Getting a second chance at life isn't exactly as enchanting as it seems.
Sohee Young, who lived life like the callous person she was, dies. She gets another chance to live life correctly though, and that is by swapping lives with Lina Park, who die...
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THE FAMILIAR HONK from the neighborhood below jolted me awake. The pounding headache ensued, and I gritted my teeth as squinted through the sunlight. Where were my curtains? Hand crawling out to reach for my phone, I paused when it brushed the ground.
Jumped up to a sitting position, where I sat on a mattress in the middle of my studio. Plain, no bedding. Which could have been my main issue, but a much more intrusive thought entered my mind—the last time I walked out of here, this studio was bare, equipped with only the essentials.
What happened last night? I attempted to comb the mess of a hair that came down to the middle of my back, all matted and oily. These clothes weren't mine, resembling a hand me down outfit. And the ashes on it—what, had I ran through a smoke bomb or something?
Not to mention, the phone I held in my hand. The small, black iPhone, ringing with messages from unknown people.
EMMA: Sohee, PLEASE tell me you're okay. The elders say you're alive, but they can't get to you because the souleater did something. And Marshall, the jerk, won't tell me what's happening. Or Andrew. Why is nobody telling me anything?
Elders? Souleaters? What kind of story were these people spewing? Something had happened yesterday... a rock?
I released a cry—clutched my head as I scrambled to my feet. The sharp pain grew, and I whimpered, face contorted.
Calm. I had to calm down. Taking in shallow breaths, I glanced around the empty apartment room, renovated to emphasize cozy, with the desk, the sofa, the drawers and gray decor. Which I didn't remember adding.
The last thing I clearly remembered was going to Will's apartment. In downtown New York, his small getaway apartment contained hideous drapes and ridiculous beanbags but radiated the typical "rich kid" neighborhood stereotype. He'd considered it his haven where he stayed away from his annoying, rich family. A studio. And I'd bought one in the same building as his—a decision I regretted.
Walking over to the kitchen, I opened the fridge mouth falling open. Stocked. To the brim with Korean food. Still, I had no idea who did it. My hand shook—had someone figured out where I lived? A psychopath, who decided to reside here?
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I gasped when the phone pinged again.
EMMA: You better be alive, okay? I'm worried, and now I'm rambling, and you're going to roll your eyes at me for repeating what I said, but I'm WORRIED. And Lina came back, not remembering anything, which sends me in a complete chaotic spiral. Y'know, like that hurricane from Crash Landing on You that I made you watch? Okay, now I'm rambling again. But tell me you're safe.
No, I wasn't safe, because I had no idea what had been going on for nearly a month.
The date leered back at me, and I ran a hand through my hair. For how long was this going on? Even if I lost my memory, the contract for this studio was about to be terminated, so why did I stand here in such tattered clothes?
