The Comic Book Room
My life was a wreck.
The factory I'd started with such ambition had left behind nothing but a mountain of debt—the result of skyrocketing raw material prices colliding head-on with an economic slump.
“Haah... Still, I had to pull myself together. I had a family, after all.”
But the misfortune didn't end there.
Seven years into our marriage, my wife delivered the news in a flat, unbothered voice.
“Let's... end this.”
The reason was simple.
“There's someone else.”
Our relationship had gone cold, like leftover rice sitting on the dinner table.
I slowly set down my spoon.
“How long has it been going on?”
“About six months now.”
“With who?”
“A new hire at my company.”
Then she turned on me, her voice sharpening as though I were the one at fault.
“You were always buried in your work—when did you ever spare a thought for me? Last month was our wedding anniversary. You didn't even remember, did you? Do you have any idea how lonely I've been all this time?”
I didn't even have the energy left to fight. I just murmured at my empty glass, “Fine... let's do that. I'll give you the divorce.”
When it came down to it, I felt neither heartbroken nor even surprised. Truth be told, I'd been sensing it in some corner of my heart for a long time. It had been ages since we'd exchanged anything beyond perfunct small talk morning and night, and I couldn't even remember the last time we'd slept together.
Had I put off having children because some part of me had known a day like this would come? Looking back now, that was almost a blessing.
I turned off my phone and shut myself away at home. Day after day I drained bottles of soju as the hours slipped by, falling asleep drunk and waking up hungover, the days blurring into one another.
Then, one day, I opened my eyes to a hangover that felt like my skull was splitting.
The living room was a war zone. The wreckage of uneaten food and dozens of empty soju bottles lay piled up like grotesque monuments.
“Ugh... when did all of this pile up? How much did I even drink yesterday...?”
As I gathered up the trash with a grimace, I absently powered on my phone. Thousands of messages and missed calls came flooding in with a buzz of vibrations—and then the date at the top of the screen caught my eye.
Already... Chuseok is just around the corner.
A dull unease settled over me. My gaze drifted toward the veranda, where the coal briquettes and tape I'd stockpiled in advance were sitting, and I stared at them blankly. Then, unbidden, my mother's face rose in my mind.
That's right... if I was going to go, I should at least go see them first...
I started the car. The road home felt familiar beneath my hands.
It's been almost five years, hasn't it.
My hometown was a small country village, hardly more than a township. Passing through streets steeped in nostalgia, I arrived at my parents' house, where my mother greeted me with a face carved by wrinkles I'd never seen before.
“Welcome home, son.”
Then, with a bright smile, she asked, “By the way, where's Hyeseon?”
My heart plummeted. I still hadn't told my mother about the divorce.
“Ah—she said something urgent came up at work. She probably won't be able to make it home for the holidays.”
My voice trembled slightly as I lied.
“Is that so? Work must be keeping her busy. Anyway, son—are you hungry? I've already tidied up your room, so just wait a little while, all right?”
Evening came. After finishing a meal with my parents for the first time in ages, I stepped outside. I'd just put a cigarette between my lips to settle my stomach when my phone rang.
Ping.
Guys, I don't think I can make it. Sorry, everyone.
Same here—this holiday's looking impossible for me too.
Me too.
Next time, for sure.
The long-overdue reunion with my childhood friends—the ones I'd known since before we were out of diapers—had fallen through, too. Everyone was busy living their own lives.
I trudged back down the hometown streets, a cool autumn wind sweeping over the roadside.
Walking through the countryside after so long... there's a certain charm to it.
Just then, a familiar sign came into view—faded lettering worn by the passage of the years.
— Happy Comic Book Room —
“Wow... so that place is still around.”
It was the shop I'd lazed around in endlessly as a kid. Memories of middle school came flooding back—trudging home with my schoolbag, always finding an excuse to stop by. As if in a trance, I pushed open the door.
Ding-dong. The chime of the old doorbell dredged the past up out of hiding, and there at the counter sat an elderly woman.
“Welcome.”
The moment I saw her face, memories came rushing back like a tide.
“Hello. I... used to come here all the time back in middle school. Do you remember me?”
The old woman studied my face for a moment, then broke into a radiant smile. “Aigoo, is that so? One look at that handsome face and I think I do remember... hoho. You've grown so much.”
