The sterile scent of his apartment, usually a neutral backdrop to his existence, now reeked of isolation. Kang Min-jae sat hunched over his worn, leather-bound notebook, its metal chain a familiar weight against his wrist. The ink bled onto the page, a testament to the tremor that ran through his hand. It was the aftermath, the raw, bleeding edge of a choice he had been forced to make. Yesterday. Or was it the day before? The temporal blur was already beginning, a creeping fog that threatened to erase the sharp edges of his pain.
He reread the entry, his own words a cruel mirror reflecting the charade he'd performed. *"Hana. Pushed her away. The words felt like shards of glass in my throat. Her confusion, her hurt… it's the price. My price. Her safety. The only currency that matters now."* He scrawled more, his pen scratching furiously. *"Five days. The cycle looms. The anxiety, a cold knot in my stomach. Must document. Must remember. For the 'me' that will be reborn, ignorant of this agony."*
His focus, meant to be on the intricate web of Choi Industries, kept snagging on the phantom warmth of Hana's hand, the earnest plea in her eyes. The mission, once a singular beacon of vengeance, now felt like a treacherous path leading further away from her. He traced the scar tissue on his forearm, a constant reminder of the past he fought to avenge, and the future he fought to protect.
A discreet buzz from his burner phone fractured the silence. A low-level informant, a jittery man with eyes that darted like trapped mice, had a scrap of information. Min-jae met him in a nondescript alleyway, the city's perpetual hum a muted soundtrack to their clandestine exchange.
"Jin-woo," the informant whispered, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol and fear. "He's… moving. A discreet meeting tonight. Warehouse district, Pier 7. Security's tight. New faces, not the usual muscle."
Min-jae's jaw tightened. New security protocols. Jin-woo was anticipating something. Or preparing for something. He slipped the informant a small wad of cash, his gaze sharp. "Anything else?"
The man shook his head, eager to disappear. "That's all I got, Min-jae-ssi. He's a ghost, that one. And his father… well, you know."
Min-jae knew. Choi Dong-wook, the architect of his family's ruin, the man who had orchestrated the inferno that left him scarred and orphaned. And Jin-woo, his father's ruthless heir, a serpent in the shadows.
Later, seeking a moment of fractured solace, Min-jae found himself drawn to the old park on the outskirts of Gangnam. It was a place of ghosts, a place where fragments of a life he could barely grasp sometimes surfaced. He sat on a weathered bench, the same one where he'd once sat with his father, a younger, unscarred version of himself. A memory, sharp and sudden, pierced the haze. His father's booming laugh, the scent of his pipe tobacco, a snippet of advice delivered with a gentle hand on his shoulder. *"Trust is a fragile thing, Min-jae. Like a fine silk thread. Once broken, it's almost impossible to mend. But some threads… some threads are woven with steel."*
The flash faded, leaving him with a hollow ache. Steel. He needed steel, not fragile threads, to navigate the treacherous path ahead.
The lead from the informant was a thin thread, but it was all he had. Pier 7. Warehouse 3. The air in the abandoned docklands was thick with the tang of salt and decay. Min-jae moved with the practiced silence of a predator, his scarred body a testament to a life of discipline and survival. He'd shed the brute force of his Taekwondo days for a more nuanced approach – stealth, observation, the meticulous gathering of intelligence. Every shadow was a potential hiding place, every creak of rusting metal a potential alarm.
He scaled a corroded fire escape, his movements fluid despite the roughness of the metal. From his vantage point on the rooftop, he surveyed the scene below. A single, unmarked van was parked near Warehouse 3, its tinted windows obscuring any occupants. Two guards, clad in dark, anonymous suits, stood sentinel at the warehouse entrance, their posture rigid, their eyes scanning the desolate surroundings with a chilling professionalism. These weren't the usual hired thugs; they moved with the precision of trained operatives. Jin-woo's hand, undoubtedly.
Min-jae crept along the rooftop, his gaze fixed on the entrance. He needed to get closer, to catch any whispers that might drift from within. He flattened himself against the cold, corrugated metal, listening. The rhythmic lapping of water against the pilings, the distant cry of a gull – and then, voices. Muffled at first, then clearer as a gust of wind carried them his way.
Two men emerged from the van, their faces grim. Min-jae recognized one of them – a lieutenant from Jin-woo's personal security detail, a man with a reputation for cold efficiency. The other was a stranger, his features sharp and calculating.
"The package is secured," the lieutenant said, his voice low and gravelly. "The old man is… cooperating."
Min-jae's blood ran cold. *The old man.* Could it be? His father's associates? Or worse…
"Good," the stranger replied, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Jin-woo-ssi will be pleased. Especially with the leverage it provides. The sister… she'll be the key. A little pressure, and the Kang boy will break. Or perhaps, a more permanent solution is in order."
