April 18, 1992. Boston, Massachusetts. 2:47 PM.
The black BMW 325i moved through afternoon traffic on Massachusetts Avenue, passing delivery trucks and taxis that seemed to ignore lane markings. Inside, Kang Jin-woo glanced at the dashboard clock while waiting at a red light.
Three hours until the lottery drawing closed.
He turned onto a side street and found parking in front of a small convenience store with faded awnings. The BMW was in poor condition—a dent on the front bumper, cigarette burns dotting the tan leather seats, and the maintenance light glowing orange for the past six months. His father had purchased it two years ago as an incentive for better grades, but it had been treated as carelessly as everything else in the original owner's life.
Jin-woo killed the engine and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
Six numbers were written in ballpoint pen: 4, 17, 23, 31, 38, 42.
He'd known these numbers since his previous life. It was during lunch break at a samgyeopsal restaurant near the Apex Group office in Seoul, about three years before he died. Two colleagues—Park Min-ho from the bankruptcy division and another analyst whose name he couldn't remember—had been discussing lottery winners while waiting for their order.
"Did you see this case?" Park had his laptop open, showing an article. "Massachusetts Megabucks winner from 1992. Guy won $22.8 million and blew through everything in thirteen years. Declared bankruptcy in 2005."
The other analyst had laughed. "How do you lose that much money?"
"Bad investments, cocaine habit, bought houses for people who claimed to be his friends." Park scrolled through the article. "The interesting part is someone calculated that if he'd just put it in index funds and lived off four percent per year, he and his family would have been set for life. Instead, he's working at a car wash now."
"What were the winning numbers?"
"Let me check... 4, 17, 23, 31, 38, 42. April 18, 1992."
Kang Jin-hyuk, eating his lettuce wrap and only half-listening to the conversation, had filed those numbers away in his memory. It was automatic by then—his brain had been trained over fifteen years to retain details that might prove useful later. Client names. Account numbers. Dates. Weaknesses. Leverage points. Everything went into storage.
He never imagined he'd actually use lottery numbers.
But now, sitting in this BMW in 1992, those six numbers were about to change everything.
Jin-woo stepped out of the car and walked into the convenience store. A bell chimed above the door. The place was small and cramped—narrow aisles packed with merchandise, a rotating hot dog machine near the counter, hand-written price tags on products, and a payphone mounted on the wall. The smell of old coffee and floor cleaner hit him immediately.
"Help you?" The clerk behind the counter was young, maybe twenty-two, wearing a Red Sox cap and reading Sports Illustrated. He looked up briefly, chewing gum.
"Megabucks ticket."
The clerk set down his magazine and reached under the counter. "Quick pick or you picking your own?"
"I have numbers."
"Alright." He slid a betting slip and a stubby pencil across the counter. "Fill it out and bring it back."
Jin-woo took the slip to a side counter and filled in the bubbles carefully: 4, 17, 23, 31, 38, 42. He marked each number twice to make sure they were clearly visible.
He brought it back with a dollar bill.
The clerk fed the slip into the lottery terminal. The machine beeped and whirred, then spat out a ticket.
"Drawing's at seven tonight," the clerk said, already reaching for his magazine. "Good luck."
Jin-woo examined the ticket under the fluorescent lights, checking each number against what he'd written. All correct. He folded it once and placed it in his wallet behind his student ID, then left the store.
Back in the BMW, he sat without starting the engine. Through the windshield he could see people walking past—students with backpacks, a woman with grocery bags, an elderly man with a small dog.
It had been exactly one month since he'd woken up in that hospital bed in Los Angeles.
March 18, 1992. Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Los Angeles. 11:23 PM.
The private hospital room was quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors and the soft breathing of a woman sleeping in the chair beside the bed.
When Jin-woo first opened his eyes that night, he didn't understand where he was. The ceiling was unfamiliar—white acoustic tiles with small perforations. The bed wasn't his. An IV line was taped to his left arm. His body felt fundamentally wrong—lighter, smaller, younger than the forty-three-year-old frame he'd inhabited for decades.
He tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through his left side, sharp and immediate.
The woman in the chair jerked awake, her eyes going wide.
"Jin-woo! Oh my God, Jin-woo!"
She rushed to the bedside and grabbed his hand with both of hers. Jin-woo stared at her in confusion—middle-aged, Korean, wearing expensive jewelry and a designer blouse now wrinkled from sleeping in a chair. Tears were already streaming down her face.
"Sweetheart, can you hear me? Say something!"
"Who are you?" His voice came out hoarse, scratchy.
