo!" Min-ho yelled in panic. "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him! The police just called the agency! They are coming here to question you about the accident, and the Chairman says we need to get our story straight right now before—"
Min-ho and Chairman Park stopped dead in their tracks.
The words died in their throats.
Standing in the center of the kitchen was the notoriously arrogant, spoiled Movie Emperor. He had a dark, terrifying, blood-chilling look in his eyes that literally made the CEO take a step back in fear. He was gripping a heavy marble bowl like he was about to smash it over someone's head.
But that wasn't why they were staring.
They were staring because sitting on the floor at the terrifying superstar's feet was a tiny, messy-haired toddler, happily chewing on a cracker.
Seung-jo glared at the two men, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy growl.
"Lower your voice," Seung-jo ordered coldly. "You're making too much noise in my house."