Chapter Text
The last thing Eom Seonghyeon remembered was the wet, metallic sound of a blade slipping between his ribs.
It wasn't supposed to go down like that. He was just hanging out behind the PC bang, waiting for his friends to bring around the bikes. A couple of low-level street thugs had cornered him, looking for easy cash. Seonghyeon was street-smart. He knew how to throw a punch, how to use his elbows, how to fight dirty. He was actually winning.
Until the switchblade came out.
The pain had been a blinding, white-hot flare that stole the air straight from his lungs. He remembered hitting the concrete, the smell of rain and garbage, the sudden, terrifying realization that he didn't want to die. He liked his life. He liked partying, he liked smoking behind the gym, he liked the girls he dated, and he definitely liked going fast on his bike. He wasn't ready to check out at seventeen just because some junkie had a lucky aim.
He remembered the blood pooling under him. The darkness closing in.
And then, he woke up.
Seonghyeon gasped, his body jerking upward. He slapped a hand to his ribs, expecting the slick, hot mess of his own blood.
His fingers met dry, incredibly soft fabric.
He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim, ambient lighting of the room. He wasn't in the alleyway. He wasn't in a hospital, either. He was sitting in the middle of a massive, king-sized bed with a mattress so soft it felt like it was trying to swallow him whole.
"What the fuck?" he croaked. His throat was dry.
He scrambled out of the bed, his bare feet hitting cold, polished hardwood. The room was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up an entire wall, showcasing the glittering, neon-lit skyline of Seoul from a height that made him dizzy. Modern, minimalist furniture was scattered around a leather couch, a massive flat-screen TV, a glass coffee table.
He looked down at himself. He was wearing pajamas. Not his usual oversized t-shirt and boxers, but actual, matching pajamas. They felt like silk.
Panic spiked in his chest he spun around, looking for a bathroom, and spotted a partially open frosted glass door. He shoved it open and flipped the switch.
A massive mirror spanned the wall above a double marble vanity. Seonghyeon braced his hands on the cold stone and stared at his reflection.
It was him. Mostly.
He still had the same prominent nose, the same sharp cheekbones, the same deer-like eyes that got him out of trouble with teachers and into trouble with girls. It was the classic, god-gifted handsome face he was used to seeing. But there was something slightly... off.
He leaned in closer. His skin was flawless. Seonghyeon’s skincare routine consisted of washing his face with whatever soap was in the shower and slapping on a cheap Daiso moisturizer if his skin felt tight. He occasionally remembered sunscreen. This face in the mirror looked like it belonged to someone who dropped millions of won at a dermatology clinic weekly. There wasn't a single blemish, not even the faint acne scar he’d had on his chin since middle school.
"Did I die and go to a spa?" he muttered.
He pulled the collar of the silk shirt down, checking his collarbone. Then, he held up his right wrist.
A worn, braided red thread bracelet dangled there. His grandmother had tied it onto his wrist three years ago before she passed away. He never took it off. It was frayed and faded, completely out of place against the expensive silk sleeve.
He dropped his pants, ignoring the absurdity of the situation, and twisted his leg to look at his right ankle. There, just above the bone, was a tiny, terribly drawn smiley face tattoo. He’d gotten it done in a dingy basement parlor on a drunken dare a month ago.
So, this was his body. Undeniably. But this was definitely not his life.
Seonghyeon pulled his pants back up and walked back out into the cavernous bedroom. He needed a phone. He found a sleek, silver iPhone charging on the nightstand. He picked it up and tapped the screen. It prompted him for a passcode, but a second later, the padlock icon clicked open. Face ID.
He swiped up. The home screen was practically empty. No games, no messy folders. Just the essentials. He opened the web browser and stared at the search bar.
What the hell was he supposed to search? 'Why am I in a rich person's house?'
He tapped into the phone's contacts first. There were barely any names. Manager Choi. Vocal Coach. Dance Studio. Driver.
He opened the text messages. The most recent one was from 'Manager Choi.'
[Are you even going to show up to practice tomorrow? The CEO is asking. The others are pissed. Just reply so I know you're not dead in that apartment.]
Seonghyeon frowned. The others?
He went back to the browser and typed in his own name. Eom Seonghyeon.
