Theatrical Regression Life

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Lee Jaehun’s words, surprisingly, were genuine advice borne out of pure kindness.

For him, the inhabitants of this world were somewhat too soft. However, the otherworld had no such cushioned comfort, and what they wanted was for these young chicks to shed their fluff and become respectable adults.

‘Well, in my past life, memories weren’t considered very valuable.’

This was separate from Lee Jaehun valuing the human spirit.

While there were people who believed in the value of memories, they didn’t openly admit it. Explaining such values to others was quite embarrassing, akin to a dreamy idealist. Hence, memories were not naturally cherished. They didn’t suffer mental trauma from pain, nor did they celebrate birthdays. There were exceptions, but in those cases, the families were either harmonious or extraordinary. Naturally, Lee Jaehun’s family was not like that.

To Lee Jaehun, the values of the current world felt extremely awkward and frustrating.

‘It feels like being a grown man stuck in the midst of five-year-old kids playing pretend.’

He wanted to ask what on earth the adults were doing.

If his current family had been perfectly normal and ordinary, he might have compared it with common sense from his past life to find flaws, but that wasn’t the case. Neither the present nor past norms seemed to fit.

Hence, all of Lee Jaehun’s words were indeed pure advice.

‘I think I understand enough now.’

To summarize, it went something like this:

I get your intentions, but your concerns are quite uncomfortable for me. However, to live like humans, efficiency is necessary, isn’t it? I won’t force you, and I won’t die either, so don’t worry. Even if I do die, I’ll be useless anyway. How much could an old fogey like me worry you…

He genuinely thought so. Of course, for an ordinary person, the affection built up over time naturally led to worry and care, but Lee Jaehun’s mindset, shaped by survival-oriented knowledge from his past life, didn’t quite reach there. If this place hadn’t been an otherworld, he might have felt a bit uncomfortable, but Lee Jaehun, now adorned with survival-oriented common sense from his past life, found nothing strange about it.

Moreover, he explained things in a simple and straightforward manner, so he considered himself flawless.

“……”

But that didn’t necessarily align with the protagonist’s thoughts.

“It doesn’t seem poisonous, and the taste is alright. We can probably pick a few and go.”

“…Sure.”

“I’ll call the others then. Thank you for your work.”

His tone was very matter-of-fact.

As Lee Jaehun, limping, left his spot, Jung Inho maintained a mechanical smile as he approached a tree adorned with glass beads. His movements were neither fast nor slow.

And when his footsteps could no longer be heard, he calmly leaned his forehead against the trunk.

“…Ha.”

His head hurt.

A little, quite a lot.

—

Jung Inho didn’t like Director Lee Jaehun.

To be precise, he couldn’t, and there were various reasons, but the fundamental reason was the discomfort he felt around him. It was all the behaviors that made it seem like Director Lee Jaehun didn’t see them as fellow humans.

He was ethically twisted. He knew it himself, but Director Lee Jaehun seemed to have even more twisted thoughts than he knew. While it was hard to pinpoint examples, one thing was clear.

Director Lee Jaehun didn’t see people as people.

‘Efficiency.’

Only how to be efficient mattered to him.

Then he only looked at what role an individual could play in any given situation.

If it had only been to that extent, Jung Inho might not have rejected or denied Lee Jaehun. It was common for someone like Lee Jaehun, who was both a privileged parachute and a golden spoon, to look down on people as if they were bugs. If that were the case, Jung Inho might have felt more at ease dealing with him.

But Lee Jaehun was much harsher on himself.

‘He didn’t see himself as a person.’

Commonly put, he was inhuman. He didn’t seem human.

Lee Jaehun acted as if he didn’t have a name. He had never received proper affection, but wanted to appear normal, so he learned about life through books. There was an unmistakable sense of alienation in his every word and phrase.

It was like giving a toy rolled around by a child a personality. Or like dragging a game character into reality. He acted as if he existed solely to play a role, unable to hide his fatigue.

All of these actions gave Jung Inho a deep sense of discomfort.

‘Is he really human?’

It made him wonder to that extent.

