Chapter Text
Either death was shitty as hell, or he really was sitting on the side of a filthy road somewhere in Dongdaemun-gu*, Seoul, with a young girl—barely more than a child—clinging to him as her muffled sobs shattered the silence. The cold bit into his skin through the thin fabric of his threadbare jacket, the grit of the city’s grime sticking to his scraped palms.
He was going to kill that shitty God of Death. No, not just kill—he was going to rip that bastard apart, limb by damn limb.
Because he was supposed to be dead.
He had died as Cale Henituse—old, worn, but content. Surrounded by the people he loved, the family he had built, the peace he had earned after years of blood and sacrifice. The kind of death you imagined in stories, peaceful and final.
But here he was.
Not in some quiet afterlife, no soft clouds or those shitty angelic hymns you’d hear people sing.
Instead, the harshness of Seoul’s underbelly wrapped around him like a cruel joke. Dongdaemun-gu. A place of neon signs, bustling markets, and shadows—shadows that felt heavier than the dirt and garbage littering the cracked pavement beneath him.
This wasn’t the Korea he once knew as Kim Roksoo, where monsters lurked in the dark and survival meant biting down harder than your enemies. It wasn’t Earth 2 either, not that it mattered much anymore.
No, this was something else.
Another earth.
Where he was reincarnated.
Again.
God fucking damnit.
He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white, staring down at the girl curled into his side—Cha Siyeon, his sister, his only family now in this brutal new life. Her cries slowed as she felt his trembling breath, a faint flicker of hope in the midst of their shared misery.
Cale, no, the now Cha Roksoo breathed in the cold, smelled the city’s rot and smoke, and made a silent vow.
He would kill that God of Death. And this time, he wouldn’t just survive—he would carve a path so clear, so fierce, that no divine force could ever send him back to this hell again.
“Big brother,” the small child beside him whimpered, her voice fragile like a cracked glass ready to shatter.
“Big brother, I’m so hungry,” she sobbed, tears streaking down her dirt-smudged cheeks.
Cha Roksoo closed his eyes, letting the sharp sting of memory wash over him like a bitter wave. He was someone who couldn’t forget—not really. Even the cursed “record” ability that he had carried in his two previous lives stayed with him, that perfect replay of every moment like a broken tape, though he supposes he didn’t have the “ability” itself, he couldn’t feel it anymore, the constant nagging in the back of his mind, always on, always taking in.
It was different.
‘Hyperthymesia,’ he thinks bitterly, the unbearable gift of remembering everything, no matter how dark.
It wasn’t the power he had before, but it was the same hellish curse.
Their mother had died months ago. Not with a gentle farewell or warm hands holding hers, but forgotten and forsaken. They couldn’t afford a proper burial. Her body had been left to rot beside them, a cruel reminder of how far they’d fallen.
They scavenged. Desperately. Foraging scraps where no one else dared to look, hoping—praying—that some careless passerby would toss out a morsel of food. Anything.
And he hated this.
Hated the stares of strangers who pretended not to see them. Hated the ache gnawing at his ribs, the helplessness that threatened to swallow him whole. But most of all, he hated that he couldn’t protect her—not from the cold, not from hunger, not from the unforgiving world that had swallowed their family whole.
He swallowed the bitter taste in his throat and whispered, barely audible, “I swear… I’ll fix this. Somehow.”
He opened his eyes slowly, the weight of the city pressing down on him like a stone in his chest. Around them, the noise of Seoul's streets hummed—vendors shouting, distant car horns, the footsteps of people who had no time to notice two forgotten souls curled in a shadowed corner.
Cha Siyeon trembled beside him, her small frame curled tight, clutching his arm like it was the only lifeline left in a sea of despair. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers stiff from the cold but gentle nonetheless.
“This isn’t how it ends,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. This wasn’t going to be like his life as Kim Roksoo.
The world had given him death once as Cale—a finality he was supposed to accept. But now, reborn into suffering, with nothing but a ragged sister and memories of a life that seemed like a cruel dream, he vowed he wouldn’t stay broken.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the rough concrete. His eyes scanned the bustling market district—bright lights and life and people who lived without the constant gnaw of starvation.
One day, he thought, one day they would walk through those streets not as ragged children clinging to survival but as people who belonged. He would be someone who could protect his sister from the cold and the cruelty.
But for now, all he could do was survive.
He glanced down at Siyeon again. “Hang on,” he said softly. He never had siblings as Kim Roksoo, but if he could be an older brother to Lily and Basen, he could be an older brother to Siyeon too. He was going to try as much as he could for her, and hopefully smack Death behind the bastard's back while he’s at it. Huh, maybe he’ll get Siyeon to join him too. “Big brother’s got you.”
____________
Only a couple weeks later—after surviving off moldy pastries stolen from behind a bakery, sleeping beneath ripped tarps, and rationing water like it was treasure—he realized something.
A sick, gut-twisting kind of realization.
He knew this fucking story.
“ Death Is the Only Ending for Villainess. ”
The manhwa. The one he used to read as Kim Roksoo, back when things were simpler—well, as simple as a world full of monsters and battlefields could get. He’d read it with Team Leader Lee Soo Hyuk and that idiot Choi Jungsoo during the rare quiet moments between missions. It had been something to laugh about, to joke over. An otome game gone wrong. A villainess dying in every route. A girl who couldn’t catch a break.
Cha Siyeon.
How the hell had he not realized it sooner?
She wasn’t just his sister in this life.
She was her .
