She blinked. Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again like she'd downloaded the wrong response pack. "Of–Of course I'm Lilith! What kind of question is that?"
But Peter narrowed his eyes. "No. I mean the Brooklyn Lilith. You know… ramen-and-broken-dreams Lilith. My Lilith."
Her face froze.
Completely.
The panic was instant. Like her soul just remembered it hadn't paid rent. Her eyes widened, her voice dropped, and she almost whispered: "Peter… tell me this isn't real. Please."
He wished to tell her it wasn't but he knew it was. This was fate's favourite cosplay.
Peter's jaw tightened. "Nah, it's real as fuck. All of it. The truck, the voices, the sweet-ass bathroom, this stupid tall-ass and handsome body. We're alive. Again. But now we're unrelated siblings. Again."
She blinked twice. Tears prickled the corner of her eyes like she was about to fight reality with a butter knife.
Peter rubbed his temple. "So let me get this straight. We both got mashed into the pavement by a truck, got isekai'd back into Korea, landed in rich-kid bodies, and somehow still ended up siblings even when the universe had a blank slate? This is really fate's favourite cosplay. And I'm saying it loud."
Lilith looked at him.
Then slowly sat on the bed, grabbing a pillow and screaming into it.
Peter crossed his arms. "Same name. Same weird sibling bond. Same life-wrecking bullshit."
She muffled through the pillow, "Fucking Truck…"
He nodded grimly. "Truck-kun needs to be arrested. I swear. This bitch been committing reincarnations for years."
Lilith finally looked up, hair messy, lips quivering. "So… we're stuck here?"
Peter exhaled. "Yeah. But at least we're stuck together and we're rich too."
Pause.
Then Lilith blinked again, eyes narrowing. "Wait… Did you check your dick?"
Peter's face dropped like the Wi-Fi had cut off mid-download.
"Lilith. Not now."
Peter leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, hoodie half-off, eyes heavy. Lilith sat curled up on her bed, hugging a pillow like it could protect her from the absurdity of the universe. For a minute—just a single stretched moment—they didn't talk.
The silence was loud.
Like, really loud. Like the kind of silence that slams every single "what-the-fuck-just-happened" thought into your chest like a truck. Again.
Peter exhaled slowly, voice soft, bitter. "We died, Lilith. Like… properly. No 'hospital monitor beeping' bullshit. We died. You wrapped your arms around me like some tragic heroine, and then that truck—"
He stopped.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy.
Her lips trembled like she was holding something back, but her nose was already pink. "I was so scared," she whispered. "I didn't think. I just saw you not moving… and the truck was coming and—" Her voice cracked.
Peter looked away, jaw clenching. "You didn't have to do that."
"Then what? Just watch you die? Again? I can't—" She covered her face, knuckles white, breath shaking. "You're my whole fucking world, Pete. Even back then… even when we were broke and pathetic and just surviving off instant noodles and webnovel dreams when we ran away from home… you were everything."
That hit harder than the truck.
Peter's throat tightened. He dragged a hand down his face and finally stepped off the wall, crossing the room with slow, hesitant steps. He sat beside her on the bed. Not touching, but close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"You're not just my sister," he muttered, voice scratchy. "You were my one person, Lilith. The only one who actually stayed. The one who listened to my dumb stories. Laughed at my jokes when nobody else would. You gave a shit. You always gave a shit. Even when no one else did. I don't blame you for what happened and deep inside I know I'm shamelessly and selfishly thankful that I'm with you in this after-next life."
Tears finally slipped down her cheeks, but she wasn't sobbing. Just silently leaking pain.
He looked at her, tired and real. "And now we're back. Alive. Different bodies. Same damn souls."
Lilith let out a broken chuckle. "Same names too. Universe really had no budget, huh?"
Peter snorted. "Yeah. Recycled cast, new setting."
They sat in silence again. Then she leaned sideways—just a little—and laid her head on his shoulder. No drama. Just that soft, sibling-heavy weight that said we're still here.
Peter didn't move. He let her stay there, let the warmth settle in his chest like a rebooted heart. "Let's not waste it," he said finally. "This second chance, or whatever this is. Let's fucking live. Properly this time." Lilith nodded against his shoulder.
"Yeah. Together."
Pause.
Then she mumbled, "But like… not with the same big dick, right?"
Peter sighed so hard he saw his soul leave his body. "Lilith. I'm begging you."
They sat there like two freshly baked trauma muffins—silent, emotionally drained, still slightly moist with the shock of being alive again.
Then came the inevitable. Peter squinted into the air like he was waiting for a pop-up to spawn above his head. "Okay, wait a sec—where the hell's our golden finger?"
Lilith blinked up at him. "Huh? A what now?"
"You know. The thing. The cheat code. The magical super-ultra-system thingy. We got Truck'd, Lil. That's the rule. You get hit by a truck, you get a system. That's the deal. Karma. Universal law. Webnovel logic. Whatever."
She frowned. "Maybe this Earth doesn't do golden fingers. Maybe we just get depression and hot bodies."
Peter groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the headboard like the ceiling had personally offended him.
"So what—you're telling me we got reincarnated with trauma but no perks? That's some broke-ass development patch. I didn't die for vibes, Lilith. I died for upgrades!"
Lilith flopped back on the bed, legs in the air like she'd just emotionally rage-quit. "Maybe the system's loading, okay? Maybe the Wi-Fi's slow in the afterlife."
"Bullshit. We got the trauma cutscene. Where's the damn tutorial?"
Silence.
Then she turned to him.
"Okay, whatever. Golden finger or not, maybe we should—I don't know—actually check out this house?"
Peter blinked. Looked around like he was just now realizing he was sitting in a room bigger than his entire Brooklyn apartment.
"…You mean this house? This cleaner-than-my-conscience house? The one that smells like wealth and unprocessed trauma?"
She stood up, arms crossed. "Yes. This penthouse. This expensive-looking mausoleum where we woke up from death. Let's see what the hell kind of life we just got reborn into."
Peter sighed and dragged himself off the bed, muttering:
"If there's not at least one walk-in closet and a dumb butler robot named Joon-something, I'm jumping out the window."