“Let’s start by picking about ten of them.”

Muttering to himself, Jung Inho reached out and picked some fruit. The smooth texture could be felt through the fingerprints of his fingers.

His face faintly reflected on the glass-like shell of the fruit.

“How did he even know about this?”

Whenever he observed Lee Jaehun, he would sometimes think of the spider-legged monster he first saw at the company. Although it was different from Lee Jaehun, its long legs extended with murderous intent, making it hard to tell where its face was. Even knowing this, he couldn’t help but compare the two.

Lee Jaehun didn’t seem alive. But he was. He resembled a machine without emotions. But he wasn’t emotionless. He didn’t appear to fear anything, seeming extremely calm, yet he was always afraid of something. Despite all this, he seemed so accustomed to it that he didn’t feel the need to escape.

In the first place, what kind of human could adapt to pain?

‘Unless they’re a monster…’

“…Of course, Lee Jaehun isn’t a monster.”

He cared too much about others to be a monster.

Even when his shoulder was pierced, his arm ground, his leg melted, and there were cuts on his feet. Lee Jaehun used his familiarity with pain to save others.

But he didn’t cry or scream when he was in pain, scared, or struggling. It was as if such actions would devalue his existence. This kind of behavior didn’t resemble any human Jung Inho knew, and it left him feeling a low hum of confusion.

‘But Lee Jaehun definitely has emotions.’

He lived almost like he had a split personality, separating himself from his feelings, but he wasn’t devoid of emotions. Therefore, all of this alienation felt from Lee Jaehun likely stemmed from environmental rather than innate factors.

And the most likely environmental factor suspected was the Otherworld they now stood in.

‘There’s no other explanation for it, but still…’

Even so.

“……”

There were many things off about Lee Jaehun’s common sense.

“…It’s higher up than I thought.”

He gave up on the fruit he couldn’t reach and moved on. He planned to pick about three more.

Jung Inho recalled Lee Jaehun’s reaction when he criticized his insensitivity to danger. What expression did he make when Jung Inho said that one should not adapt to fear and pain?

What did he say?

‘…Is that how everyone is…?’

It was definitely a question.

And a doubt.

Lee Jaehun opened his eyes wide, as if he had never heard such a thing before. He spoke as if Jung Inho, who found fear and pain normal, was the strange one, as if he had come from a world where enduring fear and pain was common sense.

‘Moreover, his behavior, like experimenting on himself, is also strange.’

Jung Inho believed in the goodness of people but also knew their selfishness. Despite knowing so much about the Otherworld, he thought Lee Jaehun would be more accustomed to surviving by sacrificing others.

But from the beginning, Lee Jaehun sacrificed himself to ensure the safety of the group. He always took the lead when they left the office, stepped first into dangerous hallways, and volunteered for reconnaissance or tasks.

It was unclear whether his obsession with efficiency was a result of this mindset or a necessity for survival. However, Jung Inho’s subjective view of their relationship was not positive, despite the objective reality.

Jung Inho hated Lee Jaehun but also wondered:

“…From whom.”

Who taught him such absurd principles?

‘He couldn’t have come up with this on his own.’

It might seem like an exaggeration, but the thought wouldn’t leave his mind.

Lee Jaehun, as much as he hated to admit it, was incredibly smart and capable. A person so cunning wouldn’t degrade himself unnecessarily.

Even if Jung Inho or others spent the same amount of time in the Otherworld, they wouldn’t develop such twisted beliefs. They already had a sense of normality from the real world that couldn’t be easily forgotten. Even if they recognized Lee Jaehun’s way of thinking as more efficient, they wouldn’t forget their basic values.

Lee Jaehun must have had a small, young self once. It’s unclear how many times he visited this world, but in a blurred state of judgment, he might not have thought straight.

So, if someone older or a superior had instilled those values in him…

“……”

It seemed plausible.

But for this assumption to be true, Lee Jaehun must have been quite young back then.

At an age when he didn’t have firm values, still going to school, having meals with his parents, or relying on adult wisdom more than his own judgment.

“…I don’t know.”

Thinking about it made his head hurt.

