Han Jiwon never believed that life was fair.
Not because he was naturally pessimistic, but because ever since he learned to understand the world, there had not been a single piece of evidence to suggest otherwise. He was born in the wrong place, to the wrong people, and grew up in an environment that seemed to systematically ensure he never truly had a chance to become anything other than a loser.
The place where he lived could hardly even be called a city. A remote area on the outskirts of South Korea, far from industrial centers, far from prestigious universities, and even farther from big dreams. Old buildings stood tightly packed together, their paint peeling, their windows covered with rusted bars. The apartment complex where Jiwon lived rose in dull gray, like a monument to failure left to rot slowly.
He lived on the fifth floor—the floor where the elevator had been broken for years.
Their room was cramped, stuffy, and damp. Just enough space for a thin mattress with protruding springs, a wooden table whose legs were no longer even, and an old fan whose sound resembled the wheezing breath of a dying person. The walls were covered in black patches of mold. The smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and old sweat mixed into a single stench that clung to clothes, skin, even dreams.
That morning, Han Jiwon woke up not to an alarm, but to the sound of something breaking.
Crash.
He opened his eyes with an irritation that had long become habitual. The ceiling trembled faintly from an impact in the living area.
"Bastard…" he muttered softly.
The clock on his cheap phone showed 4:58 a.m. Its cracked screen reflected his own face—sunken eyes, dry lips, and an expression no longer capable of showing surprise.
From outside the room, his father's voice could be heard laughing harshly. The laughter of a drunk—directionless, meaningless.
"It's still morning, damn it," Jiwon muttered as he got up from the mattress.
He stepped out of his room and saw an empty soju bottle rolling across the floor. His father sat slumped against the wall, legs spread, eyes half-closed. In his hand were a deck of worn playing cards.
"Lost again?" Jiwon asked flatly.
His father turned his head, red eyes staring blankly. "Shut up."
Jiwon clicked his tongue. There was no anger left. Only a long exhaustion, like a tangled thread that could never be unraveled.
He walked into the small kitchen that looked more like a corner of an abandoned building. The refrigerator was empty. No rice. No side dishes. Only one pack of cheap instant noodles and tap water that was slightly cloudy.
He boiled the water, waiting in silence.
"Are you going to school?" his father suddenly asked.
Jiwon let out a short laugh. "I'm in twelfth grade, Dad. Not an unemployed bum like you."
The slap came quickly.
Smack.
His head jerked to the side. Heat spread across his cheek, but he did not fall. He was far too used to it.
"Disrespectful," his father muttered.
Jiwon did not reply. He simply poured the noodles into a plastic bowl, sat down, and ate without expression. The salty taste was barely noticeable.
School was just as bad.
An old building with dull paint. Teachers who taught merely to fulfill obligations. Students clearly divided: those who had money, and those who did not. Jiwon was always in the second group—and even there, he was not the most liked.
He sat in the very back row. His grades were average, his attitude was bad, and his reputation unpleasant. He was known as a kid who complained a lot, gave up easily, and always had an excuse.
"What are you going to do after graduation?" a guidance counselor asked one day.
Jiwon shrugged. "I don't know."
"College?"
"With what money?"
The teacher fell silent. Like all other adults, he had no answer.
In the neighborhood where Jiwon lived, the future was not something to be planned—it was something to be avoided. Beneath the apartment complex, gamblers gathered almost every night. Small-time dealers moved around without fear. The police came occasionally, not to restore order, but to receive envelopes.
Jiwon knew all of that. He saw it every day.
He knew how the world worked—and the world did not work for people like him.
That night, heavy rain fell. Water leaked from the ceiling, dripping straight into a cracked plastic bucket. His father came home drunker than usual, grumbled, then fell asleep on the floor.
Jiwon returned to his room.
He lay back on the mattress, staring at the dark ceiling. Outside, coarse laughter and shouting mixed with the sound of rain.
"If only I had been born somewhere else," he murmured softly. "If only I weren't me."
There was no prayer. No hope. Only complaints repeating over and over, like echoes in an empty space.
And for the first time in several days, Jiwon fell asleep.
[{White.Knight}]
He woke up with a sensation that felt wrong.
The mattress was too soft.
The air felt clean. There was no smell of alcohol. No smell of mold.
He opened his eyes.
A spotless white ceiling greeted him. Cream-colored curtains swayed gently, letting sunlight in softly. The polished wooden floor reflected his silhouette.
Jiwon sat up slowly.
This room… was too big.
Too neat.
He stood, stepped forward hesitantly, then looked at his reflection in a large mirror. The same face—but healthier, better cared for, like someone who had never lacked anything.
The bedroom door opened.
"Jiwon," an adult man's voice said calmly. "Wake up. You have a packed schedule today."
Jiwon turned, his body freezing.
The man stood upright, neatly dressed, his expression cold and authoritative.
Not his father.
"Why are you staring like that?" the man asked.
Jiwon swallowed. "Whose… house is this?"
Silence fell between them.
The man looked at him for a long moment, then spoke slowly, firmly, without hesitation, "This is your home, Han Jiwon."
And for the first time in his life, Han Jiwon did not know who to blame.