Her kindly smile, unchanged by all the years that had passed, warmed my heart. I turned toward the shelves, where old, well-thumbed comic books were packed in tight rows.
Reading down the titles one by one, I kept finding names I knew. But the one that seized my attention was a comic called War of the Throne.
A fantasy about the good-for-nothing scion of a collapsing house who regresses to his childhood and rebuilds his family's fallen name.
The comic my friends and I used to sneak around reading at the study room, instead of the studying we were supposed to be doing...
I plopped all twenty-four volumes onto the counter at once. “I'll take these.”
The glow of an ancient CRT monitor reflected off the woman's magnifying glasses.
Clack, clack.
She punched up the rental program with a two-fingered hunt-and-peck—and before long, that kindly smile settled on her lips.
“Young man... it says here you've got 30,000 won in unpaid late fees?”
I lay back on the bed in my little booth and spread a comic open. It was one I must have read who knows how many times as a kid, yet rereading it now felt brand new.
God, this is fun. THIS is what a masterpiece looks like.
With every page I turned, memories stirred back to life alongside the story. Even knowing every plot beat by heart, my heart raced as hard as it had on my first read. Now, in my mid-thirties, I found entirely new layers in it—new meaning even in scenes I'd once flipped past without a second thought.
Above all, reading it through the eyes of an engineer who had run his own CNC factory, I kept spotting elements that could be turned to economic advantage.
If the protagonist had developed that ore vein in the mountain behind his estate, House Stark could have become the kings of the North.
By the time I checked the clock, midnight had crept past without my noticing.
“Haahm...”
A yawn escaped me, but the comic's addictive pull refused to let me go.
Just this one more volume. Then I'll sleep.
My hand slowed as it turned the pages. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier. With my face buried in the comic book, I slipped into sleep as my consciousness faded.
Chirp. Chirp.
Clear, crystalline birdsong tickled my ears awake. I opened my eyes slowly, feeling refreshed for the first time in ages.
Must be because I slept at my parents' place... I really slept deep.
But the cabinet that swam into view through my half-open eyes was utterly unfamiliar—finely carved wooden ornamentation, an antique design fitted with brass handles.
“...Huh?”
I shot upright. Even the feel of the bedding against my fingertips was different. A softness like silk.
“Where... am I?”
I murmured under my breath, scanning my surroundings. An unfamiliar space—no, beyond merely unfamiliar, it was a space that felt strangely, fundamentally alien. Stone walls, heavy curtains, candelabras and a fireplace. It felt as though I were standing inside a medieval castle rather than the modern world.
And when my gaze finally landed on the full-length mirror at the side of the room, I sucked in a breath.
“Hrk! What the—this is insane!”
Brown hair, thick dark brows, a straight nose, skin young and taut. Standing in the mirror wasn't me—it was a beautiful young lord.
“Who... who the hell are you?”
Just then—
Knock, knock, knock.
“Young Master, it's Emma. May I come in?”
A tender, gentle woman's voice drifted in from beyond the door.
Young Master? What kind of bullshit is that?
My mind whirred into overdrive. A medieval-style room. The address 'Young Master.' And the name 'Emma.' Piece by piece, the clues assembled into a single, shocking conclusion.
...Good lord! Don't tell me... I'm inside the comic book?
There in the mirror, a face identical to the comic character I'd read last night was frozen in an expression of sheer disbelief.
I've possessed the body of the protagonist of War of the Throne?
A cliché I'd only ever seen in web novels was playing out for real, and I stood there dumbstruck.
...Was this a dream?
I pinched my arm.
“Ow!”
It hurt. So this wasn't a hallucination, either.
But while I floundered in confusion, the woman outside knocked again, pressing me.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Young Master...? Are you all right?”
Worry was soaked into her voice.
“Uh... yeah, come in.”
The door swung open slowly—and the instant I saw the woman stepping through it, I drew in another sharp breath.
“Gahk—!”
Her beauty was beyond anything I had imagined. Skin so white it seemed to glow from within, long and thick lashes—and a sensual silhouette on full display. Her figure was so voluptuous that her maid's uniform looked a size too small.
Emma was a character this gorgeous?
The beauty of a character who'd been nothing more than a passing extra in the comic was now breathing right before my eyes.
“Young Master, are you all right? You look pale.”
Her dewy, honey-sweet voice tickled my ear.
