Han Jinhwan didn't usually leave rooms feeling outmatched.
Yet, as the hospital doors slid shut behind him, there was a tightness in his chest that refused to let go. His polished shoes tapped against the marble floor, but his mind was back in that hospital room—with her, and the man who had looked at him like he was nothing more than another temporary storm in her life.
Sunwoo.
Even his name felt like an echo of something too familiar. And that protective energy in his voice, the easy way he handed her coffee like he knew every detail about her preferences—it grated on something raw inside Jinhwan.
He wasn't used to jealousy.
Not because he didn't feel it—but because he never gave himself a reason to. People were replaceable. Attachments were fragile. Emotions were... inefficient.
But with Haeun, he didn't want to replace her. And that was terrifying.
His phone buzzed in his jacket. He glanced at the screen.
Eomma.
With a resigned breath, he swiped to answer. "Yes."
"Where are you?" came the voice of his mother, sharp and always slightly disapproving. "Your father asked for you twice during the board lunch. Are you ignoring responsibilities again?"
"I had something personal to attend to."
"Personal? You don't get the luxury of 'personal,' Jinhwan. You're a Han."
He closed his eyes. "I'm aware."
"Then act like it."
The line went dead without another word.
Jinhwan lowered the phone slowly, slipping it back into his coat. The urge to throw it against a wall was… surprisingly strong.
Instead of going home…
Not to the mansion, not to the towering apartment in Gangnam filled with silence and luxury he didn't ask for. Instead, he drove without thinking, ending up at a hilltop overlooking the Han River. The skyline shimmered against the water, Seoul pulsing with life and people chasing things they still believed in.
He'd been one of them once.
But the boy who used to smile on the rooftop of his prep school, imagining a life that didn't revolve around wealth and duty, had died the day he turned fifteen—when he was forced to inherit a company before he'd even learned how to drive.
And now… he was stuck between that dead boy and the man he'd become.
A cursed heir.
His hands clenched the steering wheel.
"Why you, Haeun?" he whispered, voice barely audible in the quiet of his car. "Why does it feel like I've already lost you before I ever had you?"
---
Back at the hospital…
Haeun was sitting up straighter in bed, twirling the coffee cup in her hand as Sunwoo sat by the window.
"You didn't have to glare at him like that," she said.
Sunwoo didn't look at her. "I didn't glare."
"You absolutely glared."
He let out a long sigh. "I don't like people like him."
"You don't know him."
"I don't need to." He finally looked at her. "Guys like that walk into your life like they own the air you breathe. They say pretty things, they hover when you're vulnerable, and then they disappear when things get hard."
Haeun stared at him. "He didn't seem like that."
"You don't know him either."
The words hung there, uncomfortable.
She bit her lip. "He came to see if I was okay. He didn't have to. And he didn't try to impress me—he just… sat with me. Listened."
Sunwoo's jaw clenched.
Haeun tilted her head. "Are you jealous?"
He blinked, startled. "What? No. I just—he's not—"
She raised an eyebrow.
He groaned. "Okay, maybe a little. But not like that. I just… I worry about you. You trust too easily."
"Not true," she said quietly. "I stopped trusting a long time ago."
And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
---
That night…
Haeun dreamt again.
But this time, it wasn't fog or flashes.
It was clear.
She was wearing a hanbok, her hands trembling as she reached out toward someone—someone with dark eyes filled with pain. The palace around her burned in silence, but all she could see was him. His face wasn't fully visible, but his presence… it was Jinhwan.
She knew it. She felt it.
And in the dream, she whispered, "Don't go."
Then everything shattered.
She woke up gasping, hands clutching the hospital blanket.
The room was quiet. Cold. But her chest was on fire.
What was that?
A dream. It had to be.
Except—why did it feel like a memory?
---
Meanwhile, in a secluded study lined with ancient texts…
A middle-aged woman with streaks of silver in her hair traced her finger across a page in an ancient book.
"The cycle has begun again," she murmured. "She dreams. And he remembers."
Beside her, a man dressed in traditional robes nodded solemnly. "The curse is weakening."
"Or strengthening," she said. "Depending on who breaks first."
She closed the book and looked up toward the city skyline through her window.
"This lifetime will be different," she whispered. "It has to be."