Darkness came slowly.
Park Min-Jun floated in a sea of shadows. He could no longer feel his body, but his thoughts clung to him like scars. Dying wasn't painful anymore — it was quiet. Still. But in that stillness, memories whispered like wind over glass.
His brother's voice.
"Hyung, don't forget to come back soon. I'll wait."
Min-Jun's throat tightened. That voice — young, fragile. The reason he ever wore a uniform.
He joined the military not for pride, but to survive. To feed his younger brother. They had nothing. No parents. No future. Just each other.
But when his brother fell sick — seriously sick — Min-Jun begged for leave. He pleaded with the higher-ups, explained everything.
They refused.
"Your mission is critical. You are not permitted to leave post," the officer had said coldly. "We all have duties, soldier."
By the time Min-Jun returned, his brother was gone.
A silent room. An untouched bowl of rice. A hospital bracelet on the floor.
And in that moment, something broke inside him — not his loyalty, but his trust. He continued his missions. Obeyed. Killed. But something dark simmered quietly behind his eyes. Resentment. Buried deep.
Now, even in death, it haunted him.
"Why… why am I remembering this now?"
He opened his eyes.
Light stabbed into his vision. A ceiling — unfamiliar. White, glossy, with a chandelier far too elegant for a military base or a hospital.
Min-Jun gasped and bolted upright, sweat pouring down his face. His heart pounded wildly in his chest.
He was in a bed — silken sheets, satin pillows, a city view behind golden curtains. Not his world. Not the battlefield.
"Where… am I?" he whispered.
He stumbled to his feet. His body felt light — younger. Stronger. He caught sight of a mirror on the wall. Slowly, he stepped toward it.
And froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't Park Min-Jun.
It was Cheon Tae-Hyun.
Younger. Clean-cut. Sharp eyes, defined jaw, a monster still in his prime.
"No…" Min-Jun whispered. He touched his face, jaw trembling. "What the fuck…?"
He rushed to the desk, grabbing the nearest object — a smartphone. He powered it on. Notifications flooded in. Messages, photos, a wallpaper of a luxury car and a woman he didn't recognize.
More importantly — the date.
"Fifteen years ago?"
His knees buckled.
"I… died. I know I did."
He stared at his hands. Younger. Untouched by the battles and blood. But the scars on his soul? Still there. Still burning.
Then it hit him.
He hadn't just survived. He'd been thrown into the past… inside the very man he was sent to kill.
Park Min-Jun sat motionless on the bed, the smooth silk sheets wrinkled beneath his clenched fists. His heart was still hammering in his chest. Every breath felt like an echo from another life — one where he had died with a bullet through his heart.
Now, the face in the mirror wasn't his.
He was Cheon Tae-Hyun.
And the year was 15 years in the past.
He opened the closet, finding a line of designer suits — all black, sharp, cold. It was like stepping into the closet of a snake. Everything felt curated for power, fear, and control.
He fumbled through drawers and found a wallet — credit cards, IDs, and a gold-plated lighter with the name "Cheon."
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "Hyung-nim.. We'll pick you up at noon. The boys are waiting."
Min-Jun tightened his grip around the device.
His head ached. Images from Tae-Hyun's life were bleeding into his mind — fragmented, scattered memories that weren't his own.
A man kneeling with a gun in his mouth. A woman crying as Tae-Hyun walked away. A room full of men chanting his name.
And blood. So much blood.
"Who was he really?" Min-Jun muttered. "Is this what hell feels like?"
Min-Jun: "I need to understand the world I'm in. Fast."
Min-Jun: "These memories… they're not mine, but they're trying to become mine."
He looked out the window — the city bathed in morning light.
"I'll play his part… until I can rewrite the story."