Seoul General Hospital had handled celebrities, criminals, and the occasional scandal.
It had never handled her.
The decision was made behind closed doors, whispered urgently between administrators, legal teams, and one visibly shaken doctor who kept flinching every time someone held a pen too close to his neck.
"She's mentally unstable."
"No—she's dangerous."
"She threatened staff with surgical equipment."
"She asked what year it was."
"She called security 'reinforcements'."
By evening, the verdict was unanimous.
She had to go.
The problem?
She had nowhere to go to.
Her identity records were thin. No family contacts. No visitors. No emotional outbursts that could justify psychiatric admission—only an unnerving calm that made everyone more uncomfortable.
And then there was Han Seo-jun.
The man responsible.
The man with money.
The man currently being cornered by the hospital director with a look that said you will fix this or we will.
"She cannot stay," the director said firmly. "We are discharging her immediately. Against recommendation, if needed."
Seo-jun pinched the bridge of his nose. "She was in an accident. You can't just—"
"She held a scalpel to my doctor's throat," the director snapped. "Mr. Han, unless you want this to become a legal issue, you will take responsibility."
Responsibility.
He hated that word.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the glass room where she sat on the edge of the bed, posture straight, gaze sharp, completely unbothered by the chaos she'd caused.
She looked… ready.
Like she'd already accepted exile.
"Fine," he said flatly. "I'll take her."
She noticed him before he spoke.
She always did.
He entered the room with long strides, coat immaculate, expression carefully neutral. Up close, she studied him openly—no shame, no hesitation.
He was tall. Well-fed. Unscarred.
Not a fighter.
But not weak either.
"We're leaving," he said.
Her head tilted slightly. "Am I being arrested."
"No."
"Sold?"
His jaw tightened. "Definitely not."
"Then explain," she said calmly.
"You can't stay here," he replied. "Hospital's discharging you. Immediately."
She absorbed this. Nodded once.
"Acceptable."
That surprised him.
"No resistance?" he asked.
She stood, movements efficient despite lingering pain. "A fortress that fears its guest is no longer safe."
He stared.
"…Right."
They escorted her out like she was a bomb that might go off if handled wrong.
Outside, night had fallen.
Seoul glowed—neon lights, endless traffic, towering buildings slicing into the dark sky. She stopped walking.
Her breath caught.
This wasn't fear.
This was awe sharpened by suspicion.
"Your cities are… excessive," she said.
Seo-jun glanced at her. "You'll get used to it."
"I doubt that," she replied.
The car waited—sleek, black, expensive enough to feed a village for a year. She circled it once, fingers brushing the surface.
"No horse," she murmured. "No reins."
"…It's a car," he said.
She nodded seriously. "Yes. You mentioned this weapon before."
He opened the door for her.
She paused, then met his eyes.
"Why are you helping me," she asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Because guilt? Because responsibility? Because the way she looked at him like she could see straight through the money and lies?
"Because this is my mess," he said finally.
She considered that.
Then got in.
Han Seo-jun's house was less a home and more a declaration of wealth.
Gates. Guards. Silence.
She stepped inside and immediately noted exits, blind spots, reflective surfaces. Habit. Unbreakable.
"Large," she said. "Poorly defended."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Too open. High ceilings. Multiple approach points." She glanced at the glass walls. "An enemy could kill you from three directions."
"…This is a residential area."
"So was my last battlefield," she replied.
She removed her shoes without being told.
That annoyed him.
"You'll stay here temporarily," he said. "Tomorrow I'll arrange—"
"No," she interrupted.
He frowned. "No?"
"I do not accept orders without knowing the chain of command," she said evenly. "And I do not stay where I am not useful."
Useful.
That word again.
He laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You're in no position to negotiate."
She stepped closer.
Not threatening.
Just close enough that he felt it.
"In my world," she said softly, "I commanded men twice your size. I survived betrayal, war, and death itself."
Her eyes lifted to his.
"You hit me with a steel carriage and I still woke up."
Silence stretched.
For the first time in years, Han Seo-jun felt something unfamiliar crawl up his spine.
Not fear.
Respect.
"…Fine," he said quietly. "You stay. For now."
She nodded, satisfied.
As he turned away, she looked around once more—this strange fortress of glass and wealth—and made a decision.
This man was careless.
This world was soft.
And someone like her?
Was about to become very necessary.
Han Seo-jun decided she was strange.
Not dangerous-strange. Not scammer-strange.
Just… off.
Her words echoed in his head as he retreated to his room—battlefields, commands, steel carriages. Clearly a concussion. Maybe trauma mixed with shock. He'd dealt with worse on movie sets. People broke down all the time; they just did it more dramatically.
He shut the door, loosened his tie, and exhaled.
I'll deal with this tomorrow.
An hour passed.
He showered. Changed. Tried to scroll through his phone, but his focus kept slipping. The house felt different—too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Eventually hunger won, and he headed back downstairs to the kitchen.
The lights were dim.
And that's when he saw her.
She was lying on the floor near the doorstep.
Not sprawled. Not collapsed.
Carefully positioned.
On her side, knees slightly bent, arms folded close to her body—sleeping the way soldiers did in unfamiliar territory. As if ready to wake and fight in a heartbeat.
Seo-jun froze.
"What the—"
He crossed the room in two long strides and stopped just short of touching her. She looked smaller like this. Vulnerable in a way she hadn't been all evening. Her short hair fell into her face, lashes resting against her cheeks, breathing slow and steady.
She wasn't pretending.
She had chosen the floor.
"Hey," he said, quieter now. "Why are you sleeping here?"
No response.
