Seoul, 2000s (Night)
Yoon Hyun-woo didn't belong to Soonyang Group.
He belonged to Soonyang Family.
That difference was the reason he could enter the second basement storage room without a pass, the reason he could replace a Chairman's household driver at midnight without anyone asking why, the reason he could deliver an apology gift to a mistress's apartment and still be called "loyal" afterward.
He wasn't a manager in the way the org chart meant it.
He was a servant in the way Soonyang understood: a man who solved problems that should never exist—then made sure no one saw the stains.
Tonight's stain was a ledger.
Not a "ledger," officially. Officially it was "archived tax documentation" for an overseas subsidiary.
Hyun-woo opened the steel cabinet and found the binder where he already knew it would be. The label was clean, typed, too neat for something that had been handled often. That was always the sign: the dirtiest things were packaged like gifts.
He turned pages.
Numbers that didn't match. Entities that shouldn't exist. Transfers that moved like a river underground.
Tax evasion wasn't new. Soonyang had breathed around laws the way whales breathed around water.
But this—this was the kind of scheme that required one final step: a human being who could carry the blame.
Hyun-woo shut the binder and held it for one second longer than necessary.
In that extra second, he understood the shape of the trap.
The scheme would be "discovered." The authorities would "investigate." A scandal would be "contained." And the family would "sacrifice" a loyal man to prove how clean they were.
A loyal man like him.
He placed the binder back exactly as it had been, then walked out and locked the cabinet as if he'd never been there.
When he reached the hallway, Lee Hang-jae was waiting.
Not blocking the corridor. Not stepping forward. Just standing in the perfect spot where you had to see him before you could pass. The Chief of Staff (비서실) didn't need to shout.
Lee Hang-jae's eyes skimmed Hyun-woo's face the way an accountant skimmed a balance sheet.
"You were in there a long time," Lee said.
Hyun-woo bowed his head slightly. Not too deep. Too deep looked guilty.
"I checked the inventory list," Hyun-woo answered.
Lee's expression didn't change.
"Chairman wants the folder," Lee said. "Tonight."
Hyun-woo's throat tightened, not in fear, but in clarity. This wasn't "tidying." This was "closing."
"Yes, sir."
Lee's voice stayed calm, almost kind.
"You're reliable," he said. "That's why the family trusts you."
Hyun-woo knew what that meant in Soonyang language:
That's why you're safe to sacrifice.
He bowed again and walked away without speeding up.
In the elevator mirror, he saw his own face—tired, controlled, too ordinary to be dangerous. He had survived because he never acted like the smartest man in the room.
But he was smart enough to understand one rule:
When the family praised you, it wasn't gratitude.
It was ownership.
---------------
Two days later, Hyun-woo was on a plane.
It wasn't presented as punishment.
It was presented as "urgent overseas duty," the kind of assignment that made ambitious men smile. Hyun-woo smiled too, because smiling was what you did when you were being led to the end.
He landed. He was driven to a quiet roadside, the kind of place where nothing happened because nothing was recorded.
The man in the passenger seat didn't look at him until the car stopped.
"Manager Yoon," the man said politely, "please hand over your phone."
Hyun-woo did.
The man checked it, removed the battery, and placed it in a plastic bag as if preserving evidence.
Then he said, still polite:
"Chairman's family has decided you stole company money."
Hyun-woo stared at him.
That word—decided—was the entire legal system inside Soonyang.
Hyun-woo's voice came out steady. "There must be a mistake."
The driver sighed as if bored.
"There's no mistake," the driver said. "Only a conclusion."
Hyun-woo's hands remained on his knees. He didn't lunge. He didn't beg.
Because beggars were still alive long enough to be humiliated.
He simply asked one question, calm as paperwork:
"Which member of the family ordered this?"
The man in the passenger seat smiled faintly.
"You don't ask that," he said.
Hyun-woo nodded once.
That was confirmation.
The gunshot was loud only for a moment.
Then the world closed.
---------------
Hyun-woo opened his eyes and heard a fan clicking.
A cheap fan.
A boy's fan.
His lungs filled too easily, as if they'd never learned the weight of exhaustion.
He sat up.
Smaller hands. Slim wrists. A school uniform draped on a chair. A calendar on the wall.
The date punched him in the face:
1987.
For a long second, he didn't move.
A loyal servant's mind always verified reality before reacting. It was how you survived in a house where mistakes were punishable.
He looked at the calendar again. Looked at his hands again. Looked at the family photo on the desk.
A stern old man at the center—Jin Yang-chul—and the rest arranged around him like planets around a sun.
Hyun-woo inhaled once, slow.
So this was the miracle.
Not heaven. Not hell.
A second life — inside the enemy's bloodline.
He looked into the mirror.
A boy's face looked back at him.
Jin Do-jun. The youngest grandson.
Hyun-woo closed his eyes.
If this was a chance, it was a chance with teeth.
In his old life, he had been useful.
In this life, he would become necessary.
And in the quiet back of his mind—like a door he'd never noticed until now—something waited.
A hidden "space," an impossible access.
Hyun-woo didn't panic.
He tested.
He reached for the sensation the way he reached for a cabinet key.
And the door inside him answered.
Not with light. Not with drama.
With availability.
Hyun-woo opened his eyes again, calm.
He didn't need to understand everything tonight.
He only needed one fact:
He wasn't coming back with nothing.