The woman's face crumpled and she started crying harder. "It's Eomma. It's Mom. You're okay now, you're safe. The doctors said the surgery went well."
Mom?
Jin-woo looked down at his hands. They were young hands with smooth skin, no calluses, no scars. Not his hands.
A nurse entered the room, alerted by the change in his vital signs.
"He's awake," his mother said, not letting go of his hand.
The nurse moved to the bedside and checked his pupils with a penlight, took his pulse, asked him basic questions.
"Can you tell me your name?"
"Kang Jin-woo." The answer came automatically, information flowing from somewhere in his mind that wasn't quite his own memory.
"What year is it?"
"1992."
"Where are you?"
"Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Los Angeles."
The nurse seemed satisfied and made notes on his chart. "I'll inform the doctor." She adjusted his IV drip and left.
Alone with the woman again, Jin-woo asked carefully, "What happened to me?"
"You were stabbed." His mother's voice broke. "Three days ago. Outside a bar in West Hollywood. Someone found you in the alley and called 911. The doctors said if they'd arrived five minutes later you would have bled to death."
Stabbed. Bar fight. West Hollywood.
Memories that weren't his began filtering in, hazy at first but growing clearer. Fragments of another life overlaying his own like double-exposed photographs. Kang Jin-woo, age twenty, student at Harvard University, eldest son of a Korean chaebol family, troublemaker, disappointment, scumbag.
And somehow, Kang Jin-hyuk's soul—the soul of a forty-three-year-old corporate fixer who'd been drowned in a shipping container—had ended up in this body.
The door opened and a man entered. Mid-fifties, wearing an expensive suit wrinkled from international travel, his tie loosened. His eyes were bloodshot but hard when they landed on Jin-woo.
"You're awake," he said in Korean.
His father. Kang Sung-min.
The man walked to the bedside and stood there, just staring. His mother shifted uncomfortably but stayed quiet. Jin-woo stayed quiet too.
"What were you thinking?" His father's voice was low and controlled. "What goes through your mind when you make these decisions?"
Jin-woo said nothing.
"You were supposed to be in Boston at Harvard University, attending classes, studying for exams. Instead we receive a telephone call at three in the morning Seoul time from a hospital saying our son was stabbed in a bar fight three thousand miles away from where he should be."
"Yeobo, please—" his mother started.
"No. I need to say this." His father held up a hand. "This is the third time, Jin-woo. The drunk driving when you crashed into a parked car your freshman year. The assault charge last year when you broke that student's nose at a party. Now this."
His mother was crying silently.
"Your uncle calls me every month. Every single month. He asks why I can't manage my own family properly. He points out that your cousins are doing well in business school, making connections, preparing themselves for leadership positions in the company. Then he asks about you, and I have to make excuses or change the subject because there's nothing good to say."
His father walked to the window and stared out at the Los Angeles skyline.
"Your mother keeps telling me you're just going through a difficult phase, that you'll mature and settle down eventually. I wanted to believe that. I've been defending you for years, making excuses to the family, paying to make your problems disappear." He turned back. "But I don't think you're going through a phase anymore. I think this is who you are."
His mother covered her mouth with her hand.
"When you're discharged from this hospital, you're going back to Boston and you're going to finish this semester. You're going to attend every class, complete every assignment, pass every exam. If you fail even one class, that's it. No more tuition payments, no more monthly allowance, no more bail-outs."
"I understand," Jin-woo said quietly.
"And if you get into one more incident—one more fight, one more arrest, one more phone call from a hospital or police station—you're coming back to Korea and you're going to work at the industrial fabric factory in Ansan. Not in the offices with the other managers. On the factory floor with the regular workers, doing twelve-hour shifts, until you learn what real work means."
His father walked to the door.
"Your mother and I are flying back to Korea tomorrow morning. I have meetings I can't postpone any longer. We've already been away from Seoul too long."
He left, the door closing with a quiet click.
His mother stayed, holding Jin-woo's hand until she eventually exhausted herself and fell asleep in the chair again.
Jin-woo lay there in the dark, listening to the monitors beep and footsteps in the hallway outside.
Kang Jin-hyuk was dead. The corporate fixer who'd spent fifteen years building empires for chaebol families, who'd destroyed companies and eliminated rivals and restructured conglomerates—that person had been drowned in a shipping container at the bottom of the ocean after being betrayed by the people he'd worked for.
And somehow his consciousness had ended up here, in Kang Jin-woo's body, a twenty-year-old whose life was falling apart in different ways.
