Chapter 1: The Assassin’s Comfort
The reincarnation subgenre is a strange addiction. There is something undeniably cathartic about a strong female lead tearing through a corrupt high society, surrounded by men who are as dangerous as they are breathtaking.
My sister is the architect of those worlds. She’s a writer—a famous one, actually. I still don’t quite know when her childhood hobby transformed into a career that keeps our household running, but she lives for her characters. She pours so much empathy into them that she usually ends up making the readers weep for the villains. That’s her trademark: she finds the humanity in everyone.
But lately, the publishing house hasn’t been kind. The industry is a shark tank, and they’ve been hounding her about “repetitive tropes.” Honestly, I think she does a brilliant job of spinning the clichés into something fresh, but the executives had a different bone to pick: her villains aren’t “evil enough.” They want blood and malice; she gives them tragic backstories and nuance. Yesterday, they finally tore into her.
I stood in the doorway of our modest living room, watching her. She looked utterly defeated, a stark contrast to the fierce heroines she creates.
I’m not exactly the “world’s best brother.” Most of our days are spent in a cycle of bickering and mutual mockery—it’s the sibling code. But seeing her like this, slumped on the sofa with her legs tucked against her chest, made the urge to tease vanish. For once, I actually wanted to be the one to offer comfort.
“Sis?” I started, my voice sounding more tentative than I intended. “You know… it’s not that bad. At least they didn’t kick you out of the company, right? You can just… get back up.”
She turned to look at me, her eyes puffed and red from a night of crying. The afternoon light filtered through the window, catching the messy tangles of her dark hair. Even in her state of disarray—hair pulled back haphazardly after her office ordeal—she looked unfairly ethereal. It’s a good thing she’s a shut-in writer; if she spent more time outside, I’d be fighting off suitors every other day.
“I… I’m working on a new story,” she murmured, her voice thick. “And they called it boring again. I’ll probably have to scrap the whole thing.”
“Listen,” I said, stepping into the room. “I heard you crying on the phone before you even got home, and you’re still at it. So… I made a lavish dinner. I’m working from home until my next gig, so I can handle the chores. We can even get a maid later so you can focus. This is a one-time-only ‘Nice Brother’ deal, okay? I’ll even read your draft. I’ll give you constructive criticism—tell you exactly what works and what doesn’t.”
I paused, the silence stretching between us as I tried to find the right words. I felt the heat rising in my neck.
“So… well… you know…” I stammered. “Stop.”
She blinked at me, confused. “Stop what?”
“Just… ahh… stop crying,” I finally managed to blurt out.
Her eyes began to shine—not with fresh tears, but with that dreaded sisterly amusement. I knew I’d regret this. She was going to hold this “soft moment” over my head for the next twenty years.
“You’re being so sweet all of a sudden,” she said, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. “But you’re still practical. People who don’t know you wouldn’t realize how much you care, because finding logical solutions to my problems is just your way of showing it.”
“Y-yes… whatever,” I muttered, blushing furiously and looking at the floorboards.
She stood up, the heavy atmosphere finally beginning to lift. “So, what’s on the menu?”
I was relieved she didn’t push the teasing further. “Galbitang.”
“Oh my goodness, really? I’m starving!”
We set the dining table together as the clock struck 7:00 PM. The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, clean aroma of the short rib soup. I’d chosen it specifically; the broth was light and nourishing, the kind of comfort food that settles the nerves. I’d even prepared a fresh batch of kimchi on the side.
She didn’t just eat; she practically inhaled it. I waited until she had finished a good portion of the bowl before speaking again.
“So… do you want to go into the details?”
She sighed, setting her spoon down for a moment. “My boss has been defending me for a month, but the CEO finally lost it. Readers are dropping my serials because they say the style is repetitive. The reincarnation department is under a lot of pressure to get the ‘Royal’ aesthetics and politics perfect, and they claim my work isn’t cutting it. They aren’t cutting my pay, but they’ve forced me onto a hiatus. They told me to take a break and put the latest story on hold.”
I felt a surge of cold irritation. “Who said your work amounts to nothing?”
“I did,” she whispered. “Because of how they’re treating this new project. Four chapters are out, and the webtoon adaptation was already moving at peak speed because of my past hits… then suddenly, they tell me to stop. Right when I know this story is going to be different.”
I stared at her, my expression hardening. The protective instinct I usually kept buried under sarcasm flared up.
“Quit the company,” I said firmly. “Write the story yourself. I’ll help you. Or… should I just kill the people at the office for you?”
She choked on her soup, her eyes widening. “EHH!? Are you crazy?! Just because you’re an assassin doesn’t mean you can just kill anyone who hurts my feelings!?”
“They hurt you,” I countered, my voice flat and sincere. “They deserve to die.”
“I give up!” she groaned, throwing her hands in the air, though the ghost of a laugh was finally back in her voice. “Arghhh!”