He hit search.
Immediately, the screen flooded with articles, images, and Wikipedia links. Seonghyeon’s jaw dropped.
There were dozens of pictures of him. Him on a stage, heavily made up, wearing a leather jacket covered in rhinestones. Him walking through an airport, wearing sunglasses and a scowl, surrounded by bodyguards pushing teenage girls away.
Eom Seonghyeon - Cortis - Visual Center.
"Cortis?" he read aloud. It sounded like a medical condition.
He clicked on the first article. It was from a gossip site.
CORTIS'S EOM SEONGHYEON CAUGHT IGNORING MEMBERS AT FANSIGN AGAIN. ATTITUDE CONTROVERSY CONTINUES.
He scrolled down. There was a blurry gif of him sitting at a long table next to four other guys. A fan was handing a plushie to the guy next to him, and the Seonghyeon on the screen was looking at his fingernails, completely checked out, exuding an aura of pure boredom and disdain.
"Okay, so I'm an asshole," Seonghyeon concluded.
He spent the next hour sitting cross-legged on the silk sheets, tumbling down the rabbit hole of his alternate life. It was a lot to take in.
He was seventeen here, too. Born in 2009. But instead of being a broke high schooler who barely showed up to class, he was an idol. Cortis was a five-member boy group under some mid-tier agency that was clearly bleeding money. And they were flopping. Hard.
He pulled up their latest music video on YouTube. The song was a loud, chaotic mix of EDM and hip-hop that sounded like two different tracks playing over each other. The styling was atrocious—too much denim, too many chains, haircuts that defied gravity.
But when the camera cut to him, Seonghyeon had to admit, he looked good.
Alternate-Seonghyeon commanded the center like he was born there. He didn't just dance; he performed. He had this arrogant, magnetic smirk that made it impossible to look away. He completely overshadowed the rest of the group.
Which brought him to the other members. Seonghyeon looked them up on a fan wiki.
James Chao. Born 2005. The oldest. Main dancer. In the videos, James moved like liquid, sharp and precise. He had a strong, handsome face, but he always looked guarded. Seonghyeon found a clip of them on a variety show; whenever Seonghyeon spoke, James’s jaw clenched.
Kim Juhoon. Born 2008. Former child model. He had this soft, innocent tofu look that fans apparently ate up, but in every behind-the-scenes clip, Juhoon was glaring daggers at the back of Seonghyeon’s head.
Martin Edwards. Born 2008. The leader. Half-Canadian. He was tall, built like a golden retriever, and usually smiling, but it looked strained around Seonghyeon. The wiki mentioned Martin produced some of their unreleased tracks. Whenever Martin tried to lead a group greeting, Seonghyeon in the videos would purposefully delay his bow just to mess up the timing.
Ahn Keonho. Born 2009. Only a month younger than Seonghyeon. He had a bright, puppy-like energy on stage, but off-stage clips showed him completely ignoring Seonghyeon’s existence. Like he was invisible.
"Jesus," Seonghyeon muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed. "They absolutely hate me."
And for good reason, apparently. He dug deeper into the gossip forums. The running rumor was that Eom Seonghyeon was a nepo baby. The illegitimate son of some major conglomerate CEO, hidden away in a minor entertainment company. He was rich, untouchable, and treated Cortis like a part-time hobby he was forced into. While the other four members lived in a cramped, shitty dorm in Gangnam, Seonghyeon lived alone in a luxury penthouse in Hannam-dong because he thought the dorms were "cheap."
He didn't talk to them. He didn't practice with them outside of official schedules. There was zero chemistry. The group was just four guys trying their best and one incredibly handsome, rich asshole standing in the middle of them.
Seonghyeon ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair.
"Well, this is weird," he said to the empty room.
He stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city. He had died. He was pretty sure of that. The knife in the ribs wasn't a nightmare. He was supposed to be a corpse in an alleyway.
Instead, he was an idol in some alternate timeline.
He didn't know the first thing about K-pop. He knew NewJeans because the girls were pretty, and he knew Twice because they were legends. He didn't know how to sing. He didn't know how to dance. If he had to replicate whatever his alternate self was doing in that music video, he’d look like a dying fish.
But did he have to?
