At 5:30 AM, the air in the kitchen was heavy with the smell of brewing dark roast and the hum of the industrial toaster.
Kang-joon moved through the space with the economy of a ghost. He wasn't the "Professor" this morning; he was just a body in motion. He measured exactly 200ml of water for his tea, his eyes tracking the steam. In his previous ninety-six lives, he had experienced almost every failure imaginable—vocal cracks, stage collapses, evil edits, and even agency bankruptcies. But the five days leading up to a debut were always the same: a volatile, thin atmosphere charged with the static of eighteen different desperations.
"You're tracking the second hand on the wall clock again," Gun-woo muttered, shuffling into the kitchen, his hair a bird's nest of blonde-bleached strands. "It's creepy, Joon-ah. Just drink your tea like a normal person."
"Normal is a statistical average that doesn't apply to this room, Gun-woo-ssi," Kang-joon said, his voice quiet and just watched the water swirl in his cup.
"Fair point," Gun-woo sighed, leaning against the counter. "I had a dream last night that the stage collapsed during the finale. We were all falling, and the fans were just... laughing. You think that's a sign?"
"It's a sign of REM-sleep deprivation and a spike in your cortisol," Kang-joon replied. "The structural integrity of the Olympic Hall stage is rated for ten times our collective weight. You won't fall."
Gun-woo smiled, a small, tired thing. "Thanks. I think."
By 9:00 AM, the routine shifted to the rehearsal studio. The mood was professional, sharp, and strangely nostalgic. They moved in a perfect, synchronized line, the squeak of their sneakers on the polished wood the only sound in the room.
Kang-joon was at the back of the formation. He was focusing on the micro-adjustments of his posture.
At 1:00 PM, a delivery arrived at the Starline front desk.
It wasn't a flower basket or a lunch support truck. It was a single, black courier envelope addressed to the Legal Department, marked with a "Critical Priority" stamp from a firm no one recognized.
Inside the envelope was a USB drive and a single sheet of paper.
***
A girl with bangs and wearing glasses was tucked into a corner of the SNU library, her table buried under folders regarding 'Digital Forensics and the Chain of Custody.' She wasn't just a fan but also a student of school of law.
Her phone buzzed. It was a notification from a private Discord server used by the "Starlight Analytics" team—a group of high-IQ fans who tracked voting data.
User 'Ghost_In_The_Shell' has entered the main forum.
Ji-hye frowned. That user name was a legend in the dark-web circles she monitored for her thesis. A high-level data broker.
She clicked into the forum. A single thread had been started.
[Title: The Price of a Soul]
[Content: Do you know what happens to the money you spend on 'Starline' votes? It doesn't go to the trainees. It goes to cover up the blood. Look at the ledger.]
Attached to the post was a document that looked like a leaked internal Starline payroll. Ji-hye's eyes scanned the columns of numbers. Most of it was standard—trainee stipends, equipment costs.
But then, she saw a recurring payment. A massive monthly sum labeled 'Settlement: Case #1109 - Life Indemnity'.
She cross-referenced the case number with a restricted judicial database.
"Wait," she whispered, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Case #1109... a hit-and-run resulting in permanent disability. 20XX."
She looked at the date. Then she looked at the "Assigned Driver" listed in the confidential police report that was attached to the leak.
"This is impossible," Ji-hye muttered. "He would have been sixteen. He didn't even have a license."
But the leak wasn't just a document but a video.
***
Back at the Starline studio, the rehearsal for was in its third hour.
Kang-joon was in the middle of a high-speed spin when the door to the studio slammed open. It wasn't PD Na. It was the Head of Security, followed by three men in dark suits who didn't look like they belonged in the entertainment industry. They looked like investigators.
"Music off!" the Head of Security shouted.
The track died. The trainees stood frozen, their chests heaving, sweat dripping onto the floor.
"Lee Kang-joon," one of the men in suits said, stepping forward. He held up a badge. "I'm Detective Han from the Seoul Metropolitan Police. We have a warrant for the seizure of your personal electronic devices and a summons for questioning."
The room went silent. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning.
"Questioning for what?" Gun-woo asked, stepping in front of Kang-joon. "He's been in this building for six months. He hasn't even stepped outside without a manager."
"This isn't about the last six months," the Detective said, his eyes locked on Kang-joon's pale face. "It's about a cold case from 20XX. A hit-and-run in the Gangnam district. New evidence has surfaced—eyewitness testimony and a dashcam recovery—that places you behind the wheel of the vehicle that paralyzed a father of three."
Kang-joon felt his heart stop.
20XX? He searched his memory, his brain working like a frantic hard drive. He had spent 20XX studying in a government-subsidized library and working three part-time jobs. He had never owned a car. He had never even driven one. In all his ninety-six previous failures, this had never happened. No police, no accidents, no Gangnam hit-and-runs.
"I... I don't understand," Kang-joon said, his voice a dry rasp. "I don't have a license. I've never driven a car in my life."
"We have the video, Kang-joon-ssi," the Detective said. He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and turned the screen toward the group.
It was a grainy, rain-slicked video. A black sedan sped through a red light, clipping a delivery scooter. The car stopped for a second. The driver's side door opened. A boy stepped out—a boy with Kang-joon's exact height, his exact facial structure, wearing a school windbreaker.
The boy looked at the broken body on the ground, his face a mask of cold, analytical indifference. Then, he got back in the car and drove away.
Kang-joon stared at the screen, his mind blanking. The boy in the video looked exactly like him. Even the way he adjusted his glasses was a match. But Kang-joon knew, with the absolute certainty of his own existence, that he had been working a late shift at a convenience store that night.
"That's... that's Hyung?" Jae-hyun whispered, his voice trembling.
"No," Kang-joon said, his breath hitching. "No, that's not... I wasn't there."
But as he looked at the video again, he saw the corner of the boy's jacket in the footage. It had a small, unique patch from a local charity—the kind of patch given to kids at the Evergreen Hope House.
The secret he had tried to hide for ninety-seven lives was now the very thing pinning a crime on him.
[System Alert: WARNING!!!]
"Come with us," the Detective said.