Seo-joon sat slouched in his chair, his chin resting on the palm of his hand as he watched the lobby security monitors flicker in shades of gray. The building's lobby was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every little sound—like the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead—feel deafening.
Another night of nothingness.
His shift as a security guard stretched from evening until dawn, a dead-end job that paid just enough to keep the lights on in his tiny officetel and instant ramen in his cupboard. He tried telling himself it was temporary, that he was only here until he "figured things out." But years had passed, and nothing had changed.
"Temporary," he muttered under his breath, leaning back in the creaky office chair. "More like permanent."
On the screen, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass doors—dark circles under his eyes, his black uniform making him look more like a shadow than a person. Twenty-five years old and already exhausted with life.
He hadn't always been this way. Back in college, he had devoured books on finance, trading, e-commerce. He knew how to analyze candlestick charts, calculate profit margins, and sniff out market trends before they hit the mainstream. If he had just one good injection of capital, he believed he could've made it big—started a business, maybe even lived the life he saw in YouTube success story videos.
But reality was cruel. Banks laughed at his loan requests, investors ignored him, and every attempt ended in failure. Knowledge without money was nothing. And now? Now he guarded doors that opened for other people's dreams.
Still, there was one bright spark in his gray life.
Every night, around the same time, she would appear.
Seo-joon's eyes flicked toward the revolving doors as if by instinct. And there she was, stepping through with her usual graceful stride. Her office jacket was perfectly fitted, her long hair tied neatly back, her heels clicking against the polished marble. She carried herself with the effortless poise of someone destined for greater things.
For months, Seo-joon had watched her come and go, always pretending to check the monitors or jot notes in his logbook whenever she passed by. He didn't even know her name until he overheard a coworker mention it—Min-hee, from the accounting firm upstairs.
Every time she walked through those doors, his heart beat faster. She was the one thing that made his job bearable. The one person who reminded him that maybe, just maybe, life could be more than this.
Tonight, he told himself, he'd do it. He'd finally gather the courage to say something. Even just a simple hello.
The pen in his hand twirled nervously as he rehearsed the words in his head. Hi, I see you around a lot. Want to grab coffee sometime? Simple. Normal.
But before he could rise from his seat, the sound of footsteps echoed through the lobby. Not hers—his.
A tall man in a sleek suit entered, carrying himself with the confidence of someone who had never tasted failure. Seo-joon froze as Min-hee approached the man, her expression softening.
And then, without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed him.
Seo-joon's hand clenched so tight around his pen that it snapped in two.
The lobby's fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, harsher, as though mocking him. His chest burned—not just with jealousy, but with humiliation. He had built up the idea of her in his head, the fantasy that she might one day see him, really see him. And now, in an instant, that fragile dream shattered.
He looked away quickly, but the image was carved into his mind. Her smile. The way she touched the man's arm. How natural it looked, as if she'd been his all along.
"Pathetic," Seo-joon whispered bitterly, his throat dry.
The rest of his shift dragged by in a blur. Every second felt like a stone pressing down on his chest. When the clock finally struck midnight and his relief arrived, he practically bolted from his post.
The underground parking lot smelled of oil and concrete. Seo-joon's old Hyundai sat in the corner, its paint dull, its tires worn. He slid into the driver's seat, shoved the key into the ignition, and twisted.
The engine coughed to life.
He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. His reflection in the rearview mirror looked like a stranger—a man on the edge, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw trembling.
She was never yours, a voice in his head whispered. She never even knew you existed.
The words stung. He slammed his foot on the gas.
The city blurred past him in streaks of neon and headlights. His thoughts tangled into a storm—every failure, every rejection, every moment life had spat in his face. The more he thought, the heavier his foot pressed.
You studied so hard. For what?
All those years, and you ended up as a rent-a-cop.
You're nothing. You'll always be nothing.
Tears blurred his vision. He wiped them angrily with the back of his hand, but they kept coming. His chest ached, his throat tight.
And then—
Blinding headlights.
The deafening screech of tires.
The crunch of metal.
The world spun. His body jerked violently against the seatbelt. Glass shattered like falling stars.
And then—silence.
When Seo-joon opened his eyes, the world was wrong.
He lay on damp dirt, his body aching as though he'd been beaten. The air smelled of rot and smoke, not gasoline or exhaust. Above him stretched a gray, overcast sky—no neon signs, no traffic lights, no city skyline.
He staggered to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. Around him sprawled crooked wooden shacks, their roofs patched with straw. Children with hollow cheeks ran barefoot through puddles, chasing one another despite their ragged clothes. A mangy dog sniffed at a pile of refuse nearby.
"W…what the hell?" Seo-joon whispered.
He stumbled forward, clutching his side. The ground was uneven, muddy. People passed him, dressed in old-fashioned hanbok, their faces pale and thin.
Desperate, he grabbed the sleeve of a passing man. "Excuse me! Hey—what year is it?"
The man scowled, yanked his sleeve free, and spat at the ground. "Crazy bastard," he muttered before walking off.
Seo-joon blinked, stunned. He rushed to an old woman carrying a basket of radishes. "Please! Just tell me—what year is it?"
The woman's eyes widened in alarm. She muttered a prayer under her breath and hurried away.
Seo-joon's heart pounded. His throat went dry. None of this made sense—the clothes, the smells, the language, the way they looked at him.
"This… this isn't Seoul," he whispered, his voice shaking. "This isn't even… my time."
His knees buckled, and he collapsed against the wall of a shack, breathing hard.
That was when a shadow fell over him.
Three men loomed above him, broad-shouldered and ragged, their expressions twisted with amusement. The leader cracked his knuckles, a nasty grin spreading across his face.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Look what the storm dragged in."
The second man snorted. "New face. Dressed funny, too. Bet he's got something worth taking."
The third licked his lips. "Let's find out."
Seo-joon's pulse spiked. He tried to push himself up, but his body screamed in protest.
"H-hey, wait," he stammered, holding up his hands. "I don't want trouble. I—"
The leader cut him off with a brutal kick to the stomach. Seo-joon doubled over, gasping for air.
The men laughed. Another blow landed across his face, and he tasted blood.
He stumbled back, clutching his ribs, but the thugs closed in.
This isn't real, his mind screamed. This has to be a dream. Any second now, I'll wake up in the hospital.
But the pain was real. The dirt under his nails was real. The blood dripping from his nose was real.
As the leader's fist swung again, Seo-joon's world went black.