Chapter 2: His Name Was Seo-jun
1373 Words
She woke gasping, like surfacing from black water.
The ceiling above her was white and gold, trimmed in carved crown molding. A chandelier of crystal and warm bulbs floated overhead, glittering like a frozen sun. For one full second, Kim Yena didn’t move. Her chest rose and fell too smoothly. Her body didn’t ache. Her hands—
She sat up too fast.
The sheets fell away from her bare arms, her chest, her waist. She stared down at skin far too pale, unmarred, soft. Slim, lean—male. The fingers curled on the silk duvet weren’t hers. Longer. Elegant. She pressed her palm to her chest.
Flat.
Her breath stuttered, sharp and ragged.
This wasn’t pain. Not the type she knew.
This was dissonance.
She stumbled out of bed. Her legs tangled in the covers. Her knees hit the marble floor—hard, cold, too polished. She scrambled up, heart hammering. The room was enormous. Cream walls, gold-framed art. Ornate writing desk. Window drapes taller than her old apartment.
It was silent.
Not quiet. Silent. No wind. No ash. No howling.
Only the hum of central air.
She ran to the nearest surface—a vanity. Nearly tripped over a white armchair on the way.
And then—her reflection.
He stared back.
A young man. Eighteen, maybe. Pale skin, heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, eyes like black ink under feathery brows. Hair dark brown and tousled like it had been styled to look effortless.
The face was... beautiful.
Beautiful and unfamiliar.
Her lips parted. The boy’s mouth did too.
She whispered, “No,” and the voice that came out wasn’t hers.
It was smooth. Lighter. Masculine.
She backed away. Hit the vanity edge. Breathing fast.
There had been no warning. No lights. No whispers. One moment she’d been bleeding on a rooftop, watching the sky fall. The next—this.
Where the f**k am I?
The door opened behind her.
She spun, crouched low, instincts burning.
A woman in a grey blouse stepped in, startled but composed. Mid-forties, elegant posture. House staff, clearly. She held a tray with a bowl of porridge and folded cloth napkin.
“Oh! Young Master Seo-jun—” Her eyes widened. “You’re awake!”
Yena didn’t answer.
“You were unconscious for almost twelve hours,” the woman said gently, stepping forward. “We didn’t want to disturb you. Doctor Shin is coming soon.”
Yena opened her mouth. Closed it.
Think.
She touched her temple, grimaced. “Still dizzy,” she muttered, deepening the voice by instinct. Still soft, but believable.
The woman nodded with concern. “You collapsed during practice yesterday. Master Min-woo was furious at the school.”
Min-woo.
She stored the name.
“Can I bring you anything?” the woman asked.
Yena shook her head, not trusting herself to speak again. The woman placed the tray on the nightstand, bowed, and exited with quiet efficiency.
Yena collapsed into the vanity chair.
So. Not a dream. Not a prison.
Something worse.
A full body transfer?
No. She remembered death too vividly for this to be surgery. She’d died. She had died. That metal in her ribs hadn’t been metaphor.
Yet here she was. Warm, fed, whole.
In a body that felt too light. Too alien.
She looked at her reflection again.
The boy’s eyes were too expressive. Too sad. Like he wanted to disappear.
She hated him instantly.
---
When Doctor Shin arrived, she was sitting stiffly at the window, eyes on the sky.
He was a slim man in his sixties, well-dressed, kind-eyed. The type who always asked permission even when he outranked you.
“Good morning, Seo-jun,” he said warmly. “I won’t stay long.”
She turned and nodded once.
“You’ve had a minor syncope episode. Low blood pressure, possibly from dehydration and overexertion. The fencing team said you refused to stop training.”
Yena said nothing.
Doctor Shin smiled as he placed his bag down. “I told your brother you’d push yourself too hard someday. You were never built like him.”
That made her blink.
Doctor Shin took her wrist to check her pulse. “Still a bit fast. But nothing alarming. Any dizziness?”
She nodded.
“Headache?”
She hesitated, then nodded again.
The doctor hummed sympathetically. “Same as always.”
That was helpful.
He shone a light in each eye. She didn’t flinch.
“I’ll tell the staff to avoid stimulants. Try to eat. Stay away from stress for a few days.”
“Understood,” she said quietly.
Doctor Shin glanced up. “You sound different.”
Panic jolted through her.
But he only smiled. “Less nervous.”
Yena forced a tight smile.
When he left, she locked the door.
---
She tore through the room.
Bureau drawers. Closet. Bookshelf. She found school notebooks, sealed envelopes, half-written thank-you letters.
The boy’s handwriting was delicate, looping. His planners were color-coded. His journal held lines like:
> “Min-woo-hyung looked tired today. Should I ask if he’s okay? Or is that too intrusive?”
Yena closed the book.
God, she thought. He was soft.
No wonder he collapsed. No wonder no one feared him.
And yet—his room was beautiful. Safe. There were photographs in the drawer.
Three children. One boy tall and cold-eyed. One girl, delicate with a dimpled smile. One boy—Seo-jun—smiling like he didn’t know how.
She put the photo down.
He’d had family.
She didn’t know what that was like.
---
Dinner was in the central hall.
Marble floors, high ceilings, a chandelier the size of her old apartment. Long glass table. Silver cutlery. Formal as a funeral.
She wore one of Seo-jun’s tailored shirts and black trousers. The servant had helped her fix her hair.
Ha-eun arrived first.
Sixteen. Small, graceful, with dark eyes too observant for her age.
“Oppa,” she said brightly. “You’re not dead.”
“I got better,” Yena replied, and was horrified at the instinctual joke.
But Ha-eun laughed. “Min-woo was so tense he almost stabbed the doctor.”
Yena blinked. “He what?”
“He was worried. Don’t tell him I said that.”
The girl beamed and sat.
Then the doors opened.
Min-woo.
He walked like a man used to silence when he entered a room. Late twenties, lean in a perfectly tailored black suit, tie undone just enough to suggest control, not rebellion.
He sat across from her.
Their eyes met.
Yena didn’t breathe.
His were sharp. Dark. Calculating. Nothing about him was soft. This man had been raised to inherit something cutthroat.
“Seo-jun,” he said. Cool. Not cold.
“Hyung,” she replied.
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
The first course was served.
Conversation was light. Polite. She copied Ha-eun’s posture, timing, reactions.
But Min-woo watched.
When she reached for the water glass, she did so with the wrong hand. When she smiled, it didn’t quite match the old curve of Seo-jun’s lips.
She could feel it.
He was already suspicious.
Halfway through the meal, he finally said, “You’re quieter than usual.”
“I hit my head,” she said.
A beat of silence.
Then—Min-woo’s lips curled slightly. “You should do it more often.”
Ha-eun groaned. “Can’t you two have one dinner without sniping?”
Yena gave a hollow smile.
Min-woo’s gaze lingered a second longer than it should have.
Then moved on.
---
That night, Yena sat on the edge of the bed.
The house was still. Too still.
She had locked every door, checked the windows twice. She didn’t trust soft mattresses. Or silence. Or comfort.
She ran the water in the private bathroom—not to wash. Just to hear something real.
She looked into the mirror.
Not tears. Not even fear.
Just exhaustion.
She whispered, “My name is Kim Yena.”
The face didn’t change.
She said it again. Quieter.
“My name is Kim Yena.”
And then, from the far corner of the window—
A flicker.
A brief pulse of red in the clouds.
Like a spark.
Gone in a blink.
Yena stared.
And knew.
It was starting again.
..........
- Writer
