Death by Overwork, Rebirth in 1978
In the corner of the workshop, where overwork claimed yet another soul, a dust-covered monitor flickered with footage of the old director—hailed as the living legend of animation—at his award ceremony. Each time he hoisted the trophy under the dazzling spotlights, my pen nib clawed more frantically across the key animation paper.
I'm the better artist!
His drawings weren't bad. Far from it—they were brilliant, by any measure. But that was by the standards of thirty years ago. The collapsing space colony I was rendering now, with every fragment's trajectory, the armor plates warping from the heat, and all the dynamic flourishes—that had long surpassed anything that old man could dream of.
Damn it.
I glanced back at the key animation sheets in progress. This was for a major new mecha series from a renowned Tokyo studio, the quarter's most anticipated release. Specifically, the space colony destruction scene in episode three, which I was handling solo. No one else could capture the steel frames, panel lines, armor thickness, or the way it bent under blast radii with such precision—and this sequence brooked no compromise. Deadline was tomorrow morning. A stack of finished sheets towered on my desk. If I pushed, I could make it. That's when the animation director, who'd snuck up behind me, clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"Still at it?"
"Just tweaking the explosion density a bit more."
He flipped through a few sheets, then grunted shortly.
"Overkill."
"...Pardon?"
"I told you not to obsess over quality."
He slapped the sheets down.
"Deadline's breathing down our necks. You're causing trouble. Just match what the others did—good enough."
Silence fell. I eyed the monitor in the corner again. The old director clutched his trophy, savoring the afterglow as he spoke into the mic about his acceptance speech.
Noticing my gaze, the director sighed.
"This isn't your work."
He turned to leave.
"If you want that animation award, make your own project."
He paused at the door, adding one last jab.
"Folding bed in the warehouse is free."
I set down the paper and headed to the warehouse, cracking the door open. The fluorescent light flickered, half-dead. I unfolded the cot against the wall. The metal frame rattled. Just thirty minutes. Creeeak. As my exhausted body sank onto it, the rusty frame groaned under my weight. The air was stale, thick with mildew and disinfectant that clawed into my lungs. I fiddled with my smartphone, then closed my eyes—but the spotlights from that ceremony lingered as an afterimage, pulsing behind my lids. The old director's kindly smile. The trophy's sleek curves. He was called a genius only because of the era's luck. Crude direction from thirty years back, abysmal frame rates. To think he earned master status with density not even a third of my collapse scene.
He wasn't superior—he was just born earlier.
Fuck.
Acknowledging my envy gnawing at me like inferiority, acid reflux burned up my throat. When did I last eat? My eyes drifted shut as a dull ache throbbed deep in my chest. Breath caught. Panic rising, I fumbled for my phone, but my hand wouldn't obey. Death's certainty brought regrets.
If only I'd been born sooner...
My heart pounded once. Thump. Again. Then nothing.
Hours later, a junior arriving for work cracked open the warehouse door.
"Senior? Still sleeping?"
No reply. He shook my shoulder. Ice-cold. From outside, the director's voice barked.
"He still in there? Hurry up and pass the cuts."
The junior's face hardened.
"Director... hold on."
A beat of silence.
"...No way."
The studio fell quiet. On the desk, the unfinished colony collapse cuts were nearly complete. The mecha's eye-catching design, its textures and details, debris acceleration varying by size, dust cloud density, even the subtle particles seeded between frames. Worlds apart from that master's flat explosions—a truly overwhelming display of key animation.
But its creator never rose again.
I opened my eyes. A ceiling stared back. White—or rather, yellowed white. The fluorescent cover was cracked halfway, water stains spiderwebbed the corners. ...A hospital? My stalled thoughts rebooted sluggishly. I'd closed my eyes in the company warehouse.
Then the door burst open.
"Kyung-ho! Kyung-ho, you're awake?"
A familiar voice. My ears reacted before my eyes could focus. I turned my head, and a woman rushed to my bedside, gripping my hand tight.
Mom.
But not the mom I knew.
"Wha...?"
The door flew open again.
"Honey! He's awake! Honey!"
