Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Getting out of the hospital, Park was greeted by the heavenly beauty of a city that howled and glittered at the same time; subtlety was always for cheaper neighborhoods and people who couldn’t afford dramatic lighting.

The doors slid open with a soft mechanical sigh, spitting him out of the warm disinfected belly of the hospital into a night so bright it felt straight-up staged. The city stretched out under a clean black sky, alive with glass towers, wet roads, neon signs, passing headlights, and businesses that clearly didn’t believe in sleep.

Wind moved between the buildings with a sharp little bite, messing up his hair and slipping under the loose hospital gown beneath the thermal blanket someone had thrown over him. Reminder that reincarnation, transmigration, resurrection, or whatever ridiculous category this disaster belonged to, did not come with weather immunity.

’Rude. But useful to know.’

The hospital itself rose behind him like a private fortress for rich people’s illnesses. Ambulances idled near the emergency entrance, their lights painting red and blue across the pavement. Nurses hurried in and out with dead-eyed efficiency. Somewhere near the curb, a woman in a fur-trimmed coat argued into her phone while crying in a way that still somehow protected her mascara. A businessman stood under the awning smoking.

The city carried on around them all — loud, bright, shameless; all perfume and exhaust, money and noise.

All strangers passing each other with entire tragedies tucked behind their coats.

Park stood there for a moment and just breathed it in.

Cold air. Car fumes. Rain-damp concrete. Distant food carts. Hospital antiseptic still clinging to his skin.

’My new life. Messy, ridiculous, overpriced life.’

He smiled despite himself.

The wind slapped the blanket against his thigh and he remembered he was still standing outside a giant hospital dressed like a runaway patient in a medical drama that had lost its budget halfway through wardrobe.

"Right," he muttered. "Romantic moment over. Back to reality, main character."

He stepped away from the entrance and entered the open compound parking lot, which spread wide under harsh white lights.

The place was huge with rows upon rows of vehicles sat between painted lines: glossy sedans, tinted SUVs, a few family vans, and one luxury coupe parked like its owner had never been told "no" by anyone in their entire life.

Park scanned the lot and tried to dig through the memories sitting in his head like someone else’s badly organized storage unit.

There was supposed to be a vehicle.

The memory gave him vague flashes of what his car was supposed to be like — black paint, sliding doors, agency use, leather seats, maybe a snack bag, definitely not enough clarity to be useful. Very generous of the dead boy’s brain, really.

Park turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

’Black SUV? No. Black van? Possibly. Black sedan? Please no.’

After another few seconds of hopeless searching, his confidence collapsed with zero dignity.

He sighed.

"Fine."

He pulled the key fob from his hand and pressed the button.

A beep answered from somewhere ahead.

Park turned toward the sound with the tired triumph. The headlights of a black Toyota Alphard blinked once between two other cars, sleek and quiet, sitting there with its polished bodywork reflecting the hospital lights like it knew exactly how useful it was.

He walked toward it.

The Alphard was black, clean, and just upgraded enough to look richer than it actually was. Not cheap. Definitely not cheap. But also not the terrifying luxury machine that rolled up to red carpets with bodyguards and superstars.

’It has that careful agency way of telling, We value your talent, kid... just not enough to drop the full Sprinter price tag.’

Park stared at it.

Then he let out a short laugh.

Honestly?

It was fine.

’No — more than fine.’

It was luxury he had never even dreamed he’d get to sit inside, much less be driven around in. In his old life, an agency vehicle was something he saw in behind-the-scenes clips, not something waiting for him in a hospital parking lot like he actually belonged on someone’s schedule.

He opened the sliding door.

Space opened up before him — warm, soft, and almost offensive in its comfort. Orange leather seats glowed under the cabin lights, smooth and rich arranged with thoughtful convenience that made poverty feel like a personal insult.

The rear seats had been adjusted for rest, tilted back slightly, with enough legroom for a man to contemplate ambition, bad decisions, and whether his new SSS-rizz face could legally be considered a public disturbance.

Park climbed in, pulled the blanket tighter around himself, and slumped into the seat like he owned the damn thing.

The leather accepted him like an old friend with money.

He closed his eyes for half a second and smiled.

"Okay," he murmured. "I could get used to this peak main character treatment."

The door slid shut with a soft seal, muting the parking lot into a distant world of light and glass. Inside the Alphard, everything felt calmer.

Park let his head fall back against the seat.

To be honest, he had a lot to think about.

Too much, actually.

There was the fact that the Park of this world had landed a proper gig almost immediately after signing as an applicant with an agency.

’That alone is strange.’

In his old life, getting signed by an agency had felt less like a career step and more like trying to convince a locked building to develop feelings.

’Managers ignore emails. Companies reject profiles and of course assistants who smiled like they had already buried your file before you finished introducing yourself.’

Even getting a meeting had been its own little miracle that people celebrated quietly because celebrating too loudly might scare it away.

But this Park?

This Park had somehow gotten an offer and accepted it with the overexcited stupidity like a starving man being handed a steak without asking who cooked it.

Park could not even blame him.

He would have done the same.

Actually, he had done worse for less.

Still, the whole thing had a strange taste. Too easy in some places, too harsh in others.

Of course, the agency had taken him in, yes, but not with open arms and a golden carpet.

There had been an ultimatum attached; naturally kindness in the entertainment industry needed a knife hidden inside it.

"Prove your worth, or be signed off like the rest of the applicants who fail to stand out."

It was a chance so to say, but not a promise.

Mystery after mystery.

The agency.

The sudden gig.

Park exhaled through his nose.

He was not much of a mystery solver.

Mystery solvers had patience, emotional discipline, and usually at least one wall covered in photos and red thread.

Park had a hospital gown, a beautiful face, and a System that had already implied his future might involve scandals, fame, and terrible decisions with glamorous women.

’Frankly, the universe has assigned me to the wrong genre if it expects me to play detective.’

He was less worried about how the agency had found him.

More interested in what came next.

His next schedule.

His next opportunity.

His next stage.

And, more importantly, his rich family.

This Park’s family, unlike the reincarnated him, was—

The driver’s door opened.

Park’s thoughts cut off cleanly.

Mick climbed in with exhausted stiffness of someone.

He shut the door, then twisted around and held out Park’s phone.

"Here."

Park took it.

Mick’s eyes flicked over the hospital gown, the blanket, the bare lower edge of Park’s situation, and his mouth tightened.

"They need the gown back."

Park blinked at him.

Then looked down at himself.

Then back at Mick.

"I don’t have a change of clothes."

Mick rubbed his jaw as if this problem had personally grown teeth and bitten him.

"You should’ve paid for it or something?"

Park stared.

"Paid for the gown?"

"For discharge clothes. The hospital said they can provide them, but it costs extra."

Park let that sit in the air for a moment.

Then he leaned back into the orange leather, very comfortable for a man being scolded over fabric.

"Mick."

"What?"

"That’s where you come in handy."

Mick’s brows drew together.

Park lifted one hand lazily, the phone resting against his palm.

"You spontaneously fix things like that, report to the agency later, and they pay you back. Or you bring the gown back tomorrow. Your call, buddy."

Mick’s jaw tightened.