The text on the screen didn't move.
No animation. No dramatic sound effect. No mysterious light suddenly flooding the room. Just clean white text in the center of a laptop screen that five minutes ago had been displaying School 2015 credits — now displaying something that by every logical standard should not have been there.
Ha Joon stared at it with an expression that others might read as uninterested.
But his mind was working hard.
Not a virus. The display is too clean for that. Not remote access — I disconnected the internet two hours ago. Not a hallucination, because I'm not tired enough to hallucinate and this coffee has kept me conscious enough despite tasting like drain water.
He tilted his head to the left this time.
Then what?
As if answering a question he hadn't spoken aloud, the text on screen changed. Not disappearing and reappearing — but shifting in a way he couldn't describe with any logic he possessed. Like handwriting writing itself in real time.
'You have a lot of questions.
Understandable. But allow the system to explain
before you spend two hours searching for a logical
explanation that you won't find.'
Ha Joon stopped his train of thought.
Stared at that last line.
...this system just read my mind.
"Or," he said quietly, voice still hoarse, "you simply predicted the typical human reaction when faced with an anomaly."
'Both.'
Ha Joon was silent for a moment.
Then — for the first time in a very long time — one corner of his mouth lifted. Not a full smile. Just a small movement that was barely visible.
"Alright," he said. "Explain."
His laptop screen expanded.
Not physically — but somehow his field of vision was now filled by an interface far larger than the screen's actual dimensions. Like a window that had suddenly opened itself into another dimension. Ha Joon hadn't moved from his spot on the floor, but he felt as though he was sitting before something very large.
The interface was clean. Minimalist. No excessive ornamentation. No jarring colors. Just dark grey panels with white text arranged neatly — like a dashboard designed by someone who deeply valued efficiency.
Ha Joon — without realizing it — sat slightly straighter than before.
At the top of the interface, a header glowed softly:
DRAMA CORRECTION SYSTEM
Ver. 1.0 - INITIALIZED
User : Kim Ha Joon
Status : Active
Total Points : 0
Below it, a long block of text appeared — not like a loading screen, but like someone had prepared this document long before Ha Joon sat down here tonight:
ABOUT THIS SYSTEM:
The dramas you watch are not merely fiction.
They are windows into parallel worlds
that exist alongside your own.
The characters within them are real.
They live, breathe, and carry their own stories —
including the tragedies you believed
should never have happened to them.
This system grants you access to enter.
Not as a viewer. But as part of the story itself.
Your task is simple:
Fix what is wrong.
Save those who deserve to be saved.
Then come back.
Ha Joon read it twice.
Not three times — he had understood it well enough by the second reading. All he needed was one pause to make sure he hadn't missed any detail.
"Parallel worlds," he repeated, tone neutral. "Drama characters are real people from another world."
Correct.
"And I can enter those worlds."
Correct.
"As myself."
Correct. The system will provide a cover identity
appropriate to the context of the world you enter.
An appearance, name, and background that allows
your presence to go unquestioned.
But your personality, memories, and consciousness
remain entirely your own.
Ha Joon nodded slowly. Not out of awe — but because the information fit into the framework he was building in his mind, and so far there were no contradictions.
"Consequences if I fail?"
There is no punishment for you.
But every action you take inside a drama world
will have real consequences for the characters within it.
A wrong step won't punish you —
but it may worsen an existing tragedy.
Or create a new one that wasn't there
in the original story.
Remember: they are real.
The consequences are real to them.
This time Ha Joon didn't answer immediately.
He stared at that last paragraph longer than usual.
They are real. The consequences are real to them.
Something moved inside his chest — something familiar and uncomfortable. The same feeling as when he watched episodes that ended the way they shouldn't have. When he sat alone in front of a screen knowing exactly what was wrong but unable to do anything except watch.
This time was different.
"Scoring system?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual analytical tone.
Every valuable action you take will generate points in real time.
After the mission is complete and you return,
the system will evaluate the total changes
you successfully made:
GRADE S — Perfect Rewrite (+2,000 pts bonus)
GRADE A — Major Change (+1,000 pts bonus)
GRADE B — Partial Change (+500 pts bonus)
GRADE C — Minimal Impact (+200 pts bonus)
Points can be used in the System Store
to purchase abilities and items
from various available sources.
"Abilities from various sources," Ha Joon repeated slowly. "How broad is the definition of various sources?"
The screen scrolled. A new panel opened to the right — a brief preview of something that made Ha Joon, for the first time tonight, go completely still.
Names he recognized.
Titles he recognized.
