The phone was a brick of silent anxiety on the mattress next to him.
Lee Youngjin's knee bounced uncontrollably, a nervous tremor that vibrated through the flimsy floor of his studio apartment.
Debut Day.
The words echoed in his head, a mantra he'd chanted for seven long years.
Seven years of dawn practices, of vocal lessons that left his throat raw, of diets that made him dream of grilled pork belly.
Today was supposed to be the payoff.
His eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, skimmed over the screen of his tablet, locked to the web novel reading app.
It was his anchor, his escape hatch from the suffocating pressure.
He was re-reading [ Song of the Court Sparrow ], a historical webnovel he'd been following for months.
It wasn't the typical isekai power fantasy; it was a densely plotted political drama set in the fictional Noesoj Dynasty, centered on a brilliant gisaeng[1] named Soojin who used her wit and enchanting voice to navigate the deadly currents of the royal court.
And then there was Prince Lee Hyun.
Prince Lee Hyun was a footnote. The seventh son of the king, born to a minor concubine. The novel described him as gentle, kind-hearted, and largely ignored by the cutthroat factions vying for power.
He appeared occasionally—a quiet presence in a council meeting, a fleeting kindness shown to the female lead, Soojin, when she was a lowly servant.
The author never gave him much page time, but Youngjin had always been drawn to him.
Maybe it was the shared surname, Lee. Maybe it was the description of his "sad, understanding eyes."
In a story full of scheming villains and ambitious heroes, Prince Lee Hyun felt… safe. A good person in a world of sharks.
'He has it easy,' Youngjin thought, not for the first time. 'No pressure. No one expects anything from him.'
The sharp, digital ringtone shattered the silence.
Youngjin's heart leaped into his throat.
He fumbled for the phone, his traitorous hands suddenly slick with sweat.
The caller ID flashed: Manager Kwon.
This was it. The call that would change his life.
He swiped to answer. "Manager-nim?" His voice was tighter than he'd intended.
"Youngjin-ah." Manager Kwon's tone was flat, devoid of its usual gruff energy.
A cold knot began to form in Youngjin's stomach.
"Yes, I'm here. Is it… is it time to come to the company?"
A long sigh crackled down the line. "Youngjin-ah… I don't know how to say this."
The world began to tilt.
The vibrant colors of his Song of the Court Sparrow wallpaper seemed to bleach out.
"The final spot… it's gone."
The words were simple.
Devastating.
They hung in the air, devoid of meaning for a second before crashing down on him with the weight of a mountain.
"W-what?"
"CEO Park's nephew. He decided he wants to debut after all. The board… they gave him the position. It's out of my hands." Manager Kwon's voice was a monotone of practiced apology. "I fought for you, kid. I really did. But you know how it is."
Youngjin knew.
He knew all too well.
Connections trumped talent every time.
Seven years of sweat meant nothing next to a well-placed relative.
"So… that's it?" Youngjin's voice was a whisper. All the air had been sucked from the room.
"Wait for your next chance," Manager Kwon said, the phrase sounding hollow and meaningless, a corporate platitude. "Keep training. Your time will come."
The line went dead.
Lee Youngjin sat there, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone that sounded like the screech of a dying dream.
He lowered the device slowly, placing it on the mattress as if it were made of glass.
He felt numb.
The dream he'd clung to, the light at the end of a seven-year tunnel, had just been extinguished.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
It sounded alien in the quiet room.
Next chance?
At twenty-two, he was already an old man in the idol world.
There was no next chance.
His eyes fell back on the tablet.
Prince Lee Hyun's name stared back at him from the latest chapter.
A prince who was also overlooked.
Ignored.
A supporting character in someone else's story.
"Lucky bastard," Youngjin muttered, his voice thick with a pain he couldn't articulate.
At least Prince Lee Hyun lived in a palace.
Youngjin lived in a 200-square-foot box that smelled of instant noodles and desperation.
He clicked off the tablet, plunging the room into a gloom broken only by the grey light filtering through the single window.
He lay down on the floor, not even bothering to get onto the thin mattress.
He stared at the water-stained ceiling, letting the emptiness wash over him.
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, finally pulled him under into a fitful sleep.
His dreams were a chaotic montage of dance routines he'd never perform, songs he'd never sing, and the gentle, sad face of Prince Lee Hyun.
He was jolted awake by his ringtone.
The room was darker; he'd slept for hours.
Disoriented, he grabbed the phone.
Manager Kwon again.
A flicker of irrational hope.
Maybe it was a mistake.
A cruel joke.
"Hello?" he croaked.
"YOUNGJIN! WHERE ARE YOU?" Manager Kwon's voice was a frantic shout, a complete reversal from their last call.
"I'm… at home? What's going on?"
"The nephew! That little snake! He just got an offer from Starline Entertainment! A solo deal! He's ditching us! The spot is open again!"
