The rain didn't just fall in Seoul; it hammered.
Inside the top-floor office of Kang Global, the sound was a dull, rhythmic thud against the reinforced glass. To anyone else, it was peaceful. To Kang Min-ho, it sounded like a countdown.
Min-ho adjusted his silver cufflinks, his fingers steady, though his heart was a jagged mess against his ribs. He didn't look at the window. He didn't have to. He knew exactly what the street looked like forty floors down. He knew where the black sedan would skid, and he knew exactly how the glass would shatter.
He had seen it ninety-eight times.
"Sir? The candidate is here."
Min-ho didn't turn. "Her name."
"Lee Hana, sir. Twenty-four. No family, three part-time jobs, and a mountain of student debt. Her background check is—"
"Perfect," Min-ho interrupted, his voice like dry ice. Perfect because she has no one to miss her when the world resets. "Send her in."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. Min-ho felt the air in the room shift. The scent of cheap convenience store coffee and rain-dampened wool drifted in a scent he could recognize in total darkness, in any lifetime.
"Hello! I'm Lee Hana. Thank you so much for the opportunity to—"
Min-ho finally turned.
There she was.
She was wearing the same beige trench coat with the missing button. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, and she was clutching a folder as if it were a shield. She looked so alive it was agonizing. In the 97th loop, she had died laughing. In the 98th, she had died crying.
In the 99th, he wasn't going to let her speak enough to do either.
"Sit," he commanded.
Hana blinked, her prepared speech dying on her lips. "Oh. Right. Of course." She scrambled into the leather chair, her eyes wide and sparkling with a hope that made Min-ho want to scream.
"I've read your file," Min-ho said, leaning forward. He placed a thick document on the desk. "I don't care about your resume. I care about your debt. I will pay it off today. In return, you will sign this contract."
Hana's jaw dropped. "Today? But you haven't even asked if I know how to use the scheduling software or—"
"Rule number one," Min-ho snapped, his eyes flashing with a coldness he didn't feel. "You do not ask questions. Rule number two: You will stay within five feet of me during work hours, but you will never, under any circumstances, touch me."
Hana squinted at him, her "body language" gift kicking in. She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on his tightly clenched jaw. "You're... you're terrified," she whispered.
The silence that followed was deafening. The rain slammed harder against the glass.
Min-ho's heart stopped. She had never said that before. In ninety-eight lives, she had never noticed his fear this early.
Something is different, he thought, a spark of genuine terror and hope igniting in his chest. The loop is changing.
"I am your boss," he hissed, leaning closer until he could see his own reflection in her startled pupils. "Not your patient. Sign the papers, Ms. Lee. Or walk out that door and stay in the rain. But if you stay, remember this: I am not your savior. I am the man who is going to make you hate your life."
Because if you hate me, he thought desperately, you'll leave. And if you leave, you might actually live to see tomorrow.
Hana looked at the pen, then at the man who looked like he was holding up the weight of the sky. She picked up the pen.
"I've always been good at being hated, Mr. Kang," she said, her voice unexpectedly firm. She scribbled her name. "Let's see who breaks first."
Outside, a bolt of lightning illuminated the office, and for a split second, Min-ho saw the ghostly reflection of the 98 other Hanas standing behind her.
The 99th loop had officially begun.