Han Joon-woo died on a Tuesday.
Not in a dramatic accident.Not in a heroic sacrifice.
He died the way he had lived quietly, unnoticed, and replaceable.
The office lights were still on when it happened. White, cold, buzzing above his head like they always did. The clock on his monitor read 11:47 p.m., the minute hand frozen because his computer had finally crashed just like him.
Joon-woo leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed against his chest.
It hurt.
Not a sharp pain.A heavy one. Like something enormous was sitting on him, slowly crushing his breath.
"Is this… a heart attack?" he thought distantly.
He waited for someone to notice. A coworker. A manager. Anyone.
No one did.
The office was silent except for the hum of air-conditioning and the distant glow of Seoul's skyline beyond the glass. He could see the lights of the city brilliant, alive, uncaring.
He had given ten years of his life to companies that never remembered his name.
He had postponed love.Postponed dreams.Postponed living.
Just a little longer, he had always told himself.
His phone vibrated once on the desk.
A message from his team leader.
Don't forget to finish the report before morning.
Joon-woo laughed weakly.
Blood rushed in his ears. His vision blurred.
"So this is it," he whispered.
The lights faded.
When consciousness returned, it did so violently.
Joon-woo sucked in a sharp breath and bolted upright.
Air real, warm air filled his lungs.
His heart was pounding, but not painfully. Strong. Young.
"What…?"
He froze.
This wasn't his office.
The room was large. Too large. High ceilings. Soft lighting. A massive bed beneath him, sheets so smooth they felt expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a view of Seoul at dawn the Han River cutting through the city like a ribbon of gold.
His hands trembled as he raised them.
Longer fingers. Cleaner nails. No calluses from years of typing.
He stumbled out of bed and nearly fell when his feet touched the marble floor.
A mirror stood across the room.
He walked toward it slowly, every step heavy with disbelief.
The man staring back at him was not Han Joon-woo.
Sharp jawline. Clear skin. Dark eyes that looked calm to the point of coldness. Hair perfectly styled even after sleep.
A face he recognised.
One he had read about briefly before.
"…Kang Ji-hoon?"
The name surfaced naturally, accompanied by a flood of memories that weren't his.
A chaebol family.A powerful conglomerate.A second son who barely spoke.A man destined to die quietly at twenty-eight.
Ignored by his father.Used by his elder brother.Discarded by the woman he loved.
A life of wealth without warmth.
Joon-woo staggered back, clutching his head as memories collided, his own miserable life and Ji-hoon's tragic future intertwining painfully.
This wasn't a dream.
This was transmigration.
His gaze lifted back to the mirror, meeting his own unfamiliar eyes.
The eyes of a man who had everythingand would lose it all.
Unless
A calm settled over him.
Not panic.Not excitement.
Clarity.
He had already died once.
He knew how cruel the future could be.
He straightened his back, shoulders relaxing as if a weight he'd carried for decades had finally lifted.
"…I won't live like that again," he said softly.
Outside, the sun rose over Seoul.
And for the first time, the silent heir opened his eyes to the future.