Over the next three days, as doctors monitored his recovery from surgery, more of Jin-woo's memories continued surfacing. They came in waves, triggered by random stimuli—a nurse's perfume, the taste of hospital food, a news program on the television.
The Kang family was a chaebol family, though not one of the major ones. Not Samsung or Hyundai or LG. They operated in that uncomfortable middle tier where there was enough money to live comfortably but not enough power to influence the decisions that shaped the country.
Jin-woo's grandfather, Kang Jae-sung, had built Samyang Industries in the early 1960s during Korea's rapid industrialization. He'd started with a small textile factory in Daegu, expanded into light manufacturing during the Park Chung-hee era when the government was pushing export-oriented growth, and by the late 1970s had built a respectable mid-sized conglomerate. Nothing compared to the giants, but successful enough to matter in their region.
The problems started with succession.
Grandfather had two sons. When he retired in 1985, he gave control of the main operations to his elder son, Jin-woo's uncle Kang Sung-jin. The uncle was aggressive and politically connected. He'd expanded into chemicals and plastics manufacturing, secured contracts with larger chaebols as a parts supplier, diversified into real estate. Under his leadership, the company had grown. He attended government advisory meetings, sat on industry boards, maintained relationships with National Assembly members.
The younger son, Jin-woo's father Kang Sung-min, had been given control of a subsidiary that produced industrial fabrics for construction and automotive industries. Everyone in the family understood this was a consolation prize, a way to keep him employed and financially secure without giving him real power. He managed it competently and kept it profitable, but he would never advance beyond that position.
The family hierarchy had been established and it wouldn't change.
Jin-woo's father had married a woman from a respectable family with some political connections, and they'd had four children: Jin-woo himself at twenty years old, a younger brother named Jin-seok who was seventeen and preparing for university entrance exams, a younger sister named Jin-hee who was sixteen and in her second year of high school, and the youngest, Jin-young, who was six years old and in first grade.
His father had been determined that his children would succeed where he had not. He'd invested enormous sums in their education. When Jin-woo was fourteen, his father had made the decision to send him to America for high school—Phillips Academy Andover in Massachusetts, one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country. The tuition was over $25,000 per year plus living expenses, a massive investment for a family in their position.
The logic had been sound: an American education from an elite institution, followed by an Ivy League university, would give Jin-woo advantages his Korean cousins wouldn't have. He'd return to Korea with an international perspective, fluent English, and valuable connections. Maybe he could work his way into the main company, prove himself more capable than his uncle's sons, eventually restore dignity to their branch of the family.
Instead, Jin-woo had spent four years at Andover barely maintaining passing grades, getting into trouble with drinking and parties. His father had made two trips to Massachusetts to meet with school administrators about disciplinary issues. But Jin-woo had managed to graduate, and his father had pushed ahead with the plan.
Harvard University. Class of 1995. Another $25,000 per year in tuition and expenses.
It should have been a fresh start. Instead, things had gotten worse.
Jin-woo had fallen in with a group of wealthy international students who spent more time at bars and clubs than in classes. His grades had been mediocre at best. Sophomore year, he'd been arrested for drunk driving after borrowing another student's car and crashing it into a parked vehicle at 2 AM. His father had flown to Boston, paid $30,000 to the police benevolent fund and $15,000 to the car owner to make the charges disappear.
Later that year, Jin-woo had been arrested again for assault after breaking another student's nose in a fight at a party over something he couldn't even remember. His father had paid $50,000 to make those charges go away too, plus another $25,000 directly to the victim's family.
By the time Jin-woo turned twenty, his reputation within the extended Kang family was completely destroyed. His cousins—Uncle Sung-jin's children—were everything Jin-woo was not: studious, responsible, already being groomed for positions in the company. The comparison was made at every family gathering, always to Jin-woo's detriment.
Three days before Kang Jin-hyuk's soul arrived, Jin-woo had been in Los Angeles instead of Boston. He'd skipped midterm exams to fly across the country with friends for what they called an extended spring break. They'd been drinking at a bar in West Hollywood, the kind of place with overpriced cocktails and a velvet rope outside. An argument had started over something trivial—the details were hazy in the memories—and it had escalated into a physical fight. Someone had pulled a knife.
Jin-woo had been stabbed in the left side, the blade slipping between his ribs and narrowly missing his kidney.
He'd collapsed in the alley behind the bar while his friends ran away to avoid the police.
A homeless man had found him twenty minutes later and used a payphone to call 911.
The paramedics had arrived, worked to stabilize him, rushed him to Cedars-Sinai where a trauma surgeon operated for three hours.
