There were parts he’d endured, saying, it can’t be helped.
Even if it was hard to say one hundred percent of it was his choice, right before the unreal thing of a body changing happened—he had met the real Lee Sihyeon, had wiped Lee Sihyeon’s wet cheek as he begged, quiet and desolate, to protect the child, and had said he would. Even if it was a dream, in that moment Lee Hajin had chosen. He had a strange feeling—near to conviction—that if he had opened the hospital-room door and left, leaving behind a Lee Sihyeon with a face like he was about to die, the ending would have been entirely different.
The moment he opened his eyes in Lee Sihyeon’s body and realized the anomaly—
In truth, a part of him might have felt relief.
He hadn’t wanted to die, but neither had he particularly wanted to live. Breathing made living feel tedious, and most things clinging to his arms and ankles were bright red or bruised blue and ruined. Lee Hajin didn’t know affection and was ignorant of love. His barren, parched life was so dried and withered it almost rasped; in hindsight, it was only himself who didn’t know it. However much the people around him tried to water him and pull him into their arms, at some point he had given up on that, and without noticing it, he left himself unattended with an even harder face—those were the days.
The feeling that a period had finally been put on a tedious, empty life was like the leash cinched around his neck from the moment he was born slackening at last.
Not that he thought he’d been given a new life.
He would protect the child Lee Sihyeon had asked him to protect, and that would be that. It was regrettable and troublesome that Lee Sihyeon’s job was idol and he was tied up in countless things, but in a way he thought that too was the price for his own choice. In the dream, Lee Sihyeon hadn’t spoken of such things, and likewise, he hadn’t asked. It was an odd way of thinking, but that was how Lee Hajin accepted it, and he accepted everything that came in front of him.
It was a body bound by contract anyway; he couldn’t quit on the spot, and as a public figure with his face known everywhere, he couldn’t do something else. So he endured acts the original Lee Hajin could never have imagined—acting, singing, dancing. Some days it annoyed him, some days it shamed him; sometimes the dissonance of a stranger’s life unsettled him…yet sometimes he even thought it was peaceful. A world where no one died and no one despaired.
As time went on, the things around Lee Sihyeon that didn’t sit right kept catching his eye. Malicious rumors, looks, relationships.
Truthfully, it didn’t much matter what any of it was. That was Lee Sihyeon’s life, and all the results of Lee Sihyeon’s choices.
Collapsed under a problem he should have borne himself, Lee Sihyeon made another choice at the very last moment. The news covered it up, saying brake failure and the like, but Lee Hajin knew that was a blatant lie. Lee Sihyeon had chosen—something he couldn’t answer for. Soaked in regret. Nothing to do with him.
That was how coldly he should have thought.
“Ah, fuck….”
Why couldn’t he hold his irritation, then?
With that choking, stifling irritation tightening his throat, the corners of Sihyeon’s eyes pinched as he stared hard at the screen with the text. He thought the filthy curses and insults aimed at Lee Sihyeon were separate from himself. Which was why, up till now, even when a few insulting lines were poured on him wearing Lee Sihyeon like a coat, Lee Hajin could stay placid. Truthfully, he wasn’t the type to get mad at such things, and it all felt petty.
Having lived two quiet months like that, Hajin finally snapped—at the text sent the next day reading [D-5], and at the call that followed.
“Hey.”
When a call came from the number that had been sending those not-even-funny texts, Sihyeon answered without hesitation; the moment he put the speaker to his ear and a messy torrent of curses spilled out, he spoke in a low voice. It was soft, but somehow carried a pressure that couldn’t be ignored; the other, who’d been cursing to his heart’s content, stammered for a moment, wrong-footed.
— We can’t find y—w-what?
“Who are you.”
— What?
“Are you deaf…? I asked who you are.”
When he repeated himself, sounding annoyed that the other couldn’t take a hint, the caller fell silent for a beat, then came back with curses at a far higher pitch than before, barking and baying.
— You little shit, so you almost died and smashed your head—who the fuck are you to talk down to me, you cocksucker!
“You talked down first, you cocksucker.”
Hah! Did this fucker really lose his mind? Wrong-footed by Sihyeon’s reaction, the voice on the other end went whale-loud, raging; it was so noisy Sihyeon pulled his ear away for a second and clicked his tongue, pitying him. You can tell the level at a glance. He shook his head; then, as if someone else had snatched the phone from the screamer, a calmer voice than before flowed through the speaker.
