There was no light.
No pain.
Just… warmth.
And the distant thump of bass. Music. Soft and rhythmic, like something playing behind a closed studio door.
Was I dreaming? Or dead?
I tried to move, and this time, my body listened.
No pain. No struggle.
Just smooth, almost too perfect motion — like I was gliding.
My eyes opened slowly.
At first, all I saw was the ceiling — white, high, elegant. The lights above were crystal, not plastic. The air smelled faintly of cologne and lavender. Not bleach or blood. Not a hospital.
I sat up, and the blanket slipped off. Velvet. Black. Expensive.
What…?
Then I saw it — the full-body mirror on the far wall.
And I froze.
That face staring back at me?
It wasn't mine.
Not the tired, beat-down reflection I was used to.
This was… beautiful.
Pale skin. Tousled ash-brown hair falling lazily over sharp, hooded eyes. Slender yet toned frame. Long fingers. High cheekbones. Slightly downturned lips — calm and unreadable.
I knew this face.
Suna.
Well — Suna-inspired. Realistic, stunning, and impossibly magnetic.
It wasn't me.
But somehow, it was now.
Then the door burst open.
"Dude," a voice said, half-annoyed, half-relieved. "Finally. I thought you were dead."
A tall boy stepped in, tablet in one hand, a smoothie in the other. His black joggers were creased, hoodie halfway zipped, face set in a casual scowl.
"Kyle?" I croaked — the name coming out before I even realized it.
He blinked, then tilted his head. "You remember my name, huh? That's a good sign. Maybe you're not brain-fried after all."
Kyle Henderson.
My manager.
My same-age manager. And apparently… best friend?
Bits of memories that weren't mine started sliding into place. Late-night rehearsals. Studio rants. Flight anxiety. Him forcing me to eat when I forgot. Me snapping back when he nagged too much. A strange mix of loyalty and sass.
"What the hell is going on?" I asked, voice low, unfamiliar. "Why do I look like this?"
Kyle arched a brow. "Did you hit your head again?" He crossed the room and handed me the smoothie. "You're you, dummy. Seoul's golden boy. Now get dressed — your jet leaves in three hours."
"…Jet?"
"To Paris. Your six-month break. Remember? You said you wanted to try normal high school life while pretending to be incognito or whatever. Signed yourself up for some fancy French school. Collège Françoise Dupont or something."
My heart skipped.
That name.
That school.
No way.
I stood up, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain.
There it was. Seoul's skyline. Massive, glowing, alive.
But something inside me said I wouldn't be seeing it again for a while.
This wasn't a dream.
Or a hallucination.
It was real.
I had died.
And now, I had been reborn — not as some anonymous background character, but as a world-famous K-pop idol, headed straight for the universe I used to watch on screen.
A universe where no one knew me.
Where I didn't have to be a backup.
Where I could finally choose who I wanted to be.
And I swore — this time, I wouldn't be anyone's second choice again.