The fluorescent lights of the Seoul office building hummed their familiar tune of exhaustion as Yoon Hae-rin's fingers traced the final sentence of "The Crown's Crimson Heart" for what had to be the hundredth time. The worn pages of the novel crackled softly between her trembling hands, the late autumn rain pelting against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the thirty-second floor creating a melancholic symphony that matched her current emotional state. Her coffee had long since grown cold, forgotten beside a mountain of quarterly reports that seemed to multiply like rabbits whenever she dared to look away from her work for even a moment.
"No, no, no," she whispered into the empty office space, her voice barely audible above the mechanical whir of computers that never seemed to sleep. "This can't be how it ends. After everything Princess Seo Yeon went through, after all the character development, after making us fall in love with King Taejong and General Min Woo-jin... she just dies? She just fucking dies from a fever?"
The absurdity of her situation wasn't lost on her – a twenty-eight-year-old marketing executive getting emotionally devastated by a fictional character's death at two in the morning on a Tuesday. But "The Crown's Crimson Heart" had been her escape for the past three months, her sanctuary from the soul-crushing reality of corporate life where she worked fourteen-hour days only to watch her male colleagues get promoted over her despite having half her qualifications and a quarter of her dedication.
Hae-rin had discovered the novel purely by accident in a small, dusty bookshop tucked between a convenience store and a chicken restaurant near her apartment. The elderly owner, a woman with silver hair and knowing eyes, had pressed the book into her hands with an enigmatic smile, claiming it was "exactly what she needed." At first, Hae-rin had been skeptical – historical Korean romance wasn't typically her genre of choice, and the book's cover, featuring a brooding man in traditional hanbok against a backdrop of cherry blossoms, seemed almost cliché. But from the very first page, she had been utterly captivated.
The story followed Princess Seo Yeon, the illegitimate daughter of a minor nobleman who, through a series of political machinations and pure determination, managed to navigate the treacherous waters of the Joseon court. Unlike other historical romance heroines who seemed to stumble into love and power through sheer luck, Seo Yeon was brilliant, calculating, and refreshingly complex. She used her intelligence to outmaneuver court officials twice her age, her wit to charm even the most stubborn of nobles, and her unexpected kindness to win the hearts of servants and commoners alike.
The romance had been equally compelling. King Taejong, portrayed as a man burdened by the weight of his crown and haunted by the political murders he'd committed to secure his throne, found in Seo Yeon not just a lover but a true partner. Their relationship developed slowly, built on mutual respect and intellectual compatibility rather than mere physical attraction. General Min Woo-jin, the second male lead, provided the perfect contrast – where Taejong was brooding and complex, Woo-jin was steady and honorable, offering Seo Yeon a chance at a simpler life away from the dangers of the palace.
But now, after nine hundred and forty-three pages of brilliant storytelling, the author had destroyed everything with the most anticlimactic ending imaginable. Seo Yeon, who had survived assassination attempts, political coups, and family betrayals, died from a simple fever, leaving both Taejong and Woo-jin devastated and the kingdom in chaos. It was literary sacrilege of the highest order.
"Three months of my life," Hae-rin muttered, standing up from her ergonomic chair that had cost more than her monthly grocery budget. "Three months of staying up until three AM, reading during lunch breaks, sneaking chapters during bathroom breaks, and this is how you repay my devotion? With this... this travesty of an ending?"
She paced around her cubicle, her black heels clicking against the polished floor with increasing aggression. The Seoul skyline glittered beyond the windows, millions of lights representing millions of lives, each probably more fulfilling than her own. At twenty-eight, she had achieved everything she'd thought she wanted – a high-paying job at a prestigious company, her own apartment in an expensive neighborhood, enough savings to afford designer handbags and weekend trips to Jeju Island. Yet she felt emptier than ever, especially after witnessing the passionate, meaningful life of Princess Seo Yeon, even if it had ended tragically.
"If I were in that story," she said aloud, addressing the book as if it could hear her complaints, "I would have done things so differently. I would have taken better care of my health, would have been more careful about the palace politics, would have chosen the right man instead of being torn between two options for hundreds of pages. Hell, I would have revolutionized that entire kingdom with modern knowledge and lived happily ever after with both the king and the general if I wanted to."
The absurdity of her statement made her laugh, but it was a bitter sound that echoed strangely in the empty office. Here she was, a woman who couldn't even manage her own love life – her last relationship had ended eight months ago when her boyfriend decided he couldn't handle dating someone who worked more hours than he did – fantasizing about managing the romantic complications of historical royalty.
Thunder rumbled outside, and the rain intensified, drumming against the windows with renewed vigor. The weather seemed to mirror her internal turmoil, as if the universe itself was mourning the death of Princess Seo Yeon. Hae-rin returned to her desk and picked up the book again, staring at the author's name printed in elegant hangul on the cover: Lee Moon-young. She made a mental note to write a strongly worded review on every platform she could find, though she doubted it would bring her any satisfaction.
