Ji-won woke to a sharp, biting cold and a dull ache in his back and neck.
His first thought was irritation. His second was rage. He scowled, keeping his eyes shut, and instinctively tried to roll onto his side. But instead of a plush mattress, his palm met a hard, abrasive surface.
He snapped his eyes open.
Above him was a low ceiling, blackened by soot and time. Crooked wooden beams crossed each other unevenly, with gaps between them that let in a persistent draft. The air was heavy, smelling of old wood, dampness, straw, and something else—something foul.
Ji-won bolted upright.
"What the…" the curse escaped him before he could catch it.
He looked around. The room was tiny and cramped, clearly not meant for living. Against the wall stood roughly-hewn wooden pallets, one of which he was currently occupying. Nearby lay a scrap of old fabric that served as a blanket. In the corner sat a clay bowl and a water jug.
This was definitely not his home.
A sharp pang struck his chest, but instead of panic, Ji-won felt pure indignation. His face contorted. He looked down at himself—and froze.
He was dressed in coarse, faded garments: a simple wrap-around shirt tied with a cord, trousers made of thick, rough fabric, and worn-out straw shoes. This wasn't his silk pajamas. This wasn't anything he would ever put on his body of his own free will.
Ji-won stood up abruptly. His head spun, but he ignored it, gritting his teeth.
"What kind of bullshit is this?" he hissed.
He strode to the door and shoved it; it gave way with a piercing creak. Beyond the threshold lay a stone-paved courtyard filled with outbuildings and people dressed in the same simple rags as him. Some were carrying water, others were hauling firewood, and some were busy tending to a hearth.
No one paid him any mind. No one bowed. No one even offered a greeting.
Ji-won stood there, fists clenched, feeling a dull, humiliated fury rising within him.
"Where am I?" he barked at a man passing by.
The man shot him a brief, bewildered look, as if he were looking at a madman, and kept walking without a word.
Ji-won took a deep breath.
Fine, he told himself. This is obviously a mistake. A dream. A side effect of stress. Maybe medication from the accident. A hallucination.
He would wake up. He had to. In his normal bed, in his luxury home.
With that thought, he stood in the middle of a strange courtyard in strange clothes, feeling for the first time in his life not power and control—but a profound disorientation he didn't even know how to name.
Ji-won stood in the courtyard for a few more seconds before turning back into the shack with a huff of irritation. This couldn't be reality. He refused to believe it.
He slammed the door shut and scanned the room with doubled intensity. He dropped into a crouch, peered under the pallet, flipped over the coarse fabric of the blanket, and checked every corner.
"Phone…" he muttered, his anger beginning to boil over. "Where is my phone?"
Naturally, it was nowhere to be found.
No smartphone, no watch, no wallet. Not a single object existed to prove that his former life had ever been real. Only these alien, rough clothes that made him feel humiliatingly ridiculous.
He straightened up and ran a hand through his hair—and froze again. His hair wasn't styled as usual; it was gathered in a way that felt entirely wrong. Even this felt like an affront.
"This is absurd…" he whispered, looking at the walls as if they might provide an answer.
The door behind him swung open.
"Hey, what are you doing just sitting around?" a cheerful voice rang out. "The work isn't going to do itself."
Ji-won whirled around.
Standing in the doorway was a young man in the same simple servant's attire. He carried himself freely, almost familiarly, as if they had been friends for a long time. But Ji-won could only stare at the face.
"…Yun Mi?" he gasped.
The man in front of him frowned.
"What?" he asked, clearly confused. "Did you start drinking this early in the morning?"
Ji-won stepped toward him, searching the face intently, almost hungrily.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "And what is this look? Why are you dressed like this? Are you alright?"
The man stared at him with blatant bewilderment.
"You definitely hit your head," he said after a pause. "Who the hell is Yun Mi? What are you talking about?"
He narrowed his eyes, appraising Ji-won.
"Look, if you're feeling sick, tell the head servant. If not, get up and let's go. They're already waiting for us."
Ji-won stood motionless.
Yun Mi.
No. It wasn't Yun Mi.
Before him stood a man. He had the same face, the same features, but he was entirely different.
"You…" Ji-won swallowed hard. "Aren't you…?"
"Yun-seok," the man interrupted. "Did you seriously forget my name?"
Yun-seok sighed and rolled his eyes. "Seriously, if you stay here another minute, we're both going to get punished."
He turned and headed for the exit, tossing a comment over his shoulder:
"Get up. Work is waiting."
Ji-won remained standing in the middle of the cramped room, feeling something inside him slowly but surely crumbling. For the first time in his life, Ji-won didn't understand what was happening—and he couldn't control it.
But Yun-seok didn't leave immediately. He stopped in the doorway, turned back, and looked at Ji-won more closely, as if noticing for the first time that something was truly wrong.
"You're pale," he said. "Are you really okay?"
"Wait," Ji-won snapped, stepping toward him. "Answer me."
Yun-seok crossed his arms over his chest. "Well?"
Ji-won studied his face, hoping something would shift. The features were identical. The shape of the eyes, the line of the brows, even the habit of tilting his head slightly—all of it was painfully familiar. It was Yun Mi's face. The face of the person he had known for years, the one he had feelings for. And now, that face was looking at him—strange, masculine, and clad in the rough robes of a servant.
"What is your name?" he asked slowly.
"I told you," Yun-seok frowned. "It's Yun-seok. You're starting to creep me out."
Ji-won clenched his fists.
"Where are we?" he asked, his voice dropping. "Name this place."
Yun-seok hesitated for a second, then answered as if stating the most obvious thing in the world:
"In the palace. In the service courtyard. Did you lose your memory completely?"
"What year is it?" Ji-won's voice wavered.
Yun-seok's look of mockery faded. "Are you serious?" He lowered his voice. "This is Joseon."
Ji-won's head throbbed. He took a step back and braced his hand against the wall.
"No," he breathed. "That's impossible."
Yun Mi couldn't be a man.
Joseon couldn't exist now.
He couldn't have woken up in a shack in servant's rags.
It was all too absurd.
"Listen," he said, his voice sharpening as he pulled himself together. "Who set this up?"
Yun-seok blinked. "What?"
"Is this a prank?" Ji-won scanned the room, his eyes sharp and predatory. "Where are the cameras? Who is behind this?"
He narrowed his eyes, as if he were about to catch a culprit red-handed.
"How much did they pay you?" he continued. "Tell me now. I'm not in the mood."
Yun-seok looked at him the way one looks at a person saying strange things who hasn't quite become dangerous yet.
"There aren't any… cameras here."
Ji-won let out a short, cynical laugh. "Of course not."
He straightened his back. Panic was not an option, and losing control even less so. If this was a performance, then there was a script. And any script could be torn apart.
"Fine," he said calmly. "Let's assume I simply don't remember. Then explain it to me."
He took a step closer. "Who am I?"
Yun-seok frowned. "You're Kim Ji-won," he hesitated. "You're from the royal kitchen. You assist with the labor."
He trailed off, seeing the expression on Ji-won's face. "Do you really not remember anything?"
Ji-won exhaled slowly.
For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel anger or irritation. Instead, he felt a growing, sticky sense of dread. For the first time in his life, Ji-won didn't understand what was happening—and he couldn't control it.
But even now, he wasn't about to surrender. If he had ended up here, he would find a way out.
And in the meantime… he would take control of the situation.
At any cost.