Kang Jin-woo should have died in that alley.
But he hadn't, because Kang Jin-hyuk had died in a container at the bottom of the ocean.
On the second night in the hospital, after visiting hours ended and his mother had gone back to the hotel, his father returned to the room.
He sat in the vinyl chair and stared at Jin-woo for a long time without speaking.
Then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
"The doctor says you can be discharged in three days if there are no complications. The wound is healing well."
"Okay."
"Your mother and I are flying back to Korea tomorrow morning. I can't stay any longer. There are... situations at the company that need my attention."
Jin-woo nodded.
"Before we leave, I need to tell you something about our family's situation. Your mother doesn't want me to burden you with this, but you're twenty years old now. You should understand what's happening."
His father paused.
"The subsidiary I manage—Samyang Fabrics—lost its largest client last month. Dongwon Construction had been buying industrial fabrics from us for eight years, over forty percent of our total revenue. When the contract came up for renewal in February, they chose not to renew. They're purchasing from a Chinese manufacturer now at thirty percent lower cost."
Jin-woo felt Jin-hyuk's analytical mind engage automatically. Forty percent revenue loss. Textile profit margins were thin to begin with. The subsidiary would be operating at a loss.
"Your uncle is talking about restructuring the entire group. He's using words like 'streamlining' and 'operational efficiency,' but what he really means is shutting down divisions that aren't meeting performance targets and eliminating management positions that aren't necessary." His father's voice remained calm, but there was something underneath. "My position is being evaluated. The subsidiary might be closed within the year."
Jin-woo understood. If the subsidiary closed, his father would be unemployed. There were no other positions for him in the main company—his brother had filled all important roles with his own people years ago.
"Your brother Jin-seok is taking his university entrance exams this year. If he does well, he'll need tuition for four years. Your sister Jin-hee is planning to attend university in two years. Jin-young is still in elementary school but her education costs will come eventually." His father looked directly at Jin-woo. "I have savings, but not as much as you might think. Your mother has her own family money but she's already used most of it helping her siblings with their businesses over the years. We're not poor, but we're not secure either."
He stood up.
"That's why your behavior matters. While I'm trying to keep this family stable, you're throwing away opportunities that cost more money than you realize. Maybe nearly dying in an alley will teach you something my words never could."
He walked to the door, then paused.
"Your uncle knows about this incident. The entire family knows. They're saying I can't even control my own children, that our branch of the family is undisciplined and corrupt. They're using this as evidence that the subsidiary should be shut down, that I should be removed." He opened the door. "Prove them wrong, Jin-woo. For once, prove them wrong."
He left.
Three days later, Jin-woo was discharged. His parents had already returned to Korea that morning. At the airport, his mother had pressed $1,200 in cash into his hands—money she'd withdrawn from her personal account.
"Eat well," she'd whispered, hugging him. "Call me every week. Please be safe."
Jin-woo flew back to Boston alone. The stab wound still tender, his mind churning with everything that had happened.
The first thing he did was take complete inventory of his resources.
Bank account at Bank of America: $340.18.
Credit cards: three cards, all maxed out. Total debt $15,000, minimum monthly payments totaling $450.
But he had assets.
A Rolex Submariner his father had given him for his eighteenth birthday—retail value around $4,000. Designer clothes from Armani, Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren—at least $3,000 worth at retail. Two leather jackets from Nordstrom. An Aiwa stereo system with 3-CD changer. Various electronics.
He spent the next week systematically selling everything except the BMW.
The Rolex went to a pawn shop on Newbury Street for $2,800 cash. The designer clothes went to a consignment shop in Cambridge and through classified ads in The Boston Globe—$1,175 total over five days. The jackets, stereo, and electronics sold through word-of-mouth to other students for $580.
Total liquidated: $4,555. Combined with mother's $1,200 and bank balance: $6,095.18.
Next, he addressed his living situation. He couldn't stay in Harvard housing anymore—too many questions from people who knew the old Jin-woo, too many expectations to act the same way. He needed privacy and independence.
He found a studio apartment in Allston, a working-class neighborhood west of campus, for $650 per month. The apartment was small—maybe 350 square feet—with a kitchenette, a bathroom with a shower stall, and a single window looking out at a brick wall. But it was his. No roommate. No supervision.
First and last month's rent: $1,300.
Used Compaq laptop from another student: $800.
Charles Schwab brokerage account, minimum deposit: $2,000.
Remaining: $1,995.18.
He used $200 for minimum credit card payments, buying another month before the debt became critical.
That left $1,795.18 for food, transportation, and expenses.
