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I. When I Swapped Bodies With That Friend

Chapter 1

The university district at noon was bustling, full of young people’s energy and dreams for the future. The alley in front of Versina University, known as the top school in the country, was especially packed with students spilling out to grab lunch.

Tired of the cheap, painfully average cafeteria food, Versina’s students noisily poured into all the spots on the so-called foodie map.

“Mm… no, no. I’m doing really well, I promise. You two are okay, right?”

In the kitchen of a bakery that proudly held a spot on the Versina foodie map, a small woman shook her head as she dropped the last bagel dough into a bubbling pot. She hoped the smile on her flour-dusted face hid the exhaustion she always carried.

“Olga, Maria, at least you two have each other. You’re twin sisters. Look out for each other, okay? I’m… I’m really sorry I can’t visit more often.”

On the surface of the simmering water, two young brown-haired girls waved their hands. Their smiles were as bright as their identical faces. Seeing them like that, the struggling older sister felt relieved but also a little heartbroken.

Living under their harsh great-aunt couldn’t be easy, but those mature faces showed not a single complaint. Kids forced to grow up too fast.

‘We’re fine, Milana! Don’t worry about us. Like you said, we’ve got each other, so it’s way easier. Honestly… we’re more worried about you. You’re all alone. The Magic Department workload is insane, and on top of that, you’re working part-time and sending money to our great-aunt… You’re really okay, right?’

“Of course. I’m doing great. Nothing to worry about.”

Her eyes suddenly burned. Milana Ven, bakery worker, blinked back the moisture as she scooped a bagel out of the boiling water.

Small ripples spread across the surface where her sisters’ faces floated. Pretending to focus on work, she swirled the water with her tongs, making a little whirlpool.

That way, the water on their end would blur too, and they wouldn’t catch the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Milana! The oven’s ready! Bring the bagels over once they’re done boiling!”

“Coming!”

Milana scooped out the rest of the dough from the pot.

“Girls, I have to go. Enjoy your lunch, okay?”

She hurriedly gathered the steaming white dough and cut off the magic. From the other side of the image, she heard small voices chirping “I love you.” She answered “Me too,” but wasn’t sure if they heard. Another deposit into her growing pile of guilt over her sisters.

“M-Mrs. Kim! Heading out now!”

Her small frame hoisted the heavy dough tray with ease. Serving, dishwashing, working the register… hardened by endless experience, Milana was a scrappy part-time work veteran who lived by the motto “skill beats strength” more effectively than anyone.

‘Class is at 1:30, so bake the bagels, wrap up the morning bread, and then…’

Her small body trotted off toward the back of the kitchen, calculating her schedule. The brown hair tied up in a ribbon swayed like butterfly wings along with her apron strings.

At the same moment, two men in suits who had been wolfing down sandwiches at a table looked up. One was bear-sized with a scruffy beard. The one across from him was a pretty-faced man with finer features, but the prominent knife scar across his cheek made him far from approachable.

The scarred one pulled his black fedora lower and asked.

“…You got them?”

“Yeah. Got them good.”

This is good— the big one stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his huge mouth, cheeks bulging.

“F**k, that’s disgusting. Don’t talk with food in your mouth, you asshole.”

“You asked first, you bastard.”

Their bickering quickly died down. This wasn’t the time for it. If they came back with shoddy results, their little boss with that legendary temper would not let it slide.

They glanced around and reached inside their coats. The people who’d been sneaking looks at the two shady men in black from head to toe quickly snapped their heads back after catching a glare from those menacing faces.

Careful whispers of “mafia…” “gangsters…” broke out here and there.

Once they were sure no more eyes were on them, the two men placed a small stack of paper on the table with satisfaction. Small rectangles the size of a palm—hundreds of Polaroid photos. The fan of images all shared the same subject: one woman.

The scarred man tapped the top photo with his index finger and frowned. One of the shots the big guy had taken.

“Let’s tear this one up. If we bring this back, it won’t go over well.”

“Why this one?”

The scarred man shot a disdainful look at his partner, who was now stuffing a giant donut into his mouth, apparently still hungry after just one sandwich.

“She’s in it with a guy.”

“That guy’s just a customer buying bread.”

“You think I don’t know that? The little boss knows it too. But take it out anyway.”

Knowing something and being pissed off about it are two different things.

The scarred man had held onto this cushy gig—”stalking the little boss’s crush”—for years through sheer sharp instincts, so the big guy nodded. Not that he fully understood. ‘And that’s why you’ll die alone, you idiot.’ He bristled at his partner’s obnoxious scolding but casually tore up the photo in question. Gathering the shredded pieces into his pocket, he thought:

‘If listening to this bastard means I get to keep this cushy job, maybe it’s not so bad.’

And so they combed through the photos, reviewing the morning’s work. From 7 a.m. to 1 p.m., total count: 323. Not too many, not too few. An average haul.

But just then, they spotted Milana letting her hair down, her apron already off, saying goodbye to the owner.

“Oh! She’s leaving!”

“Go!”