‘If this is true… he was forced to sacrifice himself from a young age.’

Even though he had only known Lee Jaehun for a short time, the idea was hard to dismiss.

Even as a child, his talents and abilities wouldn’t have disappeared. He was inherently detached, so he might have seen his sacrifices as normal due to someone else’s words. Despite everything, Lee Jaehun had an unconscious desire to help others.

“Thinking of it that way…”

His strange values and obsession with efficiency made sense.

Adapting to fear and pain, feeling no anger about it, finding others’ worries burdensome, and using himself as a test subject. He was a rare type of person in modern times.

He also knew from textbooks that in extreme situations, humans could abandon their ethics. If it weren’t for Lee Jaehun, the group wouldn’t have been able to maintain a rational mindset.

Even now, the group wasn’t in great condition, but his presence made a significant difference.

‘If everyone who spent a long time in the Otherworld turned out like him, it wouldn’t make sense.’

Lee Jaehun seemed to bear all the damage that the group should have shared. He accepted pain and suffering as if it was natural for him to bear others’ burdens.

If everyone in the previous Otherworld had developed the same mindset, the situation wouldn’t be like this. Lee Jaehun wouldn’t have been the only one trying to shoulder everything. Instead, he would have expected others to share the burden equally.

“…So in the end, he thinks it’s natural for him to be in pain… but it’s wrong for others to suffer.”

That’s what it boiled down to.

It was hard to believe that the cunning Lee Jaehun came up with such nonsense on his own. Even if he had these ideas as a child, interacting with normal people should have straightened his thinking. Human relationships work that way.

With these thoughts, Jung Inho decided to stop thinking further.

“…There’s nothing I can do by thinking about it.”

His voice was quite cynical.

Even if he had such a past, what could he do for Lee Jaehun? Or could he offer any mental therapy or counseling?

Jung Inho couldn’t do any of that.

In the end, the current group owed their lives to Lee Jaehun. While it wasn’t comfortable to cling to him shamelessly, if he continued to sacrifice himself with his unique authoritarian attitude, what could Jung Inho and the others, in their position of debt, say to change his mindset?

“This should be enough.”

Jung Inho, who collected ten circles, looked at the fruit placed on the ground, leaning against a tree.

He had never shown emotions beyond annoyance or burden despite the group’s constant pestering. With Lee Jaehun’s sensitive and twisted personality, neither Jung Inho nor anyone else could fix him.

So, even though he felt instinctive sympathy, he had to hide it, and it was right not to poke at his twisted side. Especially for someone in a position where they received help from him.

In the end, Jung Inho disliked Lee Jaehun, but…

“Deputy Jung.”

“……”

“I brought the kids.”

“…Took a bit longer.”

“Got lost on the way.”

He didn’t want to share his unnecessary memories or pain, excluding knowledge.

Jung Inho glanced at Lee Jaehun’s limp leg and quickly averted his eyes, pretending not to notice. He moved away before the slow-moving Lee Jaehun arrived.

Lee Jaehun asked, “So, how many did you get?”

“…About ten for now. I’ll pick more if needed.”

“It seems like there’s plenty.”

“Uh… Can we pick these? They look like bulbs.”

“They look really pretty, though. Quite fascinating.”

Lee Jaehun, from a slightly higher position, took out a glass bead and said, “They taste pretty good too. Seems harmless.”

“…Did you taste them again?”

“…No, uh, I just smelled it and… thought it smelled nice.”

Another natural act began.

Suddenly, Jung Inho’s gaze fell on the scattered glass pieces on Lee Jaehun’s wrist.

“……”

Why don’t those wounds heal?

Watching Lee Jaehun, who consciously blurred the end of his words under Park Dahoon’s distorted gaze, Jung Inho put more force into the glass bead he was holding. The thin glass, like a sugar cookie, easily cracked under a little pressure. Perhaps only Jung Inho felt that way.

And then,

Crack.

“……”

A familiar cracking sound echoed.

“…Then, let’s move before sunset.”

He doesn’t expect much.

So, as long as he doesn’t suddenly die one day, it’s fine.

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