“Hey… Administrator… no, Administrator sir… My wish is really just that. So please, grant it. Please.”
Haebom, who had been pointing fingers and cursing moments ago, quickly straightened his posture, clasping his hands together like he was praying, looking upward — though he had no idea if the administrator was above or below him.
[The traces of outsider ‘Yoon Haebom’ have been erased from that world. Restoring those traces would break the causal laws I oversee as administrator.]
“What? You’ve gotta be—!”
[That doesn’t mean outsider ‘Yoon Haebom’ can’t live in that world. But you’ll have to live as an entirely different person. Even so, do you ‘choose’ that?]
You always had to listen to a Korean’s words to the end.
Though, Haebom wasn’t sure if this administrator counted as Korean…
Either way…!
Haebom waited for the administrator to finish speaking, then nodded furiously.
His traces were erased?
Whatever that meant, he didn’t care.
As long as he could return to the world where Wonho was, that was enough.
“Fine. I choose that. Send me back to the world where Wonho is.”
[Stranger Yoon Haebom, I heard your ‘choice’ loud and clear. Then, I shall give you your reward. I hope you never regret it.]
I’m telling you, I don’t regret it…!
Haebom shouted as he was sucked into the pitch-black darkness.
‘If I wake up from this dream and I’m back at that damn pension in Jirisan, I’m blowing the whole place to pieces,’ he swore to himself…
His eyes snapped open.
At the same moment, he felt his body plummeting downward.
His knees buckled as he hit the floor, forcing him into a kneeling position, his upper body collapsing forward onto the ground.
‘The floor?’ Haebom wondered.
The darkness he’d been trapped in definitely had no floor.
Even with his eyes open, he couldn’t see anything.
Panic and confusion flooded him for a moment, but then he forced his eyes shut and reopened them.
After doing that a few times, his vision gradually adjusted to the darkness.
Objects started to come into focus, albeit faintly, and Haebom realized he wasn’t in that space with the so-called ‘administrator’ or ‘god’ anymore.
“…Ah… I came back? Ah, my voice is still the same… Thank god…”
Even in that moment, Haebom recalled those words—the ones about living as someone else.
He still didn’t know exactly who he’d become, but his voice hadn’t changed.
Staggering to his feet, Haebom looked around.
It was too dark to make out much, but it felt like a room.
He stood up, hands trailing along the wall, feeling his way around.
Eventually, he found a switch.
Click, the lights came on.
The sudden brightness filled the room, making Haebom squeeze his eyes shut.
He blinked several times before finally adjusting to the light.
The room he’d been sprawled on was a small studio apartment.
It… kind of felt like his old place.
But before he could properly take in his surroundings, Haebom stormed toward the door that had to be the bathroom.
He flung it open and immediately came face-to-face with a mirror.
His eyes widened at the reflection.
“…It’s the same…?”
The person staring back from the mirror was undeniably his face.
But they’d told him he’d become someone else.
It didn’t make sense.
For a second, he wondered if he’d ended up in a parallel world, not Wonho’s world.
There couldn’t only be two universes—the one where he and Wonho lived, and this.
Bursting out of the bathroom, Haebom scanned the studio.
No TV, so he couldn’t check the news, and his phone was nowhere in sight.
Thankfully, a neatly closed laptop sat on the desk.
He wanted to rush straight to wherever Wonho was, but he couldn’t even be sure the administrator had granted his wish.
So, pushing down the anxiety, Haebom approached the desk and powered on the laptop.
His hands trembled so much that he accidentally kept turning it off and on in his panic, but eventually, he got it to stay on.
His trembling fingertips, gripping the mouse, hovered over the screen.
He opened the browser, went straight to the news tab.
“Shit… You’ve got to be kidding me…”
Tears streamed down his face.
The moment he saw the headline—the very first article to pop up—his eyes filled to the brim, the tears spilling uncontrollably like someone had turned on a faucet.
‘Wonho’s going to worry if he sees me like this,’ he thought, but he couldn’t stop crying.
[…Is Esper Wonho going to be okay like this…?]
He didn’t even read the full headline.
The moment he saw Wonho’s name, every ounce of strength drained from his body, and he collapsed to the floor.
‘I’m back. ‘
To the world where Wonho exists.
That alone made Haebom’s chest tighten with overwhelming emotion.
He sat there for a long time, crying his heart out, until finally, he sniffled and wiped his damp face roughly.
Pulling himself together, he clicked the article, wanting—needing—to see Wonho’s face.
Wonho’s picture took up almost the entire top of the article. It showed him entering a gate, but… he didn’t look well.
Not at all.
“…Did he not get guided? What the hell… What is Choi Yoonseo even doing? Letting him get this bad…”
Skimming the article, it described Wonho’s condition as being like a fragile candle before a storm.
Espers were seen as heroes who protected the world, but at the same time, they were like ticking time bombs.
Their mental and physical state was everything.
Especially Wonho, an S-class Esper. If he lost control, the consequences were unimaginable.
The media sensationalized it—claiming Wonho could wipe entire countries off the map or even trigger another ice age with his powers.
As time passed, Wonho’s condition only worsened.
The reporter apparently hounded the Esper Center for updates, but for six months, they stayed silent.
“…Six months?”
Beneath that line, side-by-side photos compared Wonho from six months ago to now.
Haebom’s eyes blinked rapidly at the mention of six months.
He knew that event.
The last time Wonho publicly appeared was the day Haebom had gone into the gate—the same day Wonho had ruffled his hair before he left.
He even remembered comforting Wonho afterward, when he’d come home whining about how exhausted he was.
But for Haebom, that time hadn’t even felt like a month.
Yet the article said six months had passed.
Checking the article’s timestamp, Haebom’s mouth went dry.
It had been six months.
The calendar confirmed it.
A new year had begun.
Both he and Wonho were no longer twenty-one but twenty-two.
It had been autumn when he disappeared… but now, it was spring.
“That’s impossible… How…?”
But there was no one to answer him.
That damn administrator hadn’t made a peep since granting the ‘reward.’
Probably washed his hands of it all.
Damn bastard…
Though considering he’d crossed dimensions, maybe time flowing differently wasn’t so far-fetched.
Different world, different rules.
Realizing the situation, Haebom grew bitter.
He’d missed Christmas, New Year’s… all of it, without Wonho.
The resentment bubbled up.
‘Why is that administrator so damn untouchable?’
Haebom scoured the internet for every article on Wonho, then collapsed onto the bed, drained.
He felt like he was trespassing in someone else’s room, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Come to think of it, where was the actual owner of this body?
Was it taken from them because of him?
Even with the metaphorical fire under his own feet, Haebom couldn’t help worrying about someone else—it was ridiculous, but inevitable.
Dragging his tired body up, Haebom began digging through the room to figure out who he’d become.
His face was the same, but was it because he was the original, or had the body changed to match him?
He didn’t know.
But he had to find out.
“…Ah, here it is.”
He found an ID card tucked inside a wallet on the desk.
[Resident Registration Card
Haebom]
“…Ah…”
The sigh escaped him the moment he read it.
They’d scared the life out of him, saying he’d be someone else, but in the end, same face, same name.
Well… not exactly the same name.
Originally, he was Yoon Haebom—surname Yoon, given name Haebom.
But now, the ID read surname Hae, given name Bom.
It felt… weird.
Other than that, there wasn’t much information about this body’s previous owner.
Same age, same birthday… that was it.
