Brooklyn – 5:48 PM
Somewhere between a red light and a fuckin' existential crisis. Peter had started crossing the road like a normal person—with purpose, with rhythm, with that passive-aggressive bounce only tired college students had when their souls were 70% caffeine and 30% regret. The green light-man icon above the crosswalk blinked confidently, arms swinging like a cartoon dad power-walking to pick up milk.
And for a moment, everything was fine.
Then, mid-crossing—his brain pulled a full U-turn and dragged him back into the dark alley of his thoughts.
"Champion of Lust is flopping. I mean, it started fire, but now it's just… ashes and thigh-high plot holes. Readers say the MC's too horny, too weak, breaking through ranks faster. One guy said I was just projecting my lack of game onto the main character. And worst part? He was kinda right."
Peter frowned as he walked, steps slowing.
"When the fuck am I gonna make actual money? My part-time boss is literally two tantrums away from firing me. Rent's a nightmare. Mom keeps threatening to cut off my Wi-Fi. And how the hell am I supposed to confess to Professor Callahan if I'm broke, crusty, and emotionally built like a broken vending machine?"
He was so deep in his thoughts, he didn't even notice he'd slowed down. He just drifted across the street like a sad NPC.
The green man was blinking now—the universal sign for "Yo, get your ass across or die."
The countdown hit zero.
Peter? Still walking like he was wading through emotional soup.
And then—the cars were released.
Engines revved. Horns screamed. Tires squealed. But Peter was already too far inside his own head, replaying every sad stat on his author dashboard like they were breakup texts.
From the other side of the road, a scream cut through the noise:
"PETER!"
His ears twitched. He knew that voice.
He'd recognize it even in hell.
Lilith.
His foster sister was waving both arms like a maniac, eyes wide, mouth moving too fast to process.
"Run, you idiot! Run! Jadongcha!!"
She was pointing.
At a truck.
A fucking massive truck, swerving straight toward him like it had beef with his ancestors.
Peter looked, and time slowed.
The truck's grill stared him down like the Grim Reaper had upgraded to diesel. Headlights flared. It honked. Hard.
A monstrous, divine sound that echoed across timelines.
"Oh my god. Is this the legendary… Truck-kun?" Of all the possible ways to go—heartbreak, poverty, instant noodle overdose—it was this.
The deity of reincarnation.
The holy truck sent by the gods of Isekai themselves.
Its lights blinked three times as if to say: "Farewell, bitch."
Peter didn't even flinch.
He just thought: "Shit… at least make it quick."
But before the truck could kiss him into another world, two arms wrapped around his waist like a sudden warmth in a cold world.
Familiar arms.
Lilith.
She'd sprinted straight into death with him. "If I can't save you, let's die together, you dummy!" she shouted in his ear.
Peter's eyes widened.
And then—
Boom.
The truck didn't stop.
It didn't hesitate.
It turned both of them into street pancake.
Peter and Lilith died. Together.
Just like that.
Goodbye, mom.
Goodbye, Champion of Lust.
Goodbye, Brooklyn.
Goodbye, part-time job with crusty aprons and customers who smelled like raw onions.
Regrets to not getting the professor.
Gone.
****
Seoul, South Korea— Morning.
Peter woke up with the softness of a five-star cloud mattress wrapped around him like the arms of a sugar daddy. The duvet was thick, expensive-feeling, and smelt like detergent that probably cost more than his weekly groceries.
But he wasn't thinking about thread count.
Nope. His first thought was: "Did I just get fucking obliterated by a truck?"
He blinked. Once. Twice. A third time, just to make sure he wasn't stuck in a fever dream made of stress, ramen, and unfulfilled dreams. "Nah. This ain't real. I died. I remember the honk. The flashing lights. The whole 'Final Destination' energy."
Peter laid there, eyes wide open, blanket halfway over his face like he was in witness protection. His mind ran a marathon in bare feet.
He remembered everything.
The failing novel—Champion of Lust, which had now officially become Loser of Traffic Accidents.
His mother, who would've grounded him to death if the truck hadn't done it first.
His part-time job, where the manager once told him his "vibe was too depressing for customer service."
His professor-crush, who he was supposed to confess to someday (once he had money, abs, and emotional stability).
And—Pinterest.
That blessed, cursed app. His digital sanctuary. His holy collection of barely clothed women who weren't real, but still outclassed most of humanity.
He would miss them. Deeply.
And then—her.
"Lilith." His heart clenched. "She wrapped her arms around me. That idiot. What the hell was she thinking—trying to die with me?"
He shot up from the bed like he was being evicted by gravity. The blanket flew off like a dramatic K-drama exit. His breath was ragged, his mind racing."Is she alive? Is she here? Or dead?"
But then…
The moment his feet touched the floor—
Weird.
Not like, "Oh I have jetlag" weird.
Weird-weird.
His legs felt longer. Not just longer—cleaner? stronger? smoother? What the hell? His arms were lean. His chest—tight. His reflexes? Faster.
And his pajamas? "…Why the fuck does this feel loose down there?"
His face froze.
He reached down.
Paused.
Squeezed.
"No… way."
He sprinted toward the bathroom like a man possessed. Didn't even care how the room looked like it came out of a K-pop idol's photoshoot. Clean, sleek, scented like lavender and money. Walls were white. Floor was glass.
There was even a robot vacuum circling the room like it was doing surveillance for NASA.
He stepped directly on it.
"Fucking OW!"
The robot flung him like a glitchy Beyblade. He landed sideways, cursed everything from technology to evolution, and launched himself back up—half limping, half running.
But when he spoke—
"Aish…!"
Wait.
That wasn't English.
That was Korean. Like, actual fluent-as-fuck Korean. "Wait, what the—fuck me, I'm speaking Korean?!" His heart was having a seizure. His body was in a K-drama. His soul was in debt.
He made it to the mirror.
Didn't look at the fancy counter. Didn't care about the LED lights that pulsed like a BTS concert.
All that mattered was the mirror.
And without hesitation—
He yanked his pants down.
Silence.
Tears.
Existential silence.
"No."
"No, no, no no no no no no—"
"WHERE IS MY DICK!??"
What stared back at him was not the proud, majestic, slightly intimidating member that once gave him a sense of manhood even when everything else in life sucked.
No.
This was… a starter pack.
An entry-level trial.
A fuckin' beta version.
Peter backed up like he'd seen a ghost.
"I—no. No! That was my legacy, man! My one W in life! I was mid in everything but that! THAT was my goddamn flex! I could've been in a drama called Big Dreams, Bigger Dick! Now what?! SMALLVILLE: Rebirth Edition?!"
He turned his head tears welled in his eyes, but then—
He looked up.
And saw the face in the mirror.
And that's when the final bullet hit.
It wasn't his face.
Well—not his face.
It was…
Pain. Like someone pressed rewind on his soul.
"That's… not me."
Memories crashed like waves.
Another Peter.
Another life.
Another fucking body.
He reincarnated. Re-fucking-uploaded into someone else's server. And somewhere out there…
Lilith might be dead. Or alive. Or in another body.
And him?
He was now hot, taller, slightly Korean-coded, and emotionally devastated.