He frowned, irritation creeping in. "There are guest rooms. Beds. Actual furniture."
Still nothing.
He crouched slightly and noticed it then—the position relative to the door. The way her body angled so she could see the entrance if she opened her eyes. The fact that she hadn't crossed deeper into the house.
She hadn't claimed space.
She had guarded it.
Something uncomfortable twisted in his chest.
He straightened, running a hand through his hair. "You're unbelievable," he muttered.
He grabbed a glass of water, debating whether to wake her. She looked peaceful—too peaceful for someone supposedly "blabbering from a hurt head."
As he returned, her eyes snapped open.
Instantly.
No grogginess. No confusion.
Her hand shot out—empty, but aimed precisely where his throat would be if she'd had a weapon.
Seo-jun jumped back. "Hey—!"
She stopped herself mid-motion, eyes focusing.
"…You," she said.
"Yes. Me. The man whose floor you're sleeping on."
She slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position, back against the wall.
"I chose the ground," she said simply.
"Why?" he demanded.
She looked at him like the answer was obvious. "Beds are traps."
He stared.
"…Excuse me?"
"Soft surfaces dull awareness. Elevated positions reduce reaction time. Doors must be observed," she said, gesturing faintly. "This is optimal."
Optimal.
For sleeping.
In a billionaire's house.
"You're not on a battlefield," he said sharply. "You're in my home."
Her gaze flicked around the room. Expensive. Open. Too exposed.
"Then your home is poorly designed," she replied.
He scoffed. "You really are concussed."
She tilted her head. "Is that an insult."
"It's a medical observation."
"Then you should be more concerned," she said calmly. "Head injuries kill quietly."
That shut him up.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look. You can't sleep on the floor."
"I can."
"You won't."
She studied him for a long moment.
Not defiant.
Measuring.
"…You are uncomfortable because I lower myself," she said finally.
He stiffened. "That's not—"
"In my world," she continued, voice even, "sleeping near an entrance meant you trusted no one. It was expected. But here—" She glanced at his face. "—it offends your sense of order."
Annoyingly accurate.
"There's a guest room," he said after a pause. "Second floor. Left corridor. Door locks."
"Locks are illusions," she replied.
"Humor me."
She hesitated—then nodded once and stood, movements controlled. As she passed him, she paused.
"You left me unattended," she said.
"So?"
"In your world, that means trust," she continued. "In mine, it means confidence."
She met his eyes.
"You have neither. Yet."
Then she walked upstairs like she owned the place.
Seo-jun stood there, stunned.
For the first time in years, someone had stayed in his house without asking for anything.
No money. No apology. No gratitude.
Just… survival.
He looked at the spot by the door where she'd slept.
And for reasons he didn't understand, the silence felt heavier than before.
She closed the door behind her.
Soft click. Final.
The room was too large. Too clean. Too quiet. No drafts. No shadows that mattered. She stood still for a moment, listening—not with ears, but with instinct.
Nothing moved.
No guards. No sentries. No night patrol.
This place trusts the dark too much.
Her gaze fell on the bed.
It was massive. Raised. Dressed in layers of fabric softer than anything she'd ever touched. It reminded her—vaguely—of noble chambers from the 1800s. The kind meant for people who had never slept with a knife under their pillow.
She approached cautiously.
One hand pressed against the mattress.
It gave way.
Her hand sank in.
She recoiled instantly.
"What is this," she muttered, disgust sharp in her voice.
She prodded it again with two fingers. The surface dipped, then sprang back, alive in a way that made her skin crawl.
Bouncy.
Unstable.
Unacceptable.
Her jaw clenched.
This is not a bed.
This is a trap disguised as comfort.
In her time, beds were firm. Unforgiving. They didn't shift under your weight. They didn't swallow you whole and steal your balance. You slept ready. You woke ready.
This thing?
This thing would get someone killed.
She sat—briefly.
The mattress dipped further, throwing off her center of gravity. Her body tensed instantly, muscles screaming danger, her hand shooting out to brace against the headboard.
Her heart spiked.
She stood up immediately.
"No," she said flatly.
She backed away like the bed had personally offended her ancestors.
Her eyes scanned the room. Plush carpet. Cushioned chair. Heavy curtains. Everything soft. Everything wrong.
She moved to the corner instead.
Floor. Solid. Honest.
She folded the blanket once, laid it down carefully, then lowered herself with controlled precision. Back to the wall. Door in view. Knees bent just enough to move fast if needed.
Only then did her shoulders relax—barely.
As she sat there, her gaze drifted to her hands.
Unscarred.
She clenched them slowly.
Different body, she reminded herself.
Same mind.
Her eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion finally claiming what war had trained her to suppress. As sleep crept in, memories surfaced—steel clashing, screams, the weight of armor, the betrayal that ended her life.
Her brow furrowed.
Her fingers twitched.
Even here—even in this strange, soft world—she slept like a soldier.
On the floor.
Facing the door.
Downstairs, Han Seo-jun paused halfway up the stairs, a glass of water in hand.
He'd meant to check the guest room. Make sure she didn't break anything—or disappear.
When he reached the doorway and looked inside, his breath caught.
She wasn't on the bed.
She was on the floor.
Tucked neatly into the corner, blanket folded with military precision, body positioned like she was guarding the room rather than using it.
He stood there longer than he intended.
Something about the sight unsettled him deeply.
This wasn't rebellion.
This wasn't eccentricity.
This was conditioning.
And suddenly, the word concussion felt like a lazy excuse.
"…What kind of life did you live," he murmured quietly.
She didn't answer.
She was already asleep.