Chapter Text
The blue light of the JYPE practice room was always the coldest.
Choi Ru-han sat on the hardwood floor, his back against the mirrors. He didn't look up. If he did, he would see the "Visual" everyone talked about, the striking, messy blend of his father’s Korean sharpness and his mother’s English softness. He would also see the red-rimmed eyes of a boy who had spent the last two months failing.
The monthly evaluation had ended an hour ago. The score on his sheet was a jagged, cruel number that felt like a death sentence.
“You have no rhythm, Ru-han,” the instructor had said, loud enough for the other trainees to hear. “You’re just a pretty face we found on the street. If you can't move, you’re useless in this group. It's already the second month, and I have yet to see a shred of improvement in your movements.”
Ruaan kept his head down and listened silently. This was nothing new; he knew he didn't improve much. Still, he was trying so damn hard. Is he just destined to be a failure?
“Ruhan-a,” the instructor called him again. He felt mocked by the expression of endearment. “Are you even serious about being a trainee? You’re just wasting all of our time.”
Behind him, the whispers of the other boys stung worse than the critique.
“The half-blood is crying again. Why did they even cast him? He’s a mistake.”
“For his face, or what? Honestly, I don't get it. His color isn't even as fair as regular Koreans, how is he gonna be an idol?” Someone else replied. They say it like a fact, and that hurts even more.
Ruaan stood up, his legs feeling like lead. He has been sitting in this corner for nearly two hours, lost in his own head. He needs to get back home before it's too late. He walked out of the building, the cold Seoul air biting at his face. He didn't want to take the bus. He doesn't want to be around people like this. He walked until his feet burned, arriving at the Choi estate—a house that felt more like a museum of things he would never be good enough for.
_____
The clinking of metal chopsticks was the only sound in the dining room. Ruaan’s father, Jung-ho, kept his eyes on his bowl. His grandfather, however, kept his eyes on Ruaan. The stack of papers on the table was like a time bomb ticking away second by second.
On the left, his Monthly Evaluation from JYPE: “Unsatisfactory. Poor muscle memory. Lacks the drive of a debut candidate.” On the right, his Midterm Report Card: “Rank: 180/200. Failing Mathematics and Literature. Lack of focus.”
"Do you see these numbers, Ru-han?" his grandfather asked, his voice deceptively quiet. "You are failing to be a student, and you are failing to be a performer. You are currently nothing but a drain on this family's resources and reputation."
"I... I can't focus," Ruaan whispered, his eyes blurring.
"Because you are living in a fantasy," his grandfather snapped. "If you insist on going to that entertainment company, you will do so after your classes. If these grades do not return to the top 10% by the final exams, you will sign the withdrawal papers for JYPE. I am done entertaining your mother's 'artistic' delusions in you. I will not have a Choi be a failure in two worlds at once."
His father didn't look up. "He’s right, Ru-han. It’s for your own good. You need a backup plan."
"The daughter of President Park is well-educated," his grandfather said, turning towards his father. "She would be a steadying hand for this house. It is time you stopped living in the shadow of a mistake, Jung-ho."
Ruaan’s father, a man who usually looked at Ruaan with a mix of guilt and pity, didn't argue. He simply took a sip of water and nodded. "Yes, of course father. I’ll meet her next week."
Ruaan felt the rice turn to ash in his mouth. He wasn't just a "mistake" anymore; he was a remnant of a past they were actively trying to pave over. He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor.
"I am not hungry," he whispered in a voice that cracked. He didn't wait for his grandfather's scolding. He retreated to his room, locking the door on the life he no longer knew how to live.
_____
The room was cold, but the shame felt hotter. Ruaan lay on his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, but they couldn't block out the sound of his grandfather’s voice echoing from the hallway.
"Two months. Two months of wasting money on a 'dream' that was clearly a delusion. Look at the evaluation marks, Jung-ho. 'Lackluster.' 'Unfocused.' He’s a beautiful face with a hollow soul. He’s just like her."
The comparison to his mother was the final puncture.
Ruaan closed his eyes. In his mind, he replayed the afternoon: the way the dance instructor had sighed when Ruaan missed the count for the tenth time. The way the other trainees—boys with sharp eyes and sharper tongues—had whispered "London Doll" as he tripped. He had been cast on a street in Hongdae because he looked like a prince, but inside the practice room, he felt like a jester.
The street-casting had felt like a lifeline—a way to be someone else—but after two months, he realized he was just failing at a different version of himself. He was tired of being the "mixed kid," tired of being the "disappointing son," he was just so tired. Has the world always been so gray and bleak? Is it just him?
He reached for his phone. No messages from his mother. No friends either.
I can’t do this tomorrow, Ruaan thought. The weight of living is no longer metaphorical; it was a physical weight, like lead in his veins. The air in Seoul felt too thin. The expectations of the Choi name felt too heavy.
Please, he whispered into the dark, his heart rate slowing as he drifted into a dangerous, heavy sleep. Someone else take it. I don’t want to be 'Ruaan' anymore. Just... let me go.
_____
In the vast, silent corridors of Sector 17, a containment field shattered.
“Collision imminent,” she had thought, strangely calm. “Probability of atomic scattering: 99.8%.”
Tyrin-59 didn't scream. As a student of Temporal-Spatial Mechanics, she knew screams were a waste of oxygen during a molecular displacement. She felt herself being pulled through a needle-eye of pure energy, her consciousness stripped of her physical form.
<Alert: Sector 17 Academy Lab. Containment Failure.> <Temporal-Spatial Displacement: 99.9% complete.> <Searching for compatible biological anchor...> <Match Found: Earth-3. Year 2016. Subgroup: Human. Status: Vacant.>
Tyrin-59 snapped into the vacancy. The transition wasn't soft. It felt like being crammed into a suit of armor three sizes too small.