The girl who lived on the streets until her biological father, a powerful man, took her in. The one with two older brothers who did nothing but insult her. A father who saw her as a pawn, not a daughter. She was abused, ignored, and resented. Lived in the shadows of others—until she clawed her way into university, determined to study archaeology of all things. Ancient bones and forgotten tombs. Probably looking for something that didn’t hurt.
Then came the game. “ Daughter of the Duke: Love Project. ” Some trendy otome game her friends convinced her to play.
She played it obsessively. First on normal mode. Then hard mode. She kept dying. Over and over. The villainess always lost. Penelope Eckhart—the girl with sharp eyes, lonely heart, and a death flag on every route. Then one night, Siyeon fell asleep. And just like that…
She became her.
And now… now she was here, in front of him. His sister.
Shit.
There was never any mention of Penelope having a brother. Not in the manhwa, not in the game, not in any wiki, theory post, or hidden route.
Which meant—
His blood ran cold.
“FUCK THAT FUCKING GOD OF DEATH!” he shouted into the empty alley, voice hoarse and cracked.
The asshole changed the story .
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was never part of this world. Which meant this wasn’t some predetermined route he could follow and cheat with foreknowledge.
No, this was new. This was off-script .
And if he knew one thing from a life full of war, betrayal, and gods playing dice with human lives—stories only ever changed when things got worse.
He looked down at Siyeon—no, Penelope—and felt the weight settle on his shoulders. He shifted to have her head in his lap, instead of his shoulder so she could sleep better.
They would both be in the game now.
And he was ready to do whatever it takes to make sure they both get a happy ending.
It was only a couple days later when it finally happened. He knew it would, if this world was following the novel’s timeline.
The winter air was sharp enough to hurt when you breathed in too fast.
Cha Roksoo sat on a crate behind a row of recycling bins, watching his breath fog the air as Siyeon curled up against his side, shivering beneath a threadbare coat. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks hollow, and she’d stopped complaining about hunger three days ago. That scared him more than anything else.
She hadn’t eaten today. Neither had he.
The last of the bakery scraps had gone moldy enough to make them sick, and he wasn’t willing to gamble her health on bread fuzz.
He had been trying to think of something— anything —when it happened.
The car pulled up like it belonged in another world. Sleek, black, polished so clean it reflected the neon haze of the city like glass. Tinted windows, expensive rims, government plates. It rolled to a stop across the street from their alley, the engine low and purring like a predator.
Roksoo froze.
Siyeon didn’t even notice. She was half-asleep, head against his arm.
The back door opened with a soft hiss. The man who stepped out looked like he walked out of a boardroom in a movie: dark suit, long coat, leather gloves. His shoes were spotless. His expression was colder than the weather.
And he was familiar. Unmistakably so.
Cha Yuhwan.
Their father.
Roksoo's breath caught in his throat.
He recognized him instantly—from old photos, from the fragments of memory Siyeon had shared in her half-conscious murmurs, from the articles he’d seen on the halftorn newspapers littered around them.
A powerful corporate executive. Ruthless. Respected. Feared. A man who buried scandal with money and shaped public perception like it was wet clay.
And now he stood there, on the edge of their alley, looking down at his own children like he was deciding whether they were salvageable.
Siyeon stirred at the sound of footsteps. When she looked up and met the man’s gaze, she went still.
“…Dad?”
The word cracked in the air.
Not Appa. Not Father.
Dad.
The kind of word that still had hope in it.
Cha Yuhwan didn’t flinch. “Get up,” he said.
Roksoo narrowed his eyes. “Took you long enough.”
The man turned his gaze on him, assessing, piercing, and not at all surprised. “You’re the older one.”
“So the DNA says.”
A pause. The tension in the air stretched like wire, fragile and dangerous.
“I didn’t come for a conversation,” their father said, voice clipped, professional. “You’re both coming with me.”
Siyeon blinked, as if she hadn’t fully processed it. “Y-you want us?”
“No,” he replied bluntly. “But I have a responsibility. You're my blood. I’ve made arrangements.”
Roksoo felt something coil in his chest—something ugly and sharp. “Arrangements? Like what? A box with heating and a slightly less moldy mattress?”
The man’s jaw twitched. “A room. Food. Education. Your legal guardianship will transfer to my household. You’ll live as Cha Yuhwan’s children from now on. Nothing more.”
So cold. So calculated .
Not love. Not regret. Not even pity. Just... logistics.
Siyeon’s hand reached for Roksoo’s without looking. He took it immediately.
She whispered, “What do we do?”
He didn’t answer right away. His mind raced. He didn’t trust this man—not at all. But they were dying out here. Siyeon was dying. He had to be honest with himself about that.
So he stood, dragging her gently with him. He faced their father with a dead stare.
“You don’t get to treat her like she’s disposable. Ever. You don’t get to raise your voice. You don’t get to lay a single hand on her. If you do, I swear to god, I don’t care if you’re the richest bastard in Korea—I will take you down.”
Their father raised an eyebrow, almost amused. “You’re in no position to threaten anyone.”
“Try me.”
A long silence. Then—“Fine,” Cha Yuhwan said. “But don’t expect comfort. You’ll be fed, clothed, and educated. That’s all. Emotions are inefficient.”
Roksoo’s lip curled. “Great. Sounds like home already.”
They climbed into the car. Neither spoke.
As the city lights blurred past them, Cha Roksoo watched his reflection in the window.
This was the beginning of another kind of suffering.
And this time, he would remember every single second of it.