Seonghyeon looked around the penthouse. The marble, the silk, the space. He was rich. Filthy rich, apparently. Why would he bother going back to a sweaty practice room with four guys who wanted him dead? He could just quit. Pay the breach of contract fee with his secret conglomerate daddy's money, buy a nice motorcycle, and live out his days drinking, partying, and enjoying a second chance at life. YOLO, but literal.
A grin spread across his face. "Fuck yeah. Retirement at seventeen."
He walked over to the glass coffee table in the living room. There was a sleek, silver cigarette case sitting next to a matching lighter. He snapped it open. Expensive, imported cigarettes. Perfect.
He pulled one out, placed it between his lips, and flicked the lighter.
He took a long drag, the smoke filling his lungs, and let out a satisfied exhale. The nicotine hit his system, grounding him. Okay. He could do this. This was a win.
Ding.
The sound echoed in the quiet apartment, sharp and electronic. Seonghyeon paused, the cigarette hovering near his mouth. He looked around. Was it the doorbell?
Suddenly, the space in front of his face blurred. The smoke he had just exhaled seemed to catch the light, shifting and coalescing into a flat, glowing blue rectangle floating right in the middle of his living room.
Seonghyeon stumbled back, coughing as he inhaled a lungful of ash. He swatted at the air, thinking it was a hologram projector hidden somewhere. His hand passed right through the blue light.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
White text typed itself across the blue screen in rapid succession.
[USER RECOGNIZED: Eom Seonghyeon]
[STATUS: ALIVE (CONDITIONAL)]
[INTEGRATION COMPLETE. WELCOME, HOST.]
Seonghyeon stared. He rubbed his eyes. The screen didn't disappear. It hovered there, tracking his gaze, staying perfectly centered in his field of vision even when he turned his head.
"What the fuck is this? A video game?" he asked the empty room.
The screen blinked.
[The Idol Survival System is designed to ensure the Host successfully navigates the entertainment industry and reaches the pinnacle of stardom. Compliance is mandatory.]
"Compliance?" Seonghyeon scoffed. He took another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke directly at the screen. "Yeah, no thanks. I'm retiring. Go bother someone else."
The screen flashed red. A low, warning hum vibrated in Seonghyeon’s ears.
[ERROR. RETIREMENT IS NOT AN OPTION.]
[The Host's current life is sustained by System Energy. Abandoning the idol path will result in the immediate withdrawal of System Energy.]
[Consequence of Energy Withdrawal: Host will be returned to their original state prior to transmigration.]
Seonghyeon froze. Original state.
Bleeding out on the concrete in a dirty alley.
The cigarette tasted like ash in his mouth. He pulled it away, his heart kicking into a faster rhythm. "You're bluffing," he told the floating text, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
The screen didn't reply to that. Instead, the red text vanished, replaced by a bright, cheerful gold.
[MAIN QUEST 01: TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK]
[Context: A successful idol group relies on synergy and brotherhood. Your current relationship with your members is: Hostile. It is time to bridge the gap.]
[Objective: Pack your belongings, leave the penthouse, and officially move into the Cortis group dormitory.]
[Time Limit: 24 Hours.]
[Reward: +5 Vocal Skill, 1,000 System Points.]
[Failure Penalty: Immediate Cardiac Arrest.]
Seonghyeon read the last line three times.
Failure Penalty: Immediate Cardiac Arrest.
He stared at the words, waiting for a punchline. Waiting for the hidden cameras to pop out. Nothing happened. The blue screen just hovered there, the 24-hour timer already ticking down in the corner.
23:59:58.
"Cardiac arrest," he whispered. "You're going to stop my heart because I won't sleep in a bunk bed?"
[Yes.]
The single word popped up at the bottom of the screen.
Seonghyeon stared at the screen for a long, heavy moment. He looked at the silk pajamas he was wearing. He looked out the window at his expensive view. Then he thought about the sharp, burning agony of a knife in his ribs.
He threw the cigarette on the floor and crushed it out with his bare heel, not even caring about the burn.
"Fuck my life," he groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
Packing was a nightmare.
Mainly because Seonghyeon had no idea what his alternate self actually wore. He dragged a massive, ludicrously expensive Louis Vuitton suitcase out of the walk-in closet and started aggressively throwing things into it.