As she flipped through the pages one more time, desperately hoping she had somehow misread the ending, a strange thing happened. The office lights flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The building's air conditioning system, which had been humming steadily all evening, suddenly went silent. Even the traffic noise from the street thirty-two floors below seemed to fade away, leaving behind an unnatural quiet that made her skin prickle with inexplicable unease.
"Great," she muttered, assuming it was just another one of the building's frequent electrical issues. "Just what I needed to cap off this perfect evening."
But as she looked down at the open book in her hands, something extraordinary began to happen. The printed words on the page started to glow with a soft, golden light that seemed to emanate from within the paper itself. At first, she thought it was just eye strain from staring at screens all day, but the glow intensified, and she could feel a strange warmth spreading from the book through her fingertips.
"What the hell?" she whispered, trying to close the book, but her hands wouldn't obey her mind's commands. The golden light grew brighter, and suddenly, the words began to move on the page, rearranging themselves into new sentences that definitely hadn't been there before:
"The story is not yet finished, dear reader. Sometimes, the most dissatisfied audience member must become the author of their own satisfaction. Will you accept the invitation to rewrite the ending you so desperately desire?"
Hae-rin's heart began to race, her logical mind trying to rationalize what she was seeing. Hallucinations brought on by stress and sleep deprivation, she told herself. That had to be it. She'd been working too hard, reading too late, living on coffee and convenience store kimbap for too long. Her body was finally rebelling against the abuse she'd been putting it through.
But even as she tried to convince herself that none of this was real, she found herself whispering, "Yes."
The moment the word left her lips, the golden light exploded outward, engulfing her entire field of vision. She felt as if she were falling and flying simultaneously, her body weightless yet somehow pulled in every direction at once. The familiar sounds and smells of her office – the hum of electronics, the faint scent of coffee and printer toner, the distant rumble of Seoul's never-sleeping traffic – all faded away, replaced by something entirely different.
The last coherent thought she had before consciousness abandoned her was a mixture of terror and exhilaration: What have I done?
When awareness slowly returned to her, the first thing Hae-rin noticed was the silence. Not the artificial quiet of a modern office building after hours, but the deep, natural silence of a world without electrical hums, car horns, or air conditioning units. The second thing she noticed was the smell – not the sterile, recycled air of a corporate environment, but something rich and complex: sandalwood incense, silk fabric, and something floral she couldn't immediately identify.
The third thing she noticed, as her eyes fluttered open, was that she was no longer in her office.
She was lying on what felt like the most comfortable bed she'd ever experienced, surrounded by silk curtains in deep jewel tones that filtered the light into a warm, golden glow. Above her, instead of fluorescent office lighting, was an intricately carved wooden ceiling painted with delicate scenes of cranes and cherry blossoms. The artistry was breathtaking, each brushstroke precise and beautiful in a way that spoke of master craftsmen and unlimited time for creation.
"My lady?" a soft voice inquired from somewhere beyond the curtains. "Are you feeling better? You've been sleeping for nearly two days."
The voice spoke in Korean, but there was something different about the accent, the formality of the language structure that seemed oddly archaic. Hae-rin tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness washed over her. Her body felt strange, lighter somehow, and when she looked down at herself, she gasped.
Gone were her familiar black slacks and white button-down shirt, the uniform of the modern working woman. Instead, she wore a sleeping gown made of the finest silk she'd ever touched, dyed in a soft pink that reminded her of cherry blossoms at dawn. The fabric was embroidered with tiny silver threads that caught the light as she moved, creating patterns that seemed to dance across the material.
"What..." she began, but her voice came out as barely a whisper, her throat dry and scratchy.
The curtains parted, and a young woman entered carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be traditional Korean tea service. She was dressed in the costume of a court servant – a simple but elegant hanbok in muted colors, her hair arranged in a style that Hae-rin recognized from historical dramas but had never seen in person. The woman's face was kind, with the sort of genuine concern that spoke of real affection rather than mere professional duty.
"My lady, please don't try to speak too much just yet," the servant said, setting the tray on a low table beside the bed. "The physician said you suffered from severe exhaustion and a high fever. We were all so worried, especially after you kept calling out strange words in your sleep."
Hae-rin's mind reeled as she tried to process what she was experiencing. The level of detail was incredible – she could smell the specific blend of herbs in the tea, could feel the texture of the silk sheets against her skin, could hear the authentic rustle of the servant's hanbok as she moved. If this was a dream, it was the most vivid and comprehensive dream she'd ever experienced.
"Strange words?" she managed to ask.
