A Lie Has Turned Into Reality

Hot Potato

A nickname that feels more like my real name than the one I was born with: Kim Seong-woo.

The internet was my playground—a world where my fantasies could briefly take form, a refuge I sought whenever life felt dull and exhausting.

In that space, I could pretend to be anyone I wanted: someone with the financial means to buy anything, striking looks, and the mental strength forged from overcoming a tragic past. Wearing a mask, I indulged in the illusions I created for myself. Recognition and genuine, unbiased conversations became an addictive escape for someone like me—a recluse.

Sometimes, I even confused myself, wondering: which version of me is real?

“Not that it matters anymore,” I muttered to myself.

I glanced at the phone in my hand. My old, barely functional device had disappeared, replaced by a sleek, high-end smartphone I had no memory of buying. Strangely, all my previous data was intact.

It wasn’t just the phone—everything I had ever fantasized about had become real.

But I didn’t have enough information to make sense of it all.

After a brief moment of hesitation, I dialed the only person I could call a true friend. If anyone could help me figure this out, it would be them.

The ringing stopped, and their familiar voice came through the line.

“Oh, you’re the one calling me first? What’s the occasion?”

That’s just how they were—always cheerful, always dependable. Too good of a friend for someone like me.

Clearing my throat, I asked, “Got time?”

“Of course! You want me to come to your place, right?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at how well they knew me. “Yeah. Call me when you’re close.”

After hanging up, I turned my attention back to the phone, scrolling through the information I’d pieced together so far.

Every loan I had ever taken out had been wiped clean. My bank account, which had never held more than a few hundred thousand won, now held balances I couldn’t begin to fathom. Multiple accounts I’d never opened contained funds in the hundreds of billions.

“My parents passed away in a car accident, leaving behind an inheritance of 660 billion won.”

“After taxes and deductions, the net amount was around 320 billion.”

“I invested that money, and over time, it tripled.”

“Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof. Satisfied?”

Ah… It All Came Back to Me.

I remembered now.

I had spent days crafting that story, meticulously creating Photoshop images for “proof.” Since my parents had actually passed away in a car accident, that part of the narrative wasn’t difficult to authenticate.

And then, I used borrowed money to buy chicken for people, winning their favor in the process.

“After my parents died like that, I couldn’t function without medication.”

“The trauma wrecked me, and my social anxiety became so severe that all my relationships fell apart.”

“That’s why I’m stuck here, haunting the internet like some kind of ghost.”

When it came to pretending to be outgoing, I couldn’t even try. That part of my story had always been genuine.

Now, looking at everything that had changed, I couldn’t predict where it was all heading. But honestly, does it even matter? Whatever happens has to be better than the life I left behind.

Still, even after gaining everything I ever dreamed of, I couldn’t shake the nagging question: Do I really deserve this?

Even with everything in my grasp, I still felt myself tunneling into a mental pit. Seems like my personality didn’t get a makeover to match this new reality.

As I sifted through my thoughts, my phone rang.

“Hey! Get out here! I need you to scan the key so I can get in.”

“Oh… right. Haha, sorry. I’ll be right there.”

This house—or mansion, or whatever it was—was so massive I still couldn’t figure out where everything was. I stumbled out of my room, still disoriented, and finally made my way to the front door. The hallway leading there was absurdly long and decorated like a luxury hotel lobby.

The elevator only went up to the 15th floor. From there, I realized I had to transfer to another private elevator, likely for added security. I followed the directions given by the staff on the 15th floor and eventually reached the residents-only elevator.

When I finally stepped out onto the ground floor, I found myself momentarily mesmerized by the grand, vintage-inspired design of the apartment entrance. Beyond the lavish decor, I spotted my friend waving at me enthusiastically.

“Hey! What took you so long?”

“Sorry, I got turned around trying to find the key card.”

“You? Struggling with something like that? This is new. What’s going on? You even called me first. Did the world turn upside down?”

“Let’s go inside first.”

He tilted his head, puzzled by my unusual behavior, but didn’t press further. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at him. Something felt off—different.

“Did you… get plastic surgery?”

“What? Plastic surgery? Are you telling me I should’ve?”

“No, I mean… this is your real face, right?”

“…Should I be offended right now?”

His incredulous expression was clear, but I kept staring, unable to stop myself. His face, once marred by asymmetry, acne scars, and baby fat, was now flawless. Clear, smooth skin. Perfectly symmetrical features. A sharp jawline and striking eyes.