The faint sound of clock echoed through the hallway as Seojin wandered his new home. Polished wooden floors reflected the warm glow of ceilings lamps, the scent of paper and cedar coming from a nearby study room. He trailed his fingers along the cool railing of the staircase, testing its smooth curve. So this is really real.
Hours earlier, he had woken up to an unfamiliar ceiling and the dull ache of rebirth, his memories of a twenty-something gamer and photographer mixing with the crisp clarity of a teenage body. The shock had dulled into a restless energy that refused to fade.
Family photographs lined the hallway: a tall man with a gentle but disciplined gaze his father, Yoon Hyun-Seok. a graceful woman in a navy dress his mother, Han Soyeon. The faces were warm and proud, yet to Seojin they felt like carefully drawn characters in a story he had just stepped into. He lingered on one photo longer than the rest, his own teenage reflection superimposed over the image of the boy he had replaced. I'm borrowing someone else's place… but this time, I'll live it right.
He eventually found himself in a spacious living room.
A grand piano gleamed beneath s oft yellow light. Out of instinct he sat on the bench and pressed a key. The note rang pure and rich, vibrating through the quiet house.
Music had been a hobby of his previous life where I first learn guitar then piano when he could afford cheap lessons. Here, with a perfectly tuned instrument waiting, the possibilities stretched wide. He let his hands wander into a melody he half remembered, each chord grounding him in this strange reality.
When the last note faded, Seojin exhaled. "Not bad," he murmured to the empty room.
The sound of his own voice startled him.
For a moment he almost expected someone to answer a parent calling from the hallway.
But the house remained still, leaving only the faint ticking of the clock.
Upstairs, his bedroom looked like something from a model-home catalog: soft gray walls, a king-size bed with navy sheets, a sleek desk stacked with brand-new school supplies.
Tomorrow he would begin life as a freshman at Sanji high school, the most reputable academy in the district.
He pulled a crisp white shirt from the wardrobe civilian clothes, since freshmen wouldn't receive uniforms until next month and laid it neatly across the chair.
Beside it, a gym bag waited with perfectly folded athletic wear. A grin tugged at his lips. This body felt lighter, faster, stronger than the one he'd left behind. Soccer, basketball, track anything would be fair game. In his old life he had talent but never time now he had both.
Wandering deeper into the house, I stumbled across a gym room bigger than I expected, packed wall to wall with equipment. Racks of dumbbells lined one side, bars and machines gleamed under the lights, and in the corner stood a pull-up bar, waiting.
Curiosity prickled. Let's see what this body can really do.
I dropped down first, palms flat on the mat, and began with push-ups. The movement felt almost too natural fluid, easy, like my arms weren't even straining. From there I shifted, balancing on one palm, body straight as a board. One-arm push-ups, then raising into a handstand, the blood rushing to my head as I held perfectly steady. My legs trembled only once before locking firm, and I caught myself grinning.
Not bad.
Testing further, I swung up onto the bar, muscles pulling me higher with effortless rhythm pull-ups, muscle-ups, every motion snapping clean. I tried balancing mid-air, twisting, controlling every shift like I'd drilled it a thousand times.
Then, across the room, something else caught my eye, a boxing ring. I slipped inside, the familiar leather scent of gloves and mats stirring something deeper. According to the original's memories, he'd trained in boxing and hapkido… yet as I planted my stance and threw a few jabs, the movements weren't clumsy at all. They were sharp, precise each punch flowing into the next, footwork light, guard unshakable.
Switching to hapkido, my body pivoted and turned with frightening familiarity joint locks, sweeps, and counters unfolding like muscle memory carved into my bones. Every motion snapped into place without hesitation.
I froze mid-movement, chest rising and falling.
After pushing myself for at least two hours, sweat clung to my skin, dampening my shirt. The adrenaline faded, replaced by the heavy weight of fatigue. I grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the tiled room as I stripped down and stepped under the shower. The heat washed away the soreness, steam curling up around me. My mind went blank for a while—just the steady patter of water against my shoulders, rinsing off the salt and exhaustion.
By the time I dried off and changed into clean clothes, my stomach was growling loud enough to echo through the halls. I made my way to the kitchen.
The house was big too big for one person. No family waiting at the table, no chatter. Just the occasional maid or employee stopping by to clean or check in. Most of the time, though, it was silence. Everything was up to me.
Opening the refrigerator, I was greeted by shelves stacked with ingredients—meats, vegetables, eggs, neatly organized but untouched for days. I pulled out some kimchi, leftover rice, and a bit of pork belly. My hands moved almost on their own, knife chopping, pan sizzling, the sound filling the stillness of the house. Before long, the kitchen smelled of kimchi fried rice, savory and rich, with strips of pork crisping at the edges.
I plated it simply, sat by the counter, and ate while staring absently out the window. The sky outside was already dark, the city lights twinkling in the distance like quiet stars.
Finishing the meal, I let out a small breath, the exhaustion finally catching up. Without much thought, I left the dishes in the sink, climbed the stairs, and let myself fall onto the bed. The world dimmed as soon as I shut my eyes.
Tomorrow would come fast.