Grrrkkk…
My stomach growled, breaking the moment. Coffee. That would help. Twenty-year-old me would have stocked up on my favorite instant coffee mix.
Like clockwork, I walked back to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it on the counter.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I froze.
09:17.
I laughed under my breath. "Well… guess that one was right."
The kettle clicked as it began to heat, steam curling upward in the morning light.
The sound was comforting, grounding.
One prediction down. Ten hours and twelve minutes until the next one.
Once the coffee was ready, I set it on the desk and cleared away the papers and books crowding the surface. Opening the pedestal drawer, I found exactly what I knew would be there — my old laptop. Not old by this timeline's standards, but to me, it was a relic, a ghost from a life already lived. The familiar weight of it in my hands brought a faint ache of nostalgia. I decided to use it to gather and organize information; my phone was far too slow, its screen far too cramped for the job.
Maybe that's why younger generations like to tease millennials about booking flights on their computers — some habits are just fossils from an earlier tech age.
I powered the laptop on. The whir of the cooling fan was louder than I remembered, and the screen's colors looked faintly yellowed — the kind of wear that modern displays never had.
Once the system finished loading, I launched the browser, my fingers hesitating for a moment before typing. With equal parts wariness and curiosity, I began searching for the latest news.
It was… recognizable, but off.
The news headlines were names I didn't know. A top celebrity I'd never heard of was apparently dominating the music charts. A movie I swore had never existed was breaking box office records. Looking more closely, even the advertisements felt skewed — the logos were similar but not quite right, as if this world's history had taken a different turn somewhere subtle but irreversible.
"Huh." The thought came unbidden — maybe this wasn't just regression. Maybe it could even be an alternate world… though I couldn't be sure.
I realized, with some surprise, that I was starting to feel interested in things again. Second time today… or was it the third? A good start, perhaps — the kind you don't question too much, in case it slips away.
And yet, curiosity stirred quietly beneath it all, urging me to test the boundaries of this place and see what else might have shifted."
Closing the browser, I briefly clicked through the computer's folders. That's when I found it — a text document titled "TS".
Curiosity won over hesitation. I opened it.
I knew it wasn't random notes. "TS" stood for Top Secret. It was… my diary. Or at least, my diary from this timeline.
I hesitated for only a moment before opening it.
The most recent entry was dated just a week back — but thirteen years ago. The entries were precise, almost clinical, recording my progress as a first-year student majoring in Applied Cognitive Mechanics at Haneul University, about to enter my second year. That's when I learnt that it was currently in the middle of the summer break.
I skimmed the last few pages. The tone was sharp, methodical — but beneath it, weary. Each entry mapped the slow grind of mounting academic pressure: the endless cycle of lectures, research projects, and practical evaluations. How the weight had started in my first semester, each exam pressing down harder than the last. I could almost feel it again — that relentless push toward something I hadn't even named. A high-level research position, maybe. A competitive grant.
I stopped reading and leaned back, eyes unfocused on the screen.
A soft chime cut through my thoughts.
[Reminder: User has yet to trial Star Sense module. Time remaining: 19 hours.]
Alright. Enough of the past. Time to finish this trial and unlock the new feature — whatever it turns out to be.
Until then, the system seemed determined to keep its secrets, only offering more when I played along with its tasks. Almost like it was smiling politely while steering me exactly where it wanted.
I took my time getting dressed. Not because I was going anywhere important — just because it felt different.
The clothes fit better than I remembered. The fabric didn't cling in the wrong places. No tugging at the waist, no awkward folds.
And when I caught my reflection in the mirror again, there was no denying it — this was the face I'd had before the years wore me down. No deep shadows under my eyes. No dullness in my skin. No reminder of all the nights I'd fallen asleep in my work clothes, takeaway containers still on the table.
It wasn't vanity. It was a quiet, almost guilty relief — like finding something I'd lost without realizing it was gone.
I grabbed a bag with a few recyclables — bottles, cans — lying at side of the door and stepped outside.
The air was crisper than I remembered. Or maybe I was just noticing it more.
That's when I saw him — Mr. Phil Kang.
At thirty-three, I'd known him as an older man in his mid-sixties— polite, distant, with the quiet dignity of someone who had already seen the best and worst of his life.
Our exchanges had been minimal: a nod, a short greeting, nothing more. And if I was honest, most of that distance had been mine. Thirteen years had taught me to keep people at arm's length.
But I'd never been able to shake the feeling that, beneath his courtesy, there was disappointment. Like he'd quietly filed me under "wasted potential."
Now… he was different. Early fifties, shoulders straight, hair cut neatly with just enough silver to make him look distinguished.
His eyes were more alert, clearer. In a way that made you think he missed nothing.
It startled me, seeing him like this — in his prime.
And when he spotted me, it wasn't with the muted pity I remembered.