For the past month, Jin-woo had lived like a monk. Rice from the Asian grocery store in Allston—$12 for a 25-pound bag. Eggs, $2.29 per dozen. Ramen noodles, 10 for $1. Vegetables from the reduced-price section. Occasionally chicken thighs when on sale. He could feed himself for approximately $50 weekly if careful.
He attended Harvard classes just enough to avoid failing—the original Jin-woo was enrolled in Principles of Economics, American History, English Composition, and an introductory Computer Science class. Jin-woo went to lectures, took notes, submitted assignments, but operated on autopilot.
His real education happened elsewhere.
Every other waking hour, he was at Boston Public Library on Boylston Street or Harvard Business School's Baker Library, researching and confirming his memories.
He went through back issues of The Wall Street Journal, Barron's, Forbes, Fortune. He checked stock prices and market data. He read quarterly reports. He studied economic indicators.
And piece by piece, he confirmed his memories were accurate.
Microsoft Corporation (NASDAQ: MSFT): $2.43 per share on April 17, 1992. Would hit $119.50 in late 1999.
Intel Corporation (NASDAQ: INTC): $24.18. Would reach approximately $240 by August 2000.
Cisco Systems (NASDAQ: CSCO): $8.13, having gone public in February 1990. Would hit $400 per share at the bubble peak.
Apple Computer (NASDAQ: AAPL): $13.25, losing money quarterly and widely predicted to go bankrupt. In twenty-five years, worth over a trillion dollars.
Every piece of information matched his memories. Stock prices, company performance, market reactions—all aligned with what he remembered from his previous life.
This wasn't a dream. He'd traveled back thirty-two years with complete knowledge of what would happen.
He just needed capital to act on it.
Which was why he'd bought that lottery ticket.
April 18, 1992. Boston, Massachusetts. 6:58 PM.
Jin-woo sat on his bed watching the small television he'd bought at a yard sale for $30. The news was discussing the presidential race—something about Ross Perot's campaign gaining momentum. He wasn't paying attention. He was waiting for the lottery segment.
The apartment was sparse. A twin bed with sheets from Woolworth's. A wooden desk from Goodwill where his laptop sat. The kitchenette had a two-burner hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a used microwave. The bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in. The single window looked out at the brick wall and the alley where cats fought at night.
On the desk sat a spiral notebook filled with handwritten notes. Stock symbols. Company names. Dates. Price targets. Major events. Technology releases. Merger timelines. Crisis points. Thirty-two years of financial history in seventy pages.
The television screen changed. Theme music played.
"And now it's time for tonight's Massachusetts Megabucks drawing!"
A host appeared on screen beside the lottery machine. The jackpot display showed $22,800,000.
Jin-woo pulled the ticket from his wallet: 4, 17, 23, 31, 38, 42.
"Good evening, everyone! We have another exciting drawing tonight with a jackpot that's been growing for six weeks. Let's see if tonight's numbers will finally make someone a millionaire!"
The machine began spinning, balls bouncing inside the transparent chamber.
"Our first number tonight... 4!"
Jin-woo's expression didn't change.
"Second number... 17!"
Two for two.
"Third number... 23!"
"Fourth number... 31!"
"Fifth number... 38!"
"And our sixth and final number... 42!"
The screen displayed: 4-17-23-31-38-42.
Jin-woo compared his ticket methodically.
Perfect match.
He set the ticket on the desk. Behind him, the host explained the claim process. Winners had one year to claim. They should sign their ticket immediately and contact Massachusetts State Lottery during business hours.
Jin-woo opened his notebook to a fresh page: Saturday, April 18, 1992.
Monday, April 20: Call Massachusetts State Lottery (617-849-5555) Schedule appointment Research tax attorneys in Boston
Tuesday, April 21: Meet lottery officials Bring passport and driver's license Complete verification Sign paperwork
Wednesday, April 22: Open business checking account Meet with accountant Set up investment structures
Thursday, April 23: Meet Charles Schwab manager Discuss capital deployment Open additional accounts for diversification
He calculated the numbers. $22,800,000 total prize. Lump sum at approximately 60%: $13,680,000. Federal taxes at 31%: $4,240,800. Massachusetts state taxes at 5%: $684,000.
Net after tax: $8,755,200.
Enough to start building, also to help his family when the time came.
He closed the notebook and placed the ticket in an envelope. Sealed it. Wrote: DO NOT LOSE - APRIL 18, 1992.
Locked it in the desk drawer. Put the key on his keychain.
He turned off the television and prepared for bed.
Monday would be long.