#000. Prologue
Games are monsters.
They greedily devour the player’s time and money like a magic that drains life itself — yet sometimes, they exude a charm so powerful that they make players want to become the very people who create them.
“If playing is this fun, then making one must be even more fun.”
The glamorous trailers for games that cost billions of won and took hundreds of developers to make never show the blood and tears of those who built them.
They merely whisper to eager young dreamers:
“Join us. Become part of a team that makes something this amazing.”
But soon enough, those dreamers learn the truth — that game development is anything but romantic.
Overtime and all-nighters are standard, salaries are often delayed, and years of effort can be scrapped at a single word from management or a fickle executive.
Sure, a tiny few stand in the spotlight — like Shigeru Miyamoto, father of Mario and Zelda — making the games they love and tasting the sweet fruits of success.
But that’s exactly what keeps the rest of the industry hooked — a cruel hope that kills them slowly.
“Once this project is done, I’ll give you your chance.”
“Next time, you’ll make the game you’ve always wanted to.”
Developers are the kind of fools who know they’re being lied to, but keep believing anyway.
And in one small, hellish company in Kuro — the so-called Mecca of overwork — there were two such fools who’d been enduring that same false hope for fifteen long years.
Under a single flickering fluorescent light — left on to “save electricity” — the silence of the office was broken only by the clatter of keyboards.
Two developers, faces hollowed by dark circles, were buried in their work.
The first to break the silence was Sang-hyuk, a 40-year-old planner and 15-year veteran of the industry.
Staring at his monitor with hopeless eyes, he sighed.
“Ah, fuck this. I can’t take it anymore.”
Across from him, Park Min-jun, the programmer, didn’t even flinch. He was used to it.
“What’s wrong this time? Like it’s ever been good?”
“No, this time it’s triple fucked.”
Usually, Sang-hyuk said “double fucked.”
So Min-jun, curious, walked over to look at his screen.
On it were half-finished, sloppy design documents — some missing entirely, as if someone had deleted them on purpose.
“How about your side?”
“The server’s a mess. I’ll have to rebuild everything. Most calculations run client-side — anyone with a cheat editor could break the game in minutes.”
“So, fucked on both ends.”
They’d been tricked by their CEO’s promise — “Finish this project, and I’ll let you lead your own team.”
Now, they were stuck fixing years of someone else’s garbage.
“You look terrible, man. You okay?”
“I’m fine… probably.”
“You need a hospital.”
“How? This is my third straight all-nighter.”
Empty energy drink cans littered the desk. Min-jun grabbed one with a bit left and drank it down.
Then, suddenly—
He staggered.
“Min-jun! You okay?!”
“Just dizzy… I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath grew short, and his vision blurred.
And then— he collapsed.
“Hey! What the hell!? Min-jun! Park Min-jun!!!”
Sang-hyuk shouted, rushing over. But before he could call 119, his phone slipped from his trembling hand.
He too crumpled to the floor.
“S-Sang-hyuk…?”
“M-Min-jun…”
The two lay on the cold floor, gasping out each other’s names with dying voices.
Min-jun thought, ‘So this is it, huh?’
Fifteen years since he met Sang-hyuk in high school.
Fifteen years since they’d dreamed of making games together.
Fifteen years of exploitation — ending here, like this.
‘Why did I ever decide to become a programmer?’
With his fading vision, Min-jun saw his friend crying — crawling toward him.
But Min-jun used his last strength to grab Sang-hyuk by the collar.
“Y-you… bastard… You’re the one who dragged me into this…”
Sang-hyuk understood instantly.
“I… I’m sorry…”
Their breaths grew shallow.
‘Guess this’ll make the news… not as developers, but as overwork victims.’
His final thoughts were simple.
Regret.
Resentment for this cursed industry.
A desperate wish for one more chance —
to go back before he ever said “yes” to Sang-hyuk’s invitation.
“If I could live again, I’d never code. Never.”
And with that, the two friends — a planner and a programmer — died side by side in a shabby Kuro office.
Or so they thought.
Until an old digital alarm clock beeped softly in Min-jun’s ears.
He opened his eyes.
The room was small. Old. Familiar.
A yellowed wallpaper, a string-pull fluorescent light, a wooden desk from his school days.
“This… this is my room?”
His eyes darted to the wall calendar.
“Nineteen… ninety-eight!?”
It hit him.
He’d gone back. Twenty-five years.
Back to when he first met Sang-hyuk.
Back to when he’d made the worst decision of his life.
“I’ve… really gone back.”
Min-jun clenched his fists.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but one thing’s for sure—”
“I’m never coding again!”
He gathered all his programming books, tied them up, and tossed them in a recycling bin on the way to school.
No more burnout. No more overwork. No more death by code.
At least, that was the plan—
until Sang-hyuk, looking just as young and fresh-faced as he remembered, appeared in front of him.
With a wide grin, he slammed a thick programming textbook onto Min-jun’s desk.
“Hey, Min-jun!”
“…Hey?”
“I’ve been thinking— You’ve got a talent for coding! Actually, no— you have to learn to code! Wanna give it a try!?”
Min-jun froze.
‘How the hell does he know I was studying programming? I never told him that!’
A terrifying thought crossed his mind.
And from Sang-hyuk’s shocked expression, he realized—
they were thinking the exact same thing.
“Wait… don’t tell me—”
“You too—?”
“You time-traveled too?!”
“You time-traveled too?!”
And so, fate — or perhaps a cruel joke from the gods —
sent the two overworked developers who died together in Kuro
back twenty-five years into the past.
Armed with all their memories,
the veteran planner Lee Sang-hyuk and the jaded programmer Park Min-jun
returned to 1998 — the dawn of Korea’s gaming boom —
ready (or not)
to begin their second lives in game development.