Tyrin opened her eyes, no, his eyes. The ceiling was made of primitive plaster, yellowed with age. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old dust and "sadness". A chemical cocktail Tyrin’s world had mostly synthesized out of existence.
<Status: Neural link established. Hosting Body: Choi Ru-han. Biological Age: 17. Location: Earth (Pre-Expansion Era, approx. 2016).>
She sat up. The weight of the body was staggering. The shoulders were broad, the limbs long and clumsy. She looked at her hands—large, with long, elegant fingers. They were shaking.
<Alert: High levels of Cortisol and Norepinephrine detected. Subject 'Ru-han' was experiencing a Level 4 Depressive Episode at the time of synchronization.>
"Inefficient," Tyrin whispered. Her voice—his voice—was a low, melodic baritone that vibrated in a chest that felt far too wide. "Biological status: Male, the hardware is compromised by emotional residue." She looked at her hands. They were large, the skin pale and trembling.
<Warning: [Malnourishment] detected. [Clinical Depression] residue active. [Social Anxiety] triggers are present in neural mapping.>
She walked to the mirror. The face staring back was a masterpiece of genetic variance. Deep-set, golden-brown eyes and a sharp, aristocratic jawline. She touched the skin. It was warm. It was real.
"An interesting vessel," she murmured. "Defective, but aesthetically optimized."
<Alert: Discrepancy between Pilot Consciousness (Female) and Vessel Biology (Male).>
“Irrelevant,” Tyrin thought. To a tactical mind, a body was a tool, like a scout ship or a heavy-duty exoskeleton. If the mission required her to be a 'he,' then she would be the most convincing 'he' in the history of the 21st century.
She tested the weight of the name on her tongue. It felt heavy, filled with the grief of the boy who had occupied this space before her.
"Ruaan," she said, testing the vocal cords. "Host name: Choi Ru-han. Identity: Ruaan. Mission: Survival. Objective: Maintain the temporal anchor."
“Tyrin-59 is offline,” she logged internally. “Protocol 'Ruaan' is now active. I will adopt the local male designation. I will inhabit his name.”
A sharp knock at the door made his head snap around.
"Ru-han? Are you up?" his father’s voice came through the wood, sounding tired. "Open the door. We need to talk about your training. If you're going to keep failing these evaluations, perhaps it's time to quit JYP and focus on your studies."
Ruaan walked to the door. He didn't hesitate; he turned the lock and pulled it open.
His father stood there, ready to give a lecture, but the words died in his throat. His son was standing differently. The slouch was gone. The timid gaze was replaced by a look so piercing it felt like being scanned by a laser.
"The training will not be an issue," Ruaan said. His voice was deep, steady, and lacked any of the previous day's wavering emotion.
His father blinked, taken aback. "Ru-han... are you alright?"
"I am optimized," Ruaan replied simply, stepping past him toward the kitchen. "And I require more protein. This body is currently at a 15% caloric deficit."
Ruaan enters the kitchen slowly. The atmosphere of the house still feels like lead. He ignores the tension and focuses on "Fueling the Unit."
He pulled out a chair, movements precise. His father watched, his brow furrowed in confusion. The "Old" Ruaan used to push his food around, looking like every bite was a struggle.
This Ruaan didn't look at the side dishes as food; he looked at them as a chemical equation.
<Analysis: High protein (Bulgogi), complex carbohydrates (Rice), vitamins/fiber (Kimchi/Spinach). Total estimated calories: 650. Sufficient for 6 hours of physical output.>
He ate with a rhythmic, steady pace. No hesitation. No emotion.
"Are you... feeling better, Ru-han?" his father asked, his voice hesitant. "About what was said at dinner? I know it’s hard for you to see me moving on, but—"
Ruaan paused, a piece of spinach held perfectly between his chopsticks. He looked at his father—not with anger, but with the cold observation of a strategist.
"Your reproductive and social alliances are your own concern," Ruaan stated. "As long as the household remains a stable environment for my rest cycles, I have no objections. I have also reviewed the academic requirements," he said, his voice flat and cold.
His grandfather paused, his teacup halfway to his mouth. "The curriculum is rudimentary. I will maintain the necessary grade point average while continuing the training at JYP."
The grandfather sneered. "A bold claim for a boy who couldn't even memorize a dance routine last week."
"The previous data is irrelevant," Ruaan replied, taking a steady bite of rice. "The biological unit was suffering from a 'processing lag.' That has been corrected. Your pursuit of a new marriage alliance is also a logical progression for this household's status. I have no objections."
The father dropped his napkin. The grandfather narrowed his eyes. The boy who had spent weeks crying was looking at them with eyes that felt like cold glass.
"I have finished my intake," Ruaan said, standing up. "I will be attending the academy, then the training center. Do not expect emotional outbursts; they are an unproductive use of moisture."
_____
The blue "JYP" logo loomed ahead. As Ruaan approached the glass doors, the body betrayed him. A cold sweat broke out on his neck, and his heart rate spiked to 135 bpm. His palms turned slick with sweat.
<Alert: [Anxiety] Debuff triggered. Location-based trauma detected.>
He placed a hand over Ruaan’s heart, feeling it thud against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Quiet," he whispered to his own skin. "I am in control now."
He gripped the strap of his bag. "Listen to me, hardware," he hissed. "We have an academy to top and a debut to secure. These 'trainees' are merely variables. We do not hide. We optimize."
He forced his leg forward. He was 17, he was in the wrong body, and he was a failing trainee in 2016.
But as he walked toward the elevators, he didn't look at the floor once.