*The sister.* *The Kang boy.* The words struck Min-jae like a physical blow, stealing his breath. Hana. They were talking about Hana. Jin-woo was using her, a pawn in his twisted game. And the implication… *a more permanent solution.* The cold dread that had been a constant companion since he'd pushed her away now intensified, morphing into a primal, protective fury. They weren't just threatening his revenge; they were threatening her. His Hana.
He remained frozen, the rooftop offering no solace, only a vantage point to witness the unfolding horror. He heard more snippets, enough to confirm his worst fears. Jin-woo was aware of his existence, aware of his past, and had identified Hana as the perfect weapon against him. The urgency of his mission, the need to dismantle Choi Industries, had just become a race against time, a desperate sprint to protect the woman he loved, even if she didn't remember him.
The hours leading up to the reset were a blur of frantic activity. Min-jae retreated to his apartment, the air thick with the scent of impending oblivion. He chained his notebook to his wrist, its familiar weight a grounding presence in the encroaching chaos. His fingers, still steady despite the tremor of adrenaline, flew across the pages.
He wrote about Hana. Not as a target, not as a vulnerability, but as the sun around which his fractured world revolved. *"Yoon Hana. The one constant in this storm. If you are reading this, Future Me, know this: she is everything. Her kindness, her strength, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. I love her. I love her more than words can say. More than life itself."*
He detailed the events of the past few days, the agonizing decision to push her away. *"It was the hardest thing I've ever done. To see her hurt, to feel her pull away. But Jin-woo… he knows. He knows about her. He's using her. To get to me. To silence me. I had to make her hate me. To keep her safe from him. From me. The danger is real. He sees her as leverage. Or worse."*
His pen moved faster, a desperate plea etched in ink. *"Future Me: Find her. Protect her. She is the only light. Do not let them extinguish it. Remember the feeling. The overwhelming, all-consuming feeling of wanting to protect her, to keep her safe. Even if the memories are gone, this feeling must remain. Look at the sketch. Remember her face. Remember her laughter. Find the coded phrase: 'Starfall.' She will know."*
He paused, his breath catching in his throat. He began to sketch, his hand surprisingly steady as he captured the curve of her jaw, the gentle slope of her nose, the warmth he remembered in her eyes. It was a crude, hurried sketch, but it held the essence of her. He then wrote the coded phrase, "Starfall," in bold, underlined letters at the bottom of the page, a beacon for a future self who would need it most.
He meticulously reviewed his notes, cross-referencing dates, locations, and names. He secured his apartment, double-checking locks, ensuring no trace of his current operations would be visible. The familiar disorientation began to creep in, a dull ache behind his eyes, a fuzziness at the edges of his vision. The world seemed to tilt, the solid ground beneath him becoming less certain.
He secured the notebook, its chain now a lifeline. He took one last, lingering look at the pages dedicated to Hana, at the sketch, at the plea to "Future Me." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting echo of the love he was about to lose, yet had desperately tried to preserve. Then, the darkness.
***
The first sensation was disorientation, a profound sense of being adrift. Min-jae's eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused, taking in the sterile familiarity of his apartment. The light was wrong, the air too still. He instinctively reached for his wrist. The notebook. The chain. It was there.
His fingers fumbled with the clasp, his mind a blank slate, waiting to be filled. He opened to the first page, his eyes scanning the familiar, yet somehow alien, script. He absorbed the details of his mission, the targets, the protocols. Then, his gaze fell upon a section that was starkly different, a stark contrast to the cold, tactical entries that preceded it.
His breath hitched.
A lengthy entry, filled with an almost feverish intensity, detailing a woman named Yoon Hana. His love for her. His fear for her safety. The urgent plea to find her, to protect her. He stared at the sketch, a woman's face rendered with a raw, emotional urgency he couldn't comprehend. He read the words, "I love her. I love her more than words can say." The words felt foreign, yet they resonated with a deep, unsettling echo within him.
He saw the coded phrase: "Starfall."
His eyes flicked to the date at the top of the entry. Four days ago. Four days since this… fervent declaration. He ran a thumb over the ink, the letters imprinted with a desperate urgency. He looked at the date on the notebook's cover, calculating. Five days. The cycle.
A flicker of something – confusion, a profound sense of longing, a ghost of a feeling he couldn't name – crossed his face. He didn't remember *why* he loved her, but the words, the sketch, the sheer emotional weight of the entry, imprinted a powerful, uncomprehending sense of purpose onto his reset mind. He closed the notebook, his gaze fixed on the entry about Hana. He didn't understand, not yet. But the urgency was undeniable. He had to find her. The ink had spoken, and its message was clear.