— Lee Sihyeon. You thought changing your number and disappearing meant we couldn’t find you?
“……….”
— Think about how much you owe. If you think you can slip out that easily, that’s going to be a problem.
Still doesn’t get it…. At the quiet continuation, Sihyeon held his tongue for a moment. They said dog-shit premonitions weren’t wrong; he’d thought nine-tenths it was a dunning text, and sure enough, it was the loan-shark side. I’m fucked. Rubbing his throbbing temple with his fingertips, Sihyeon spun fast. He needed to know which place it was. If it was manageable, he intended to handle it himself.
“So—which one are you, like I said. I’ve borrowed from so many places that reaching out like this without saying where you’re from is a problem.”
His voice was brazen and glib. The other was silent for a moment.
“Taegang? Red Cash? Speed? …Jujin?”
Anything but Jujin. He tossed out the names of a few usury outfits he knew, testing for a reaction. And when the silent caller finally spoke, voice reluctant, he could only mutter a short curse.
— Jujin.
Great. The throbbing in his head worsened.
Among usurers, Jujin was counted among the worst of the worst. Even among organization-run finance outfits, some were operated cleanly enough; Jujin’s method was filthy and petty from the start—so bad other crews would hush it up among themselves. Even if you scraped together the principal by the deadline and called, they’d deliberately refuse to pick up, and only after one or two months would they flap an inflated interest statement and kick up a fuss, demanding you pay the arrears plus the interest. That was the least of it. Jujin casually used methods that dragged a person from rock bottom to something lower.
He had seen that scene a few times.
Careless meddling in another organization’s affairs could look like a declaration of war, so he had pretended not to see—but after that, Lee Hajin had made it plain he’d rather someone borrow from his own organization than pull from Jujin. With reason: after Hajin took over, unprovoked violence and verbal abuse toward debtors were banned. First, because it looked stupid. Second, because he didn’t want noise.
And even if someone was a little late past the promised date, as long as there was solid proof they could pay, Hajin was fairly lenient on deadlines. He knew pecking at someone like you’d kill them wasn’t the only method, and that opening a little breathing hole made everything run smoother. But from the debtors’ side, it must have looked different; he remembered the discomfort of seeing them bow with tears dripping, thanking him.
He wasn’t a good person—he just knew how to tell things apart.
Like a ghost, Lee Hajin could pick out who was pleading because they could repay, and who, lacking the means, was trying to stretch the deadline to run. To the former, he was lenient; to the latter, cold. Even if they clutched at his feet and screamed to be spared, he only looked down, numb. Nothing else.
If you couldn’t bear it yourself, you shouldn’t borrow someone else’s money. Those who chose had to accept the results and the price. That was how Lee Hajin thought.
And now he himself was the one in that position. It was absurd.
“Ha….”
With a short, empty laugh, Sihyeon heard his name called from the speaker, puzzled; he barely pulled himself together and opened his mouth.
“Got it. So cut it out with those not-even-funny texts. When have I ever not paid? What’s with the cussing and the hounding—pisses off the poor bastard listening.”
The other was quiet for a moment. Someone far away was screaming fresh curses, but he ignored it cleanly; soon, the calm-voiced man growled like a warning, low and threatening.
— If it’s not ready exactly five days from now, you’d better be prepared, Lee Sihyeon.
It felt like he’d edged back a little at Sihyeon’s not-quite-usual stance. With an acknowledgment, the call cut. Staring at the phone, Sihyeon’s eyes pinched, stymied. He didn’t even know the exact sum due, and he had no precise read on his finances—there wouldn’t be any money. He’d fronted out of rising irritation, but he knew there was nowhere left to retreat.
He stared at the dark screen for a long time; only then, like he’d made up his mind, did he press the power.
When the screen flared bright, he keyed in a familiar number, then hesitated again, wavering over the call button. Even to him, the situation sometimes felt like a dream; he’d thought he’d never have to see this person again, and that made the call hard to place. But in the end he realized he had no choice, and a pale fingertip pressed down hard on Call.
After a few seconds of ringing, a familiar voice.
Forcing his unmoving mouth to open, Sihyeon called the name in a small, troubled voice.
“…Han Daejun.”
A grim reply came back: Who is this.