Peter collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor like a deflated trash bag, his legs refusing to cooperate with his brain's ongoing meltdown. He slid down the wall dramatically, fully clothed, boxers still half-on, and dignity leaking out of him like a cracked soda can. The marble tiles were expensive—he could feel the money in the chill—but none of that mattered.
Because, holy fuck.
"I died. Like, for real."
His breath came in short bursts. He clutched his chest—not in some K-drama heartthrob way, but like a man trying to respawn emotionally. His fingers dug into the designer pajamas he definitely couldn't afford yesterday.
"What is this… what even is this?" he muttered. "Am I reincarnated? No. No, wait—it's not even fantasy. This is still fucking Earth. Same shitty planet. Just different timezone and tax system."
He blinked hard, and memories crashed into him like a Netflix recap on x3 speed.
Peter Kang.
The name screamed through his skull like a branded curse. His predecessor had offed himself with a cocktail of sleeping pills and crushed pride.
Why? Pressure.
And not like "Oops, finals are next week" kind of pressure. No. Life-shattering, media-fueled, family-destroying K-chaebol pressure.
Peter sat still as the mental documentary unfolded in HD:
Peter Kang had been a business major, smart, decent-looking, loaded as hell, and—here's the kicker—he had a forbidden romance with his professor. "Wait. Hold the fuck up. My man was dating his professor?"
He blinked again. "She liked him back?! That's illegal in like five states and also my literal fantasy."
The shocker part? They were actually in love. Like the soft playlist, stolen glances, post-lecture kisses kind of love. But, because Korean media is built to destroy lives faster than Wi-Fi kills productivity, the news hit the public like a scandalous nuke.
"The Heir of Kang Group—Romantically Involved With University Professor!" The articles wrote themselves.
And social media? Oh, sweet hell—it cooked him alive. Three weeks of nonstop hate, trolls, fake quotes, and one guy claiming Peter Kang was part of a cult. The professor lost her job. People said she ruined a promising young heir. She got doxxed. Cancelled.
Peter Kang blamed himself. And he snapped.
He fucking died.
And now... Peter was living inside that same body.
That same name.
That same pain.
And damn it—he could feel it.
The guilt. The loneliness. The deep, violent hopelessness like your heart's been turned into soup. "Fuck... you really went through it, bro," Peter muttered, his fingers digging into his own scalp. "And now I'm stuck in your goddamn skin."
They weren't even two people anymore.
They were one.
Two souls but now one, stitched by tragedy and truck-kun physics.
But then, two details exploded out of the montage:
1. His Mom.
Peter Kang's mother, the only parent he had left, had fainted the a week before the news broke.
Collapsed.
Went into a coma.
Four weeks unconscious. Her brother and his grinchy wife had slithered in like vultures to convince everyone that Peter Kang was unfit to inherit anything but a memorial plaque. But thanks to his mother's legal team and loyal people, they couldn't take over the Kang Group. Not fully.
So instead…
2. The Company's Condition.
Peter Kang had been slapped with a fucking trial mission, like this was some goddamn business-themed RPG.
The board didn't trust him.
The vultures were circling.
So they gave him an ultimatum:
"If you want to inherit Kang Group, take this small, dead-end business venture under the company... and grow it until it generates at least 5 billion won per month. You have one year."
Peter blinked again. "5 billion won… per month?" His traumatized brain tried to Google-math that.
That's like… what? Roughly 3.6 million USD per month.
Forty-three million dollars a year.
To prove himself.
At age what-fucking-ever-this-body-is.
*
Peter sat there, half-naked on polished marble, hand over his face like he just got hit with a lawsuit and a love letter at the same time.
"You're telling me…I got yeeted across the street, lost my dick size, woke up in the middle of a scandal, AND now I gotta run a dead company to make fucking three million dollars a month just to keep my legacy?" He groaned.
"And here I thought Champion of Lust flopping was the lowest point of my life."
Oh. Right.
There was one more twist to this cosmic fever dream.
Peter Kang had a sister.
Well—not biologically.
More like legally. Socially. Emotionally?
Okay, whatever. A noona by all public records.
And her name?
Lilith Kang. Peter literally fell back against the wal completely and let out a groan that sounded like someone was stepping on his soul.
"You've gotta be shitting me. The universe really just hit ctrl+c on my trauma and ctrl+v'd it into a chaebol household."
This wasn't just déjà vu.
This was déjà-fuck-you.
He scrambled to his feet, pants barely clinging to his hips, and sprinted out of the bathroom like a man who'd just realized he was being punked by God. The hallway was unnecessarily long, the walls too white, the floor too shiny—it felt like he was running through a toothpaste commercial.
He didn't knock. Didn't think.
Just busted through the door like SWAT.
"LILITH?!"
And there she was.
Standing in front of a mirror, shirt lifted, inspecting herself.
Not in a weird way—just like she couldn't believe her own reflection. Like she wasn't sure this body was hers. Like she woke up in someone else's expensive skincare routine.
She jumped, nearly knocking over a bottle of toner.Her eyes snapped to his in panic. The guilt written all over her face like a failed exam paper.
"Wh–What the hell, Peter? Don't you knock?!" she snapped, adjusting her clothes like she hadn't just been caught having an identity crisis.
Peter ignored it.
His voice cracked like his emotional stability. "Is that really you? Are you… Lilith?"