04. In Search of a Lost Dream (2)

'Come on… it's not like I didn't see this coming.'

Crouched down in the playground in front of the house, I tried to cool my throbbing head and get my thoughts in order. I hadn't planned on going out, so I'd rushed out in slippers — my feet were frozen solid, on the verge of frostbite.

I yanked the hem of my long padded coat down as far as it would go and tucked it over my toes, but I still couldn't stop the cold from creeping up. This thing had done its time — I'd been wearing it for four years already; maybe it was about ready for the trash.

Now that things had come to this, I gave myself ten minutes to come up with a plan.

"System window. Emergency queshst."

My lips were freezing and the pronunciation slipped, but nobody was around, so let's just move past that. I pulled the zipper — already up to my chin — a little tighter and studied the stat window that popped up in front of me.

title: Emergency Quest A child's wound is a parent's scar. Win back your mother's heart and get her to accept the dream you've reclaimed. deadline: Tied to SQ 01 (D-53) penalty: 5th regression probability +75%

"?"

In that short window of time, a penalty had appeared. I glared at the system window in silence, but glaring wasn't going to change anything, so I gave up.

"What kind of life are you even living, Selreg, you bastard…"

At this rate, I was starting to genuinely worry about how fragile Selreg's mental state was. Yeah — no wonder they'd regressed four times. Even with a mental-care buff, the thought of yet another regression was making my head spin, so god knows how bad it was for this kid. The system must have been at wit's end too, if it went to the trouble of assigning me as a "mentor."

"Even so, isn't that failure rate a little pathetically high?"

Pissed was still pissed, and two more minutes went by while I fumed. Ah — I was out of time. I had eight minutes to figure out how to convince Mom.

'Honestly, studying's the easiest angle.'

I'd been my mother's son for nineteen years — thirty-something if you counted my past life — so I knew: pitching "I'll do the trainee thing and get into a Seoul university too" was usually enough to open negotiations. I could even throw in specific mock-exam scores to back it up.

But the problem was…

'That takes too long. It's too slow.'

The college entrance exam was over, and I had two months to become a trainee — starting now. And doing school and trainee life at the same time? Easier said than done. It basically meant putting your youth up as collateral to trade for years off your lifespan. That said, that was pretty much the standard deal for anyone chasing entertainment.

5 minutes remaining!

"…Thaaanks."

I couldn't feel my nose or my cheeks anymore. Think, Kang Hajin. Keep this up and you'll freeze to death.

Drawing on the sum of every life I'd lived, I racked my brain for the most effective way to convince Mom.

Hunger strike? Mom's cooking's way too good — out.

Running away? Look at me right now. Getting kicked out is a nightmare and a half. Out.

Crying and throwing a tantrum? Hadn't worked since I was five and wanted a transforming robot. Long out.

"…Nope, nope, none of that."

Just… should I just let myself regress? Two months of memorizing ten years of lottery numbers might genuinely be less brutal. With the mental-care buff to lean on, maybe I could just… tough it out?

3 minutes remaining! The Mental Care System is not invincible!

"Now you're jumping in with commentary. Sure, go ahead, do whatever."

Request received.

You, System, don't even know Korean sarcasm. The Korean localization patch definitely isn't finished.

"Hyung. Mom says if you're done doing the whole teen-angst bit, come back in and eat."

While I was in the middle of a staring contest with the poor blameless system window, my kid brother — still small enough that I couldn't quite get used to it, still precious at eighteen — called out, making no effort to hide how much of a pain this was.

Looking at how baby-faced my brother still was, I felt fire flare up in me from out of nowhere. Yeah, I couldn't give up… If I gave up, he'd end up doing the military three times too.

"Teen-angst bit, my ass. I'm being serious."

"A serious person storms out like that?"

"Storms out? Every single step out of that door had feeling behind it, thanks."

"If 'You don't know anything, Mom!' with your voice cracking counts as feeling, hyung, you're beyond help."

Watching my brother do a bad imitation of me hit me with a sudden dose of reality. That's what I'd looked like… I hadn't realized I'd come across as some daytime-drama-hero eighteen-year-old.

And "bad acting"? I meant every word in that moment.

"You don't know anything…"

"Hyung, what battle are you fighting all by yourself over there."

"This is war."

An enormous war being waged over re-enlistment and retaking the college exam and getting a job all over again.

"Hyung, give her a break. Mom's got a lot on her mind these days too, honestly."

"……"

His voice, dropped into a sheepish register, shifted the mood immediately. Only then did it hit me again — right, it was the winter I was nineteen.

"With the whole thing with Dad and everything…"

Dad's unemployment.

I knew the future — I knew Dad would end up landing well at a company he'd interview at early next year, and that it would become the turning point where the family's fortunes actually started to lift.

That was why, even after regressing and waking up every morning in a semi-basement with a constant draft instead of a sunlit apartment, I'd never quite fallen into despair.

"It's just — you know how the mood's been around the family lately. And then, out of nowhere, hyung says he wants to be a trainee again…"

But before that future arrived, my family really was living through a winter that wouldn't lift.

Watching my brother stand there in nothing but hand-me-downs, no new clothes to his name, face on the verge of tears — it hit me all over again. That this really was one of those days in that long cold winter.

"I keep telling them I want to at least get a part-time job to help with expenses, but they won't even let me do that."

I looked up at my brother, who was letting all of it out like he'd been holding it in for a while. Something started to simmer in my chest.

"Hawon."

"What."

"You work hard at what you want to do, kid."

"……"

"Right now, that's how you help Mom and Dad."

My brother didn't answer.

I forced my legs — which honestly felt like they'd shatter from the cold any second — to hold my weight, and stood up. It was like someone had grabbed a loose thread and yanked it taut.

