Seoul never felt quiet. It only pretended to be.
Even past midnight, the city vibrated faintly—ventilation fans humming through high-rises, taxis slipping across wet asphalt, elevators whispering through glass towers like veins pumping light instead of blood.
From the twenty-second floor of SAM-DONG Electronics, Product Division 3, everything below looked orderly. Stable.
Mun Kyung-Sam knew stability was usually just delayed collapse.
The spreadsheet on his monitor glowed pale blue against the darkened office. Behind him, the overhead lights shut off in sequence. One row at a time.
Product Manager.
Thirty-two.
Single.
One hundred million won in debt.
The spreadsheet balanced to the decimal.
His life did not.
The debt hadn't come from stupidity.
Not gambling.
Not luxury.
Hospital invoices, printed in gentle fonts. An investment marked "recoverable." A loan taken to stabilize something that refused to stabilize.
He had calculated repayment schedules often enough that he could see the numbers without looking.
At his current salary—assuming no layoffs, no illness, no further optimism—
Three years.
Three years of rationed spending. Of declining invitations. Of saying "next time" to things that would not wait.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Three years of watching other people move forward while he held position.
He shut down the computer. The numbers would be there tomorrow.
They always were.
The corner grocery store smelled faintly of detergent and frying oil.
"Evening," the cashier muttered without looking up.
Kyung-Sam set instant noodles, eggs, and the cheapest beer on the counter.
The scanner beeped.
The cashier frowned at the register. "Sorry, sir. I'm short on change. Would you mind taking lottery tickets instead?"
Kyung-Sam paused.
Lottery was statistically irrational.
Then again, so was assuming effort guaranteed outcome.
"How many?"
"Two will cover it."
He considered the numbers automatically. Probability curves. Expected value.
Then he nodded once. "Fine."
The cashier tore two tickets from a roll and slid them across.
"Maybe today's your day," the cashier added absently.
Kyung-Sam gave a polite half-smile. "That would be inefficient."
He slipped the tickets into his wallet.
Randomness had never favoured him. There was no reason to expect a sudden personality shift.
Near midnight, he logged off from his online game.
Dungeon cleared—barely.
Loot disappointing—predictably.
Online, he optimized probability.
In reality, probability optimized him.
He loosened his tie and dropped into the desk chair in his apartment. The room was small but clean. Functional. No wasted space.
He placed the two lottery tickets on the desk.
He scratched the first.
Nothing.
He nodded slightly.
Predictable systems were comforting.
He picked up the second ticket. Scratched the first line.
One number matched.
He paused.
Scratched the next.
Another matched.
His pulse lifted—small but undeniable.
He stopped.
Half the ticket remained silver.
Ridiculous.
Statistically meaningless.
He had indulged optimism once this year. It had cost him eight digits and three years of breathing room.
"This one's a dud too," he muttered.
He set it aside. Better to confirm later. Calmly. Without imagination interfering.
He opened a beer.
Halfway through, the silence in the room felt louder.
He looked at the half-scratched ticket again.
Irrational curiosity.
He exhaled sharply, stood, and grabbed his wallet.
"One more," he said to no one.
The convenience store was nearly empty.
A television behind the counter broadcast the lottery results. The volume was low; the cashier leaned against a shelf, uninterested.
"…and tonight's first prize of five hundred million won…"
Kyung-Sam reached for another beer.
"…the winning ticket number is—"
The screen flickered as a banner slid across the bottom. A sports update interrupted the ticker.
He frowned faintly.
The announcer continued.
"S16-F72—"
A delivery truck roared past outside, drowning out the next syllables.
He looked up fully now.
"S16-F72-A14."
The number settled on the screen.
He felt something tighten behind his ribs.
S16.
F72.
That was what he had uncovered.
The final digits on his ticket at home were still hidden.
A14.
The announcer repeated it. Slower this time.
S16-F72-A14.
Five hundred million won.
For half a second, he allowed it.
Debt erased.
Loan closed.
Hospital balance cleared.
Three years restored.
His lungs expanded fully for the first time in months.
If he was wrong, nothing changed.
If he was right—
He didn't check the website. Didn't ask the cashier to replay it.
He was already moving.
Out through the automatic doors.
Across the pavement.
He needed to see it physically. To uncover those final digits himself.
His mind was reorganizing the future.
Immediate repayment.
Emergency fund.
Proper savings buffer.
No more calculating grocery choices.
He stepped off the curb without looking.
A horn screamed.
White light swallowed the street.
One detached thought surfaced, precise and almost curious:
"So, this is what momentum feels like."
Impact.
Pain came first.
A headache that felt deliberate.
The smell of stale alcohol soaked into wood.
He opened his eyes.
Dark beams crossed the ceiling. Thick fabric blocked the light. Stone walls enclosed the room.
He blinked once.
Either the hospital had adopted medieval architecture, or something had gone catastrophically wrong.
He tried to sit up. The room tilted violently. His stomach lurched. He caught himself against the mattress frame.
Memory rose—
Not his.
Laughter.
A tavern table splitting.
A ring pulled from a finger and thrown across the room.
A father's voice, low and exhausted: "Enough."
A name surfaced.
Bradley.
Drunk again.
He stood slowly and moved toward the standing mirror.
The reflection staring back was younger. Nineteen, perhaps. Lean but soft at the stomach. No disciplined muscle.
This body had avoided hardship consistently.
He lifted his hands. Different bone angles. Different scars.
Calluses along the fingers uneven. Not from office work. From training attempted, not mastered.
He pressed his thumb hard into his palm.
Pain flared immediately. Clean. Sharp.
Dreams rarely maintained this level of sensory continuity.
"Either this is a coma," he murmured quietly, "or I negotiated poorly."
The door opened.
A maid stepped in—and froze.
"My lord… you're awake."
Not relief.
Caution.
She kept her eyes lowered but not soft. Waiting. Measuring.
Lord.
Hierarchy.
"Water," he said.
His voice sounded younger. Rougher.
She hesitated half a second—just long enough to confirm expectation of volatility—then hurried out.
He remained still. Waiting for distortion. For the walls to ripple. For hospital lights to intrude.
Nothing shifted.
The maid returned, hands steady but shoulders tight, and offered a cup.
It felt solid. Slightly uneven along the rim.
He drank.
Cold. Metallic hint from the container.
His stomach reacted. His headache remained.
Outside, something howled in the distance. Low. Organic.
Not traffic.
He moved to the window and drew the curtain aside.
A stone courtyard. Guards at the gate. Steel swords. Worn leather armor streaked with dried mud.
Beyond the walls stretched a dark treeline beneath a muted sky.
No sirens.
No engines.
No electricity hum.
Only wind moving through branches.
He stood there for several seconds.
No flicker.
No collapse.
He looked at his reflection again.
Young. Undisciplined. Disliked.
Very much alive.
Five hundred million won—gone.
One hundred million in debt irrelevant.
In exchange, he had acquired a disgraced name and a body that would struggle to win an argument, let alone a fight.
He rolled his shoulders once. The ache persisted.
Persistent meant real.
He let the silence settle fully.
No reset.
No system window.
No explanation.
No instruction manual.
Just structure.
Which meant consequence.
"Fine," he said quietly.
His gaze sharpened—not dramatic, not defiant.
Measured.
"Then we work with what we have."
Outside, the howl sounded again closer this time.