It was the look you gave someone at the start of something — a calm, steady regard, as though my future was still wide open.
He smiled faintly and gave a small nod — the same reserved polite actions I have seen daily but this time it felt vastly different. The contrast was unsettling. It wasn't just how I had treated him. It was how he had once looked at me… and how, for some reason, that look had changed. For a second I thought I caught a flicker of recognition — like his quiet disappointment somehow had been replaced with something unexpectedly… hopeful. But it was gone before I could be sure.
He peered at the bag of recyclables I was holding. "Got anything else to take out?"
"This is it," I replied automatically.
"I'll take it. I'm headed there anyway."
For a moment, I just stood there, caught between surprise and the ingrained habit of refusing. But the last thirteen years had trained me to yield, to avoid trouble, to take the easy road.
"Thank you," I said quietly, handing him the bag.
His hand was steady, the grip firm.
As he turned to go, curiosity stirred.
This was a safe test. No one else around. No risk.
'Activate Star Sense,' I said in my mind.
[Activation Confirmed – Target Within Range]
A panel shimmered into view, overlaying his figure.
Profile – Phil Kang
Age: 52
Profession: ??
Health: 83/100 (Good)
Appearance: 71/100 (Neat, Presentable)
Charisma: 76/100 (Professional Confidence)
Intelligence: 81/100 (High – Creative & Practical)
Adaptability: 78/100 (Versatile)
Luck: 61/100 (Steady)
Star Potential: 3/5 (Established Professional – Not Seeking Spotlight)
I scanned the numbers — and winced.
It wasn't his Star Potential that caught me off guard. It was the Intelligence.
I remembered thinking, back in my old life, that I was always the sharpest one in the room. In our few exchanges over the years, I'd never once thought of him as particularly clever — just polite, steady, ordinary. Now, that neat little "81" sat there, quietly mocking my assumption.
And then there was the luck score.
Sixty-one. Better than mine — which hadn't even broken fifty.
Of all the stats I'd seen on my own profile earlier, it was the luck that had sat there like a quiet insult.
Forty-two. Now, seeing his, the reminder stung.
As though he could sense how I was feeling, he glanced back briefly. "Everything alright?" he asked.
I startled slightly. "Y-yes. Thanks again."
"Have a good day," he said, before disappearing around the corner with my bag.
Watching him go, I remembered the way we'd barely spoken in my other life. But this small act — his easy politeness, my almost automatic submission — made me realize how much those years had reshaped me.
And for the first time since waking here, I wondered if this wasn't just a second chance.
Maybe it was also a mirror I wasn't ready to look into.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see where it could go.
Interrupting my thoughts, the System's voice resounded in my head.
[System Notification]
Congratulations, User Lydia Han.
Initial module trial complete.
Adaptive Feedback function unlocked.
A new icon bloomed in the corner — an angular crystal-like shape, spinning slowly. I tapped it.
[System Explanation]
Adaptive Feedback actively adjusts mission requirements and progression targets based on your prior performance and behavioral patterns. This ensures optimal growth efficiency and maximizes potential gain.
In short: the better you perform, the more ambitious the system will expect you to be. Conversely, if progress slows, requirements will adapt to remain achievable.
So basically… the System was now watching me as much as I was watching it. I wasn't sure whether to feel reassured or mildly terrified.
Seeing that the feature wasn't as useful as I anticipated it to be, I closed the panel and stepped back into my apartment. The door clicked shut behind me.
I lingered there a moment longer, the image of Mr. Kang's Star Sense profile refusing to fade — especially the question mark beside Profession. It made me wonder… was Mr. Kang's profession of such caliber that it couldn't even be displayed to someone like me?
As if the thought itself had triggered it, a cool chime slid into my mind. "User has not reached the required Star Sense module tier to access information of this classification."
I exhaled slowly, eyes drifting from the fading text. My fingers curled slightly at my side. If the wall was too high to see over now… then I'd just keep moving until it wasn't.
But the profile was already slipping from memory, details softening at the edges. I couldn't let it vanish.
'System,' I asked quickly in my mind, 'is there a way to save profiles?'
[Query Acknowledged. Feature Available:Star Sense Archive.]
'Oh.' That was easier than expected. 'Activate Archive.'
[Error: Feature Upgrade Required. Estimated Activation Time: 146 Hours, 23 Minutes.]
I blinked. 'Six days?'
[Affirmative. Functionality will be limited until upgrade completes.]
I leaned back against the counter. Most systems in novels unlocked functions instantly — or at worst, after a few hours. But six days? In a story, that kind of wait was never accidental. It was the sort of delay that forced you to move, to dig, to fill the time with something else.
Whether it was a test or just the system's way of pacing me, it wasn't going to hand me everything at once.
Fine. I'd play along. But I wasn't about to let this slip away.