I had to stop this regression, no question. I couldn't leave my family frozen in this winter forever.

"Hawon."

"…God, why do you keep saying my name."

"Your hyung's going to be an idol this time around."

"How are you gonna get Mom's permission?"

The 10 minutes are up!

"I've got a plan, kid."

I said I'd figure it out in ten minutes, didn't I.

---

Hajin's mother, Youngin, had been watching Hajin — who'd been unusually quiet for days now — with a suspicious eye.

'Why is he being so quiet?'

A few days had gone by since Hajin had dropped the bomb about wanting to prep for idol trainee auditions again. That night, when Hajin and his brother came home, Youngin had braced herself for another round — but instead, Hajin had polished off two full bowls of rice and then volunteered to do the dishes, as if nothing had happened.

'…Was that his strategy?'

Come to think of it, Youngin was starting to notice she'd been catching Hajin doing housework noticeably more often lately.

Household chores had always been split among the whole family, but these days, aside from washing up, Youngin hadn't touched soapy water in ages. She could tell something was off about it — but her body was too comfortable, and her thoughts kept stalling out right there. Instinct always won out over reason.

"Hajin."

"Hm?"

"…Never mind."

Something still felt off, so she'd called out to him, but Hajin's face was as calm as always.

Honestly, if she followed her heart, she'd have told him — you only get one life, go do whatever you want, all of it.

That was Youngin's own regret over a life she hadn't lived that way. And it was also her resentment toward her own parents, who'd never taught her she was allowed to. Youngin genuinely rooted for her sons' dreams, more than anyone — and she still did now.

She'd just learned, along the way, that vague encouragement could sometimes be exactly what pushed a child into a dead end.

—Stop it with the "you have potential" thing, please.

Youngin still couldn't forget Hajin as he'd been on that day.

That was the day Hajin had told her, for the first time, that he was going to end his five years as a trainee.

—Why, Hajin? Mom believes in you. You can absolutely do this.

—Mom, sometimes I —

—……

—I'm scared of a future where I end up nothing. I'm scared you'll be let down.

Blind, unconditional faith in your child, she realized that day for the first time, could actually become something the child was afraid of.

—If Mom believes in me this much and I still don't make it, then it really is all my fault.

—……

—So I'm just gonna do something else. Not something I have "potential" in — something I'm actually good at.

That was why, when Hajin brought up wanting to be an idol again, Youngin was struck with a hard, sudden fear.

Their unstable household finances, Hajin's situation as a test-taker — those thoughts flickered through her head, but what weighed on her more heavily was the memory of that day.

Youngin didn't have it in her to watch Hajin — always so brilliant — break his own wings a second time. Nor could she offer him empty promises that it would work out, not in that tightrope-walking life where every moment was up for judgment. Especially not for a trainee audition, when they weren't even talking about a debut yet.

"Mom."

The deeper she'd sunk into these thoughts, the more it had gotten to her, throat tightening a little — and then Hawon called out to her in an oddly sheepish voice, and she looked over.

"What is it, sweetheart? Do you need something?"

"Uh. Um…"

Hawon snuck a look at Youngin's expression and then, hesitating, gestured toward the master bedroom.

"Hyung's asking if you can come in. Dad's in there too."

"Hajin? Why?"

"That's…"

Sensing something off in the way Hawon trailed off, Youngin walked quickly to the master bedroom. Her husband, already seated in a pre-arranged chair, greeted her.

"Hajin?"

"Honey, hurry, come here. He's about to do something."

Hajin, who'd apparently changed back into his school uniform even though he'd been home from school for hours, was standing at attention in front of the computer, posture ruler-straight.

Still a bit dazed, Youngin let Hawon guide her to her seat. There were two chairs set up ahead of time, so Hawon settled into a crouch beside them, ready to enjoy the one-man show his older brother was about to put on.

"Mother. Father."

"When have you ever called us that…"

Hajin skipped right past his father's raised-eyebrow look, and with a confident smile, turned on the monitor.

"I'll now begin Kang Hajin's Life Plan presentation."

A cleanly designed slide filled the small monitor, flashy animations announcing the start of the show.

---

"Before I explain this plan, I felt it was important to first take clear stock of everything I currently have and everything I've done up until now."

Have I mentioned that group projects had once made me a veteran at putting together decks?

"This is a breakdown of my current strengths and weaknesses, organized as a SWOT analysis."

I'll add to that. I actually have a track record of pouring my soul into slide decks, too.

The clean, tidy PPT — designed entirely around Mom and Dad's aesthetic preferences and readability — flipped to the next slide.

The font was easy on the eyes; the text held only the perfect number of keywords to anchor each talking point. These slides were the fruit of many painstaking hours at the computer, produced back when I'd been hogging it under the pretense of needing to watch online lectures.

I say this without exaggeration: I never prepped this hard for the finals presentation of a single major class.

"Hawon-ah. Do they seriously teach this kind of stuff at school these days?"

"Nah, hyung is just weird."

I could hear Dad marveling and chatting with Hawon, but I calmly moved to the next slide.

By the time I was walking them through my target university's current admissions cutoffs — analyzed with input from an actual meeting with my homeroom teacher — and my early-admission strategy given my grades and extracurriculars, I could see Kang Hawon shaking his head with an "I'm so over this" look.

"Next, I'd like to introduce you to Miro Entertainment and explain my vision for choosing this particular agency, along with my reasoning."

Kang Hawon, sitting next to a dad who'd already been more than half-swayed and was clapping like an amazed toddler at how impressive his son was, muttered:

"…Hyung's straight-up using a cheat code."

I heard that, kid.