The servant nodded, her expression troubled. "You kept saying things like 'quarterly reports' and 'Seoul office building' and asking for something called 'coffee.' The physician thought it might be fever-induced delirium, but..." She hesitated, then leaned closer. "Lady Yeon-hwa, you also kept insisting that you weren't Princess Seo Yeon, that your name was something else entirely. Hae-rin, I think?"
The world seemed to tilt sideways. Lady Yeon-hwa. Princess Seo Yeon. The names from the book, the story she'd been reading just... how long ago? And if she was Lady Yeon-hwa, that meant...
"What year is it?" Hae-rin asked urgently, sitting up despite the dizziness.
The servant looked confused by the question. "It is the fifteenth year of King Taejong's reign, my lady. Are you certain you're feeling well?"
The fifteenth year of King Taejong's reign. Hae-rin's knowledge of Korean history, supplemented by countless hours of reading The Crown's Crimson Heart, told her exactly when that was. She was in the early Joseon period, sometime around 1415. And if she was Lady Yeon-hwa, that meant she was inhabiting the body of one of the minor characters from the novel – Princess Seo Yeon's cousin, who had served mainly as a plot device to showcase the princess's kindness and intelligence.
"I need a mirror," she said suddenly.
The servant looked startled by the abrupt request but quickly retrieved a bronze mirror from a nearby vanity. When Hae-rin looked into it, she saw a face that was familiar yet foreign – her own features, but refined and delicate in a way that suggested good breeding and a life free from the stresses of modern existence. Her skin was porcelain-smooth, without the fine lines that had begun to appear around her eyes from too many late nights at the office. Her hair was longer and thicker than she remembered, arranged in an elaborate style that would have taken hours to create.
She was beautiful, she realized with a start. Not just presentable or professionally attractive, but genuinely beautiful in the way that made poets write verses and artists reach for their brushes. It was her face, but perfected, as if someone had taken her basic features and refined them through generations of careful breeding and ideal living conditions.
"This is impossible," she whispered to her reflection.
"My lady?" the servant asked, concern evident in her voice.
Hae-rin turned to look at the young woman, really seeing her for the first time. She had introduced herself, but in her shock, Hae-rin had missed the name. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"I am Hyo-jung, my lady. I have served you since you arrived at the palace six months ago."
Six months ago. That would place her arrival at the palace exactly at the point in the novel where Lady Yeon-hwa had first appeared, brought to court as part of her family's attempt to gain political influence through proximity to royalty. In the original story, she had been a minor character, notable mainly for her gentle nature and her tragic death from illness – the same illness that would later claim Princess Seo Yeon.
But if Hae-rin was here, in this body, at this time, then everything she knew about the story was now suspect. Her presence alone would change things, create ripple effects that could alter the entire trajectory of the plot. The question was: what did she want to do about it?
The smart thing would be to try to stay as close to the original story as possible, to avoid disrupting events that could have catastrophic consequences. She knew, from her extensive reading of time-travel and transmigration stories, that changing too much too quickly could result in disaster. But as she looked around the luxurious room, felt the quality of the silk against her skin, and breathed air that was clean and free from the pollution of modern Seoul, she felt a dangerous sense of possibility.
This was her chance to live the life she'd always dreamed of. Not just to escape the endless grind of corporate existence, but to inhabit a world where intelligence and cunning were valued, where a woman could wield real power if she was clever enough, where love stories could be epic and meaningful rather than complicated by student loans and career anxiety.
"Hyo-jung," she said carefully, testing the name and the formality of address that felt natural in this context, "I think I would like to get dressed and take a walk in the gardens. The fresh air might help clear my head."
The servant smiled, the expression transforming her plain features into something genuinely pretty. "Of course, my lady. Shall I select your favorite hanbok? The pale blue one with the silver embroidery that you wore to the poetry recitation last week?"
Hae-rin nodded, though she had no memory of any poetry recitation. She would need to be careful, to gather information about Lady Yeon-hwa's life and relationships without arousing suspicion. Fortunately, her recent illness provided a perfect excuse for any gaps in memory or changes in behavior.
As Hyo-jung bustled around the room, selecting undergarments and accessories with the efficiency of long practice, Hae-rin allowed herself a moment of pure joy. Whatever had happened to bring her here, whatever impossible magic or cosmic intervention had answered her frustrated prayer, she was determined to make the most of it.
She was going to rewrite this story, starting with her own role in it. Lady Yeon-hwa would not die young from illness. She would not remain a minor character in someone else's epic romance. She would carve out her own place in this world, and if that meant disrupting the original plot, so be it.
After all, she'd already read the ending, and it was terrible. Surely she could do better.
As she prepared to step into her new life, Hae-rin felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with terror. She had no idea what challenges awaited her in this ancient court, what dangers lurked behind the beautiful facades and elegant ceremonies. But for the first time in years, she felt truly alive.
The story was just beginning, and this time, she was going to write her own ending.