The closet was organized by color and season. It was horrifying. He bypassed the racks of heavily embellished stage outfits and designer suits, pulling out whatever looked somewhat normal. Oversized hoodies, plain t-shirts, a few pairs of jeans. Even the "casual" clothes had price tags that made him want to vomit. A plain white t-shirt cost more than his dad’s monthly salary back in his old life.
Old life. The thought made his chest tighten. He pushed it away. No time for an existential crisis. He had a ticking clock in his peripheral vision, currently sitting at 22:15:04.
He packed underwear, socks, and a bunch of the ridiculously expensive skincare bottles from the bathroom, figuring he’d need them if he wanted to keep his new face from breaking out. He found a black duffel bag and shoved a few pairs of sneakers into it.
He changed out of the silk pajamas into a black Balenciaga hoodie and loose jeans. He looked in the full-length mirror. Even dressed down, he looked like a rich prick. The face did him no favors. It was too arrogant.
He grabbed the iPhone, opening the text thread with Manager Choi.
[I'm moving into the dorm today.]
He hit send.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Manager Choi: [Excuse me?]
Manager Choi: [Did you get hacked?]
Manager Choi: [Seonghyeon, if this is a joke, it's not funny. The CEO is already on my ass.]
Seonghyeon rolled his eyes and typed back with one hand while dragging the suitcase toward the front door.
[Not a joke. Tell them to make space. I'm bringing my shit.]
He didn't wait for a reply. He pocketed the phone, grabbed the suitcase handle, and hauled it out into the private elevator lobby.
The ride down to the parking garage was silent. He found a black van waiting for him, the driver looking utterly bewildered when Seonghyeon threw his own luggage into the trunk instead of waiting for him to do it.
"To the dorms," Seonghyeon told the driver, sliding into the backseat.
The driver just nodded, looking at Seonghyeon through the rearview mirror like he was an alien.
The drive across Seoul took forty-five minutes. Seonghyeon spent it leaning his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur by. The reality of the situation was starting to settle in his bones, heavy and cold.
He was trapped.
He was Eom Seonghyeon, center of Cortis. He had four bandmates who despised him, a System that held his life hostage, and he couldn't sing or dance to save his life.
The van pulled up to a slightly run-down apartment building in a crowded neighborhood in Gangnam. It wasn't the worst place Seonghyeon had ever seen, but compared to the penthouse in Hannam-dong, it was a shoebox.
"We're here, sir," the driver said hesitantly.
"Yeah, I see that." Seonghyeon popped the door open and stepped out onto the curb. He grabbed his suitcase and duffel bag from the trunk. "You can go."
The driver didn't need to be told twice. The van sped off, leaving Seonghyeon standing on the sidewalk with thousands of dollars worth of luggage.
He looked up at the building. Third floor. That's what the wiki had said.
He dragged the heavy suitcase up the stairs, cursing every time it banged against his shins. By the time he reached the third floor, he was sweating and thoroughly irritated.
He found the door with the faded sticker of the agency's logo on it. Number 302.
Seonghyeon stood there for a second. The blue screen flickered in the corner of his eye.
[Time Remaining: 21:03:12]
[Proceed.]
"Shut up," he muttered to the text.
He raised his hand and pounded a fist against the metal door. Three sharp knocks.
He waited. He could hear muffled music playing inside. Someone was talking. Then, footsteps approached the door. The lock clicked, and the heavy metal swung open.
Standing in the doorway was Martin Edwards.
He looked exactly like his photos—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, mixed features and messy brown hair. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt and gym shorts, a pair of headphones resting around his neck.
When Martin saw who was standing in the hallway, the relaxed, easy expression on his face completely vanished. It was like a shutter slamming down over a window. His posture went rigid, his jaw tight.
"What are you doing here?" Martin asked, his voice low and entirely devoid of warmth.
Seonghyeon looked past him, catching a glimpse of the cramped entryway, littered with at least twenty pairs of shoes. He looked back at Martin, keeping his face blank, leaning on the handle of his Louis Vuitton suitcase.
"I'm moving in," Seonghyeon said. "Move your shoes. I'm coming through."