Rain lashed the rooftop of Kang Tower, the neon glow of Seoul dissolving into a watery haze. Kim Ji-hoon's fingers trembled as he clutched the rusted guardrail, his tailored suit soaked through. Behind him, Kang Joonho stood silhouetted against the storm, his Rolex glinting as he lit a cigarette.
"You promised me a share," Ji-hoon shouted over the wind. His voice cracked—pathetic, desperate. He hated how small he sounded.
Joonho exhaled smoke, his smile a knife in the dark. "And you believed me? Naive, even for a nameless orphan."
The words cut deeper than the cold. Ji-hoon remembered nights in Joonho's penthouse, trading soju shots and corporate secrets. "You're the brother I never had," Joonho had slurred once, arm slung over his shoulders.
Lies. All of it.
Ji-hoon stepped forward, rain stinging his eyes. "I built your empire. I buried your bodies. You owe me—"
"Owe you?" Joonho laughed, cold and crisp. "You're a stain, Ji-hoon. A rabid dog who knows too much."
The guardrail dug into Ji-hoon's back as Joonho advanced. He smelled bergamot and gun oil.
"Wait—!"
A hand shoved his chest.
For a moment, he hung suspended in the storm, Joonho's face blurring above him. Then gravity took hold.
***
Ji-hoon's skull cracked against concrete. Pain exploded, then numbness. Blood pooled beneath him, pink swirls dancing in the rain. Distantly, he heard Joonho's voice: "Stage it as a suicide. Drunken fool missed his parents."
Darkness crept in. He clung to one thought—I should've been richer. Stronger. Unbreakable.
***
He woke gasping, silk sheets strangling his legs.
Moonlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off gilded mirrors and marble floors. Ji-hoon—no, Yoochan—clutched his chest, expecting shattered ribs. Instead, smooth skin. Young skin.
What the hell?
He staggered to a mirror. A stranger stared back: sharp cheekbones, jet-black hair falling over eyes wide with panic. Seventeen, maybe. His fingers traced the reflection. This isn't my face.
A door creaked.
"Yoochan-ah?"
A woman hovered in the doorway, her silk robe frayed at the sleeves. Her eyes—his eyes—darted down the hall. "You shouldn't be awake. If the maids hear…"
He knew her. Lee Miyoung, the concubine. His mother in this life.
"Where am I?" he rasped.
She flinched. "The doctors said the fever might… confuse you." Her hands trembled as she straightened his sheets. "You're Kang Yoochan. The patriarch's seventh son. You've been ill."
Kang. The same name as Joonho.
Yoochan's knees buckled. Miyoung caught him, her jasmine perfume cloying.
"Listen to me," she whispered, nails digging into his arms. "Stay quiet. Obey. Or they'll bury us both."
Footsteps echoed outside. Miyoung fled, leaving Yoochan alone with the moon and the suffocating weight of silk.
He stumbled to the window. Beyond the manicured gardens, Seoul glittered—the same skyline he'd fallen from. The same tower where Joonho ruled.
Joonho. His brother now.
Yoochan's laugh echoed hollowly. Rebirth? A second chance? No. This was a taunt. A curse.
His fingers found a lacquered desk drawer. Inside lay a student ID: Kang Yoochan, 17, Seoul International Academy. And a photo—Yoochan and Miyoung, standing stiffly in a garden. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
A headache spiked. Memories flooded in, foreign yet familiar:
—A funeral. Miyoung weeping as the patriarch's wife spat on her.
—Joonho, sneering as Yoochan tripped in the boardroom.
—A promise carved into his soul: I'll be the richest. I'll make them pay.
Yoochan pressed his forehead to the glass. Rain streaked the city like tears.
Joonho pushed me. Joonho killed me.
In the reflection, his new face twisted into something feral. Something hungry.
"You want a rabid dog?" he murmured. "Fine."
Somewhere in the mansion, a clock chimed.