The man who followed made my heart lurch. Dad. The young version from funeral photos or faint childhood memories.
Reality clashed with memory, spawning vertigo like a warped timeline.
"Where... am I? Why is Mom so... young?"
My throat was parched. My voice rasped out hoarse.
Mom burst into tears instead of answering. Dad glowered down with his signature furrowed brow.
"Tumbling down the stairs and now talking nonsense. Young? Who's young?"
Dad was the same as ever. Irritation over worry, eyes that pushed people away. Right, that's him. Trembling, I reached to touch Mom's face. Her skin felt vividly real. Not a dream. I scanned the room. Wall calendar, crudely printed notices, Korean hospital nameplate under the TV. And the calendar.
[January 1978]
Numbers from long before I even existed glared back. I was born in 1994, for sure.
"That calendar... why's it so old?"
The rasp escaped again. Mom followed my gaze and shrugged it off.
"Yeah, it's already February, but still on January. Kyung-ho, is that what matters right now?"
My heart thumped hard. She didn't mean it was worn—it just hadn't been flipped. Those numbers were now.
"No, wait... it's really 1978? How old am I?"
My lips quivered. Mom glanced back at Dad, flustered.
"Honey! Look at him. He's saying weird stuff. Kyung-ho, you're in your senior year! So yeah, 1978!"
"Tumbled that hard and messed up your brain? Snap out of it, kid."
Dad unchanged—furrowed brow, tongue click.
Looks like I'm a high school senior again.
"Honey, what're you saying to him now! Doctor! Come here, please!"
Mom's shout brought hurried footsteps and dress shoes from the hall. That's when it hit me why the hospital felt off. Not old—just the era's norm. My mind raced.
Moments later, a doctor in a white coat flipped my chart, shining a penlight in my eyes.
"Looks like temporary memory confusion from the shock. No knee reflex means we need detailed nerve checks on the legs."
"Detailed checks? Doctor, what do you mean? Something wrong with his legs?"
Mom's voice shook. The doctor hesitated, flipping pages.
"Spinal impact might be deeper than expected. We'll need scans, but for now, can't rule out lower-body paralysis."
Paralysis. The word slammed home. Instinctively, I focused on my legs under the blanket. Curl the toes. ...Nothing. Again. Tense the thighs. The command fired, but sensation below the waist felt alien, muscles inert—not a millimeter's twitch. A severed wire between brain and body.
Impossible.
My head spun. In my memories, I was born 1994, walked fine for twenty years. No stair fall, no disability. Yet here I was in 1978, crippled from a tumble. Past and present clashed violently.
"Aigoo, Kyung-ho... what happened to you..."
Mom clutched my hand, sobbing. Her palms were rough—lifetimes of dishes and chores. Dad asked the doctor,
"That... rehab stuff—does it cost a lot?"
For the family breadwinner, practicality trumped pity. Hearing the price, his brow creased deeper. That sigh mixed paternal sorrow with the burden ahead.
"Haa..."
Dad exhaled and stared out the window. Beyond the weathered frame: 1978 Seoul.
After they left, the old brown-tube TV on the shelf hissed to life. A robot cartoon—later hailed a Korean animation classic—played. Frame rate maybe eight per second? Inconsistent character designs crumbling mid-motion. Jarring tween gaps. From a future view, laughable labor, not pro-level.
Trash. I could do better solo...
A shiver raced down my neck, trembling through me.
The future award ceremony overlapped in my mind. That old director basking as a master under spotlights. His legendary works stemmed from this crude era.
But now...
Now I'm on the same starting line.
Adrenaline surged like an explosion. Even lower-body paralysis couldn't dim the thrill.
Legs not working? Barely mattered. When had I ever walked that much anyway?
I had industry-acclaimed hands, directing techniques honed across generations, perspective and lighting effects decades away, muscle-flow segmentation theory. All that future tech burned fresh in my memory.
1978.
A blank key animation sheet, untouched. I'd set the era's standard—my lines becoming history.
Why I regressed, why born earlier? No clue. But—
This time, I'll prove it.