The bus ride from the wealthy Cheongdam district to the northern side of Seoul took forty minutes.
Forty minutes to travel from heaven to hell.
Kang Jin-woo sat in the back of the swaying bus, his forehead resting against the cool glass. Outside, the scenery changed rapidly. The glittering glass towers and luxury brand billboards faded, replaced by soot-stained brick buildings, tangled power lines, and convenience stores with flickering signs.
He didn't mind the grime. It felt honest.
He checked his phone. He had skipped his math quiz. The school would call his aunt—his only legal guardian—but she wouldn't answer. She hadn't answered a call about him in three years.
The bus hissed to a halt in front of Seoul Municipal Hospital.
Jin-woo stepped off. The air here didn't smell like the lavender perfume of the boutique he had just left. It smelled of exhaust fumes, boiled cabbage, and resignation.
He stopped at a small street stall near the entrance. An old woman was selling flowers from plastic buckets.
"Grandmother," Jin-woo said, bowing slightly. "One bunch of freesias, please."
"Aigoo, the student is back," the woman smiled, her face wrinkling like dried paper. "For the little one?"
"Yes."
He handed over a few coins. The freesias were cheap, yellow, and cheerful. They were the only flowers Eun-ji didn't say "smelled like a funeral."
He walked into the hospital.
He passed the reception without stopping. He knew the way. In his past life, he had walked this hallway every single day for three years. He had counted every crack in the linoleum tiles. He had prayed to gods he didn't believe in while walking this path.
Not this time, he thought. The rage simmered in his chest, hot and sharp, contrasting with the cool hospital air. I won't let her fade away in a place like this.
He reached Ward 304.
It was a public room shared by six patients. It was loud. An old man in the corner was coughing—a wet, hacking sound that rattled in his chest. A TV mounted on the wall was blaring a variety show, drowning out the murmurs of the sick.
In the bed by the window, a small figure was sitting up, hunched over a sketchbook.
Kang Eun-ji. Ten years old.
She was pale. Too pale. Her wrists were thin, looking like fragile glass under the oversized, washed-out hospital gown. An IV drip was attached to her arm, the clear liquid ticking down.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Counting down her time.
Jin-woo stopped in the doorway. The "Predator" who had terrified a gang leader and intimidated a Chaebol heiress vanished instantly. His shoulders dropped. The coldness in his eyes shattered, replaced by a desperate, aching warmth.
"Eun-ji-ya," he called out softly.
The girl looked up. Her face lit up. It was the only pure thing left in his universe.
"Oppa!"
She scrambled to sit up, but the IV line pulled taut.
Jin-woo was there in a second, crossing the room faster than he had ever moved in a fight. He gently caught her arm, adjusting the tube with trembling care.
"Careful," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You'll pull the needle out. Did the nurse check on you?"
"She came after lunch," Eun-ji said, grinning. She reached out and grabbed his hand. Her fingers were cold. Terrifyingly cold. "You're late! You said you'd come after school. Did you skip class again?"
"I had... errands," Jin-woo said. He squeezed her hand, trying to transfer his own heat to her.
Eun-ji saw the yellow flowers. "For me?"
"For the prettiest girl in Seoul," he said, handing them to her.
She buried her nose in the petals. "They smell like sunshine."
Jin-woo watched her. In his past life, he had been too slow. He had worked too hard, played by the rules, and by the time he had enough money, the cancer had already won. He had held this same hand as it went limp.
That memory was the fuel for every fire he was about to start.
"How is the pain?" he asked.
"It's okay," she lied.
He knew she was lying. He saw the way she shifted her weight to avoid pressure on her lower back. He saw the shadow of exhaustion behind her eyes.
"The food was gross today. Kimchi soup again," she whispered, leaning in like it was a state secret.
"I'll bring you pizza tomorrow," Jin-woo promised. "The expensive kind with the cheese crust."
"Really?" Her eyes went wide. "But... pizza is expensive. Oppa, do we have money?"
The question cut him deeper than any knife. A ten-year-old shouldn't know the word "expensive." She shouldn't be calculating costs; she should be calculating how much cheese she could eat.
"We have money," Jin-woo said firmly. He brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "I told you. I'm taking care of it. You just focus on drawing."
"Are you doing something dangerous?" she asked, her smile fading. She touched the lapel of his school blazer. "You smell like... fancy perfume. Not like the PC Bang."
Jin-woo froze. The scent of the boutique—lavender and money—was still clinging to him.
"It's not dangerous," he lied. He would lie to her for eternity if it kept her smiling. "I'm just tutoring some rich kids. They pay well."
He stayed for an hour.
He peeled an apple for her, slicing it into tiny rabbits the way she liked. He listened to her talk about the other kids in the ward. He wasn't the Chairman. He wasn't a genius. He was just a brother, terrified of the empty chair beside the bed.
[ 3:45 PM ]
Jin-woo walked out of the ward. The smile dropped from his face the moment the door clicked shut. His expression turned to granite.
"Mr. Kang?"
A doctor in a weary white coat was standing at the nurses' station. Dr. Song. A good man, drowning in a bad system.
"Doctor," Jin-woo bowed.
"I was about to call you," Dr. Song sighed, looking at a clipboard. He rubbed his eyes. "The hospital administration sent a final notice. Eun-ji's account is three months in arrears. They're talking about transferring her to a charity hospice facility in Gyeonggi-do."
Transferring her meant stopping the active treatment. It meant "palliative care." It meant waiting for her to die.
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees.
"How much?" Jin-woo asked.
"The arrears are 4.5 million won," Dr. Song said gently. "And the next round of chemo is another 2 million. Jin-woo-ya, I know you're working hard, but..."
Jin-woo reached into his school bag. He pulled out a thick, white envelope. It contained the cash from the gambling den—dirty money washed clean by his desperation.
He placed it on the counter.
"There is 10 million won in there," Jin-woo said.
Dr. Song blinked. He looked at the envelope, then at the high school student. "Jin-woo... where did you get this? You didn't do anything illegal, did you?"
"I earned it," Jin-woo said. His voice was flat. "Clear the debt. And move her to a semi-private room. I don't want her listening to that old man cough all night. I'll transfer the funds for the private wing upgrade by next week."
Dr. Song opened the envelope. He saw the stack of 50,000 won bills. He looked at Jin-woo with a mix of relief and fear. He knew money like this didn't come from tutoring.
"I... I'll process this immediately. Thank you, Jin-woo. This buys her time."
"Time isn't enough," Jin-woo whispered to himself as he turned away. "I'm not buying time. I'm buying her life."
He walked toward the exit.
He checked his watch. 4:30 PM.
He had saved her for today. But to save her forever—to get the American specialists, the experimental immunotherapy, the clean air filter systems—he didn't need millions. He needed billions. He needed to own the hospital.
He walked out of the sliding doors and into the harsh afternoon sun.
He adjusted his tie. He rolled his neck, feeling the tension lock into place.
He would burn the Choi family. He would burn the Lee family. He would burn the entire city if it meant keeping the light in Eun-ji's eyes for one more day.
He walked to the curb and hailed a taxi. The frugal bus ride was over. He couldn't be late now.
"The Shilla Hotel," he told the driver. "Step on it."