Scroll 2: Opening Hook & Ethan's Life
Ethan Cole had never been the kind of man you wrote songs about. There were no whispered rumors of his greatness, no hidden legacy tucked away in a vault waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. His life was more like the side notes in someone else's diary a few lines squeezed between more important entries.
That didn't mean he was lazy or lacking ambition. He had ambition, all right. He just didn't have the luxury of chasing it without checking his bank balance first. The gap between his dreams and his reality wasn't a crack; it was a canyon, and the only bridge was made out of overtime shifts and instant noodles.
His days were carved into thin, tired slices. Morning to noon at a fried chicken shop, where the smell of grease stuck to him like an unshakable curse. Nights at a 24-hour convenience store, babysitting fridges that hummed like they were running a secret conspiracy against him. In between those, he jammed in study sessions for a certification exam he was starting to suspect was a myth something people chased until they died of stress.
None of that was for him. It was for her.
His mother, Mrs. Cole, lived in the quiet half of their two-room apartment, her days a mix of rest, medication, and whatever TV dramas she could find online. The illness had started years ago, creeping in like a neighbor who didn't know when to leave. The medicine worked sort of. It also came with a price tag that made Ethan's stomach hurt every time he handed over his debit card at the pharmacy.
There was no "maybe I'll take a break" in his life. Every extra hour of work was a meal, a bill paid, or another month of medicine.
And yet, for all the exhaustion that wrapped around him like a second skin, there was one thing that kept him sane stories.
Not the kind his neighbors told about politics or sports, but fantasy worlds where underdogs could rise, where fate actually noticed you existed. His favorite was a serialized web novel he'd found by accident: Child of Destiny.
Over a thousand chapters long, the series was an addiction he never tried to quit. It told the tale of a boy who started with nothing and climbed to legendary status. The kid got the right teacher at the right time, stumbled on treasures like they were waiting for him, and, of course, dismantled his enemies in ways that made you fist-pump in satisfaction.
One of those enemies was his older brother a former family darling turned main villain. The brother was cunning, talented, and still lost in the most humiliating ways possible. Ethan never rooted for him, but he understood him. The guy had the world stacked against him in a way Ethan could relate to.
Sometimes, on the late-night subway ride home, Ethan caught himself imagining what it'd be like to live in that novel's world. Not as the villain, not as the hero. Just as someone with a shot at more than scraping by.
It was a nice thought.
But thoughts didn't pay rent, and right now, rent was due in ten days.
Thursday afternoons in Seoul had a rhythm of their own not quite the post-lunch lull, not yet the evening rush. The drizzle had been falling since noon, not enough to drench you, just enough to make the air taste like wet concrete and cold metal.
Ethan stepped off the bus with his hood pulled low, the kind of casual hunch you learned after years of pretending you weren't freezing. The Mangwon Market sign loomed ahead, its flickering neon promising warmth, food, and prices that were only reasonable if you'd been born a decade ago.
He pulled out his phone, thumb scrolling through the text from his mother:
Don't forget the supplement. The good one. Not the cheap one.
Which, in her world, meant the kind that was sold by a very specific old lady in the very specific middle stall, who spoke in a voice that could peel wallpaper.
The market greeted him with its usual chaos.
A row of fried snack stalls hissed and spat oil into the air, the scent of battered squid and tteok skewers wrapping around him like an ambush. Hawkers shouted over each other, their voices competing with the blare of trot music from a portable speaker that had probably been manufactured before Ethan was born.
"Dried anchovies! Fresh! Cheaper than your ex!" one woman bellowed as she waved a scoop in the air.
A man selling knock-off sneakers tried to block his path, holding up a pair of neon monstrosities. "Young man! Only twenty! You'll run so fast your problems can't keep up!"
Ethan sidestepped without breaking stride. "Ma'am, if my problems can't keep up, they'll just take the bus."
That earned a snort from a passing high schooler, but the vendor only clicked her tongue and turned to the next potential victim.
He moved deeper into the market, weaving between ajummas dragging carts, teenagers slurping cups of spicy fish cake broth, and a salaryman who looked one bad day away from joining a street cult. The ground was slick underfoot, a patchwork of uneven stone and puddles that reflected strips of neon and faded awnings.
His eyes scanned the stalls automatically not for food, but for the telltale green box of the herbal supplement his mother swore was "worth every won." It wasn't. But he wasn't about to fight her on it.
Halfway down the main row, he spotted the stall: exactly where it always was, tucked between a tiny kimchi shop and a vendor selling phone cases with glittery cartoon cats. The herbal lady herself was mid-transaction, shoving a paper bag into the hands of a customer who looked like he'd just been mugged financially, if not physically.
Ethan slowed his steps, preparing his polite voice. If you went in too casual, she'd triple the price out of spite.
That's when it happened.
A shadow drifted into his peripheral vision from the left a figure moving slower than the crowd, as if the rain had singled him out for special treatment.