Abilities that until now had only existed on a different kind of screen — different genre, different medium, but watched on the same kinds of late nights.
System Store — Preview:
[S] Infinity — Gojo Satoru / Jujutsu Kaisen
[A] Conqueror's Haki — One Piece
[B] Sharingan — Naruto
[C] Basic Ninja Physique — Naruto
...and 200+ more abilities available.
Your current points: 0
Visit the store after completing your first mission.
Ha Joon stared at the list.
Expression still flat.
But his mind — his mind was running very fast in a direction he hadn't anticipated.
Infinity. Gojo Satoru's Infinity.
He knew exactly what that was. He knew how it worked. He knew the implications of someone actually possessing that ability in the real world.
And this system had just listed it like an item in a shopping app.
"...you're serious," Ha Joon said finally. Not a question.
Always.
Ha Joon closed his eyes for a full three seconds.
Counting.
Not out of nervousness — but out of an old habit whenever he faced a decision with too many variables to process at once. Three seconds. Two breaths. Then open your eyes and decide.
He opened his eyes.
"Show me the list of available dramas."
The main panel scrolled to a new display.
Not a long, overwhelming list. The system presented it cleanly — a grid of drama posters Ha Joon recognized one by one, with brief information beneath each title.
But one title caught his eye immediately.
Not because its poster was the largest. Not because of any visual effect that distinguished it from the rest.
But because it was the title he had just finished watching. The title whose credits were still open in another tab of his laptop. The title that had pulled his last words out of him tonight — it could have been better than this — and apparently those words were what had woken this system up.
◆ SCHOOL 2015: WHO ARE YOU
Genre : Drama / Melodrama / Mystery
Status : AVAILABLE — PRIORITY
Level : ★★☆☆☆
Note : Entry point available. Cover identity ready.
Ha Joon stared at the word PRIORITY.
"You prepared this before I decided anything," he said quietly.
The system does not force you.
But the system knew you had already decided
long before tonight.
Every time you rewatched that drama,
every time you thought 'this should have been different' —
that wasn't just ordinary viewer frustration, Ha Joon.
That was someone who cared
about people he never expected
to be real.
The room was silent.
Ha Joon didn't answer right away.
He stared at the School 2015 poster on the screen. Stared at the face of a character who had only ever existed on the other side of a screen — and now this system was telling him there was a world where that character breathed, felt pain, and was still carrying things she should never have had to carry alone.
Something in his chest — something that hadn't moved like this in a long time — moved again.
Not because of the adventure. Not because of the abilities listed in the store.
But because for the first time in two years, something — or someone — was telling him that his caring wasn't pointless.
He moved his finger toward the School 2015 panel.
"What's my cover identity?" he asked.
Han Joon Seo.
New English teacher, 27 years old.
Starts Monday —
which in that world's timeline
is tomorrow morning.
All documentation has been prepared by the system.
Everyone at the school will recognize you
as a new colleague whose presence there is perfectly natural.
"I'm going in as a teacher."
A position that gives you access
to the entire school environment
without raising suspicion.
You can move freely,
interact with all characters,
and do what needs to be done.
Ha Joon nodded once. Slow. Certain.
Then he reached for his laptop, closed the School 2015 tab still open there — credits finished, a story he considered unfinished — and looked at the system interface still waiting for his decision.
"One last question," he said.
Ask.
"When can I go in?"
The screen glowed softly. One final line appeared — and Ha Joon could have sworn there was something in the way it materialized that felt almost like a smile.
Whenever you're ready.
But given that your cover identity begins tomorrow morning —
I'd suggest you sleep first, Ha Joon.
A teacher who shows up late on their first day
is not the impression we want to make.
Ha Joon stared at that line.
Then — before he could stop himself — a small laugh escaped his throat. Not a loud one. Just a short exhale through his nose that, for Ha Joon, was the equivalent of bursting out laughing.
"A system that cares about first impressions," he murmured, slowly closing his laptop. "Interesting."
He stood up from the floor with a lightness that felt unfamiliar — Ha Joon didn't notice it himself, but it had been a long time since he'd gotten up from that position without a heaviness in his chest.
The room was still dark. His apartment was still quiet. Nothing had physically changed from two hours ago.
But something had.
Ha Joon walked to his bedroom. Lay down on the bed and stared at the dark ceiling. His mind was still working — sorting, analyzing, planning — but this time with a clear direction.
School 2015. That world is real. There's someone there carrying things she should never have had to carry.
And tomorrow — I'm going in.
His eyes closed.
For the first time in a very long time, Kim Ha Joon fell asleep without needing a Korean drama playing in the background to keep him company.
~~~~~•