Youngjin's heart, which had been a cold stone in his chest, suddenly roared to life, beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs.
He shot to his feet.
"What? Are you serious?"
"Dead serious! But listen, the board is panicking. They need to fill it NOW. If you can get here in the next thirty minutes to sign the contract, it's yours! It has to be now, Youngjin! RIGHT NOW!"
"I'm on my way!" Youngjin yelled, already in motion.
He didn't change out of his sweatpants and faded t-shirt.
He didn't grab anything. His wallet, his keys—nothing mattered except getting to that building.
"I'm leaving now! Tell them I'm coming!" he shouted into the phone, yanking the door open and bursting out into the hallway of his rundown apartment building.
He took the stairs three at a time, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder.
"Hurry! I'll stall them! Just run!"
Youngjin exploded out of the building door and onto the sidewalk.
The evening traffic was a chaotic symphony of honking cars and blinding headlights. The company building was six blocks away.
He could make it.
"I'm running! I'm almost there!" he panted, dodging around a group of pedestrians.
The manager's voice was a tinny encouragement in his ear.
This was it.
The second chance.
The miracle.
All the pain from a few hours ago was forgotten, replaced by a soaring, terrifying euphoria.
He wasn't a supporting character.
He was about to be the main star.
He saw a gap in the traffic and made a split-second decision.
Instead of waiting for the crosswalk, he'd jaywalk across the side street.
It would save precious seconds.
"I can see the building!" he shouted, stepping off the curb and into the street.
He never saw the truck.
It was a large, blindingly white delivery truck.
There was no screech of tires, no warning.
Just a sudden, immense impact that felt like the world had imploded.
The phone flew from his hand, shattering on the asphalt.
The world tilted, spun, and then went dark.
The last thing Lee Youngjin felt was not pain, but a profound, ironic sense of disappointment.
So close.
* * *
Consciousness returned not as a sudden shock, but as a slow, painful seepage into his awareness.
The first thing he registered was the smell.
It wasn't antiseptic or the metallic tang of blood.
It was… woody. Aromatic. Like sandalwood and dried herbs.
The hard, cold asphalt was gone.
He was lying on something soft, yet firm.
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were heavy as lead. A dull throbbing pulsed behind his temples.
'…hospital?' he thought groggily. 'I made it?'
A voice, high-pitched and trembling, cut through the fog. "Your Highness! Your Highness, you're awake! Thank the heavens!"
'Your Highness?' That was a strange thing for a nurse to say.
Was he on a historical drama set?
Had the accident been part of a filming?
He forced his eyes open.
The light was dim, filtered through windows covered with paper screens, not glass.
He was lying on a raised platform bed, covered not with a sterile white sheet, but with intricately embroidered silk blankets.
The ceiling above was made of dark, polished wood, supported by thick beams.
This was not a hospital. This was not a set. This was…
He tried to sit up, his body protesting with a strange, unfamiliar weakness.
A young man, dressed in loose grey trousers and a jacket, with his hair tied up in a topknot, rushed to his side, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the floor, was in front of him.
"Please, Your Highness, don't exert yourself! You've been unconscious since you fainted in the royal library. The physician said you needed absolute rest!"
Youngjin's breath hitched in his throat.
Your Highness.
Topknot.
Paper windows.
His eyes darted around the room, taking in the elegant, sparse furniture, the ceramic vase in the corner, the ancient-looking bronze mirror on a low table.
A cold, terrifying realization began to dawn.
It was impossible.
Preposterous.
"A… mirror," he rasped. His voice sounded different. Higher. Softer.
The servant scrambled to fetch the bronze mirror and held it up with trembling hands.
Lee Youngjin looked at his reflection.
The face that stared back was pale and delicate, with sharp, aristocratic features.
The eyes, wide with shock, were the "sad, understanding eyes" he had only ever read about.
It was a face he recognized from the countless illustrations and his own imagination.
It was the face of Prince Lee Hyun.
The minor character.
The extra from [ Song of the Court Sparrow ].
The reflection mouthed the words as he whispered them, the truth crashing down with the force of the truck that had killed him.
"I… I-I am... Lee Hyun?"
The servant bowed again, misunderstanding the prince's stunned whisper. "Yes, Your Highness! You are Prince Lee Hyun, seventh son of His Majesty the King! Do you not remember?"
Lee Youngjin—now Lee Hyun—lowered the mirror, his hands shaking.
He had finally gotten his second chance.
But the stage was not a gleaming music show.
It was the deadly, political court of the Noesoj Dynasty, and the only debut available was one he was utterly unprepared for.
The main story of [ Song of the Court Sparrow ] was just beginning elsewhere in the palace, a tale of a peasant girl rising by her song.
And he, the forgotten prince, had just been thrust into the narrative, not as the reader, but as a player.
A player who knew the plot, but had no idea what his own role was supposed to be.
[1] Female entertainers in Korea