Han Jiwon stood in the middle of his room, unmoving.
He did not know how long he had been standing like that. Time did not seem to move as it should, as if the world around him was waiting for him to make a decision—or simply to accept reality.
The room was silent.
But not the kind of silence he knew.
There were no sounds of arguments from behind thin walls. No drunken shouts in the hallway. No clinking of empty bottles nudged by a neighbor's foot. The silence in this place did not press against his ears, did not force his mind to stay alert. It felt light. Clean. Like air that had never been contaminated by despair.
Jiwon took a deep breath.
The scent of the room was soft. The smell of expensive detergent, faintly mixed with the aroma of wood and something he did not recognize—perhaps room fragrance. There was no damp smell. No traces of instant noodles. No remnants of a life held together by sheer desperation.
He lowered his gaze, staring at the polished wooden floor. His reflection appeared faintly.
"This is not my room," he murmured softly.
He stepped closer to the bed. It was too large for one person. The white sheets were neatly arranged, almost without creases. Jiwon touched them with the tips of his fingers, then pulled his hand back as if afraid of leaving a mark.
The study desk in the corner of the room looked like something he had only ever seen in online catalogs. There were no piles of old books. No exam papers marked with red scores. The slim laptop on the desk was still on.
Hesitantly, Jiwon approached.
The screen displayed a daily schedule.
Today.
He read it slowly, making sure his eyes were not mistaken.
Morning classes, group presentation, club practice, and after that... Family dinner.
Everything was recorded neatly. Planned. There was no room for coincidence.
"What kind of life is this…?" he whispered.
He opened the wardrobe.
Rows of clothes hung neatly, arranged by color and type. Shirts. Casual suits. Autumn coats. Everything looked new, well maintained, and—strangely—seemed to fit this body perfectly.
There were no shabby clothes. No thin T-shirts with faded colors. No school uniform yellowed around the collar.
Jiwon closed the wardrobe slowly.
His chest felt tight.
He stepped out of the room, walking along a wide corridor bathed in natural light. Every step felt unfamiliar, as if his own feet were not used to walking on such smooth floors.
When he reached the end of the spiral staircase, a woman's voice called from below.
"Young Master? Are you awake?"
Jiwon stopped.
Young Master.
He swallowed and descended the stairs with hesitant steps. The dining room spread out before him. A long dark-wood table was filled with warm dishes. Clear soup. Bread. Salad. Roasted meat. Everything was laid out neatly, without noise, without chaos.
A middle-aged woman stood at the side of the table. Her hair was neatly tied up, her apron clean and spotless.
"Please have a seat," she said politely. "Breakfast is ready."
Jiwon sat down slowly, his body feeling stiff.
The chair was soft. Too soft.
He looked at the plate in front of him. Spoon. Fork. His own hands. Clean. No calluses. No small wounds from manual labor.
"Is… Father already awake?" he asked hesitantly.
The woman smiled faintly. "The Master is already waiting."
As if summoned by those words, a man entered the dining room. Tall, imposing, dressed neatly in a shirt. His face was stern, his eyes sharp, his movements calm.
The man sat at the end of the table and opened a newspaper.
"You're late coming down," he said without looking up.
His tone was flat. Not angry. Not gentle.
Jiwon tensed.
"Yes… Father," he replied softly, almost reflexively.
The man glanced at him briefly, then returned to his newspaper. "There's a presentation today. Don't be careless."
Jiwon nodded, even though his heart was beating irregularly.
This was not his father.
The father he knew never talked about presentations. Never ate breakfast like this. Never woke up in the morning without the smell of alcohol.
A black car was waiting in front of the house.
The driver opened the door with professional composure. Jiwon sat in the back seat, his back sinking into the soft upholstery. The scent of leather filled the cabin.
As the car moved, he stared out the window.
Tall buildings stood in orderly rows. The streets were clean. People walked with light steps. There were no narrow alleys. No tangled electrical wires. No weary faces staring at the world with resentment.
"What kind of South Korea is this…?" he whispered.
The school was magnificent.
The building was modern, the grounds spacious, the facilities complete. Students walked in wearing neat uniforms and carrying expensive bags. As soon as Jiwon stepped out of the car, several people greeted him.
"Morning, Jiwon."
"See you in class."
The greetings sounded natural. There were no jeers. No condescending looks.
A neatly groomed student approached him. "You look pale. Didn't get enough sleep?"
"I… maybe," Jiwon answered cautiously.
"You push yourself too hard," the student said with a smile. "But your presentations are always consistent."
Consistent.
That word surfaced again.
In class, Jiwon sat in the front row. Without realizing it, his body moved as if it already knew what to do. When his name was called, he stood up. Words flowed from his mouth, explaining the material smoothly.
He himself was surprised to hear it.
The teacher nodded in satisfaction. "As usual, Han Jiwon. Good work."
In the cafeteria, he sat with several students. They talked about universities, projects, future plans. The names of overseas campuses rolled off their tongues effortlessly.
"Jiwon, have you decided yet?" a female student asked.
He paused for a moment. "Not yet."
They laughed lightly. "You always say that."
That night, Jiwon returned to the large house.
Dinner passed quietly. There were no shouts. No shattered bottles. No smell of alcohol. His father spoke only as needed. The woman who was supposed to be his mother smiled politely, keeping her distance.
After dinner, Jiwon returned to his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the city through the large window. The lights shone like artificial stars.
This world was too bright.
"This has to be a dream," he said softly. "There's no way I belong here."
He lay down and closed his eyes with full conviction.
Tomorrow morning, he would wake up.
Back in the cramped room.
Back to the sounds of the filthy corridor.
Back to a life that always lost.