Chapter Text
The metallic scent of blood filled the warehouse, thick and suffocating. The dim light flickered above, casting long, ominous shadows across the concrete floor, where bodies lay unmoving. Sunoo stood amidst the carnage, a gun in his gloved hand, his black suit speckled with crimson.
"Boss, it's done," one of his men muttered, wiping blood from his knife.
Sunoo exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon. This was just another night, another job. He had built his empire through ruthlessness, climbing from the gutters to the throne of the underworld. No mercy. No weakness. That was his law.
But then—
A sharp whistle. A gunshot.
Pain exploded in his chest.
His breath hitched. The world tilted. He staggered back, his vision blurring as he clutched the wound just below his ribs. His men shouted, drawing their weapons, but he couldn’t focus on their voices.
Who? Who dared—
His legs gave out. The cold floor welcomed him like an old friend. His body convulsed as warm blood seeped between his fingers. Someone kneeled beside him, whispering hurried words he couldn’t understand.
Betrayed.
His lips curled in amusement. So this was how it ended?
As his vision darkened, his last thought was bitter. If I could live again… I would make them all kneel.
—
A sharp gasp tore from his lips.
Sunoo's eyes flew open.
Bright light seared his vision. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and unfamiliar perfumes. He tried to move, but his limbs felt foreign, weak. His fingers twitched, and something warm covered his hand—
A woman's sobbing voice.
"Lucien! My son, please wake up!"
His brows furrowed. Lucien?
He forced himself to look. A beautiful woman sat beside him, her delicate features contorted in grief. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched his hand desperately. Behind her, figures in regal clothing hovered, their expressions filled with concern.
Where was he?
His breath hitched. This wasn't the warehouse. This wasn’t his world.
What the hell just happened!
_______
The room was eerily silent for a heartbeat. Then— "Lucien! My son has woken up!"
The woman’s anguished cries shattered the stillness, her voice trembling with overwhelming relief.
The heavy double doors burst open as more people rushed inside, their faces pale, their eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Sunoo—no, Lucien—watched in stunned silence as the strangers surrounded him. Some wept openly, their exhaustion evident in the dark circles under their eyes, while others murmured prayers of gratitude.
He could feel the raw emotion in the air—genuine relief, deep concern, and a love so profound it made his chest tighten uncomfortably. His mind was spinning. Where was he?
He sat up slowly, his muscles weak but responsive. The woman clung to his hand, as if afraid he would disappear again.
Sunoo stared at her—at her delicate features, her tear-streaked cheeks, and the way she looked at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. Mother.
The word formed in his mind before he could stop it. It wasn’t just a guess—somehow, he knew.
The warmth of her hands, the sorrow in her eyes, the desperate way she called his name. This woman… she was his mother.
He felt no fear. Only confusion. Is this a dream? He clenched his fist, feeling the smooth fabric of the silk sheets beneath him. The weight of his own body.
The warmth of the sunlight streaming through the massive windows. It was too real. Too vivid.
His eyes flickered to the far side of the room, where a gilded mirror stood. His breath hitched.
There he was.
But it wasn’t quite him. He still had the same sharp features—the same high cheekbones, the same piercing eyes—but softer, healthier.
There were no scars, no signs of the hard life he had lived.
His skin glowed with vitality, free of the exhaustion that had once clung to him like a second skin. His hair, always carelessly styled, fell in soft waves, framing a face so refined, so breathtakingly beautiful, it almost disgusted him.
If I had never become a gangster… If he had been born into a different life, untouched by crime, untouched by blood… would he have looked like this?
He hated it.
He hated the softness, the vulnerability that came with a face like this. He had learned the hard way that beauty like his wasn’t a gift—it was a curse. People coveted it. They wanted to own it, control it, use it against him.
A familiar sense of wariness settled in his gut, but before he could dwell on it, the doors opened again. A man in pristine white robes stepped inside—the doctor, judging by the medical bag in his hands. He moved quickly, kneeling beside Sunoo—Lucien—and checking his pulse. His touch was gentle but firm, his brows furrowed in concentration.
"You gave us quite the scare, young master," the doctor murmured, placing a hand over Lucien’s forehead.
"How do you feel?" Lucien hesitated. How did he feel? Physically, there was no pain. No gunshot wound. No traces of the brutal life he had left behind. His body felt light, strong. But mentally? He was a mess.
"I'm…" He trailed off, looking around the room.
The people surrounding him looked exhausted—like they hadn't slept in days. Yet, despite their weariness, there was nothing but relief in their eyes. They had been waiting for him to wake up. They had been worried about him.
A strange warmth spread in his chest, unfamiliar and unsettling. Sunoo—Lucien—let out a small breath and turned his gaze to the window.
The golden rays of the morning sun poured into the room, bathing him in warmth. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked at the people in front of him—the people who seemed to love him without question. A slow smile curled his lips.
"I'm alive."