The shop was thick with the mingled scent of aged plastic wrapping and timeworn paper.
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper thumbed through a binder of discs, glancing up as he asked, "Disaster films are a bit niche—any particular kind you're after?"
"Viral outbreaks, mutant beasts, alien invasions... you know, those apocalyptic survival stories of ordinary people facing the end of the world."
"Ah, I see. Got it. Give me a moment—I'll dig some up for you."
Standing amidst the dim lighting and faded posters, Su Jin scanned the wall of film titles.
Though the movie covers were simple, they offered no shortage of information.
Cinema, after all, could be considered a condensed mirror of society.
This trip wasn't just about entertainment; he was hoping to gain insight into how this world conceptualized and responded to catastrophe.
In truth, mining reality for answers often paled in efficiency compared to the intuitive lessons drawn from fiction.
He recalled his conversation with Fu Qingdai—she often rented animation DVDs at home.
When the chance arose, he could probably visit her and borrow her disc player.
Judging by the shopkeeper's words, however, disaster films seemed to be a niche genre here. Most of the covers featured romantic embraces and syrupy posters.
Not surprising. Perhaps special effects weren't as advanced in this world; cinematic technology likely hadn't evolved as quickly, limiting what could be produced convincingly.
Two minutes later, the shopkeeper returned with three discs in hand.
"Here, these three—guaranteed to match your criteria."
"Only three?" Su Jin examined the scratched surfaces with suspicion. "They won't freeze or skip, will they?"
"Just these three, but trust me—they'll play fine. If they don't, I'll refund you." The man chuckled. "Buddy, I've been in this business for years—I know exactly what you're looking for. I love this stuff too. No romance here, just pure disaster."
"You know your craft. How much?"
"Same as the sign outside. Five bucks each. Ten for the deposit."
"Deal. I'll take them all."
Su Jin paid without hesitation.
"Want to check out anything else?" the owner grinned, encouraged by the quick sale. "I've got all the latest releases—guaranteed satisfaction!"
"Pick me out one from history, one urban drama, and one military or war film. But make sure they're authentic—no trash."
"Say no more, my man. I don't stock garbage," the shopkeeper replied proudly, spinning back around to dig into his binders once again.
Moments later, Su Jin was handed three more discs. A quick glance at the covers, and he pulled out his wallet once more.
"Nice. I'll take these too."
"Anything else?" The owner asked with growing interest.
Most customers rented just one or two discs, usually dawdling around the store for half an hour or more.
But this young man—quick, decisive, unfussy. A true aficionado, it seemed.
"Hmm..." Su Jin leaned in slightly, voice dropping low. "Brother... do you have... you know?"
The shopkeeper raised a brow and lowered his voice instinctively. "Have what?"
"Something good."
"Everything I sell's good," he replied smoothly.
"No, I mean the real good stuff."
"Ahh..." The owner straightened, shaking his head solemnly. "Nope. This is a legitimate business."
Su Jin narrowed his eyes, clicking his tongue. "Come on, brother. I just rented six discs from you. I'll be back again."
The owner appraised him head to toe, then asked, cautiously, "What kind of... good stuff are you looking for?"
"Something hot. Exciting. And listen—I'm a serious buyer, okay? But one thing: I want a preview first. I don't trust the covers."
Didn't trust the covers—this guy knew the game.
After a moment of contemplation, the shopkeeper nodded. "Alright. Follow me."
He led Su Jin through a door at the back of the store.
The room beyond was a cramped living space: bare mattress on the floor, low table bearing an old, boxy TV, scattered clothes and disc sleeves everywhere. Clearly, the man lived here.
Bending down, the shopkeeper grabbed a disc binder from the floor and opened it for Su Jin. "Here. Choose. Twenty-one discs. For sale only—not for rent."
Inside were rows of discs plastered with scantily clad women.
Flipping through them, Su Jin asked, "Are these... spicy enough?"
The shopkeeper laughed. "What kind of question is that? If they weren't spicy, they'd be illegal!"
"Alright then, pick one—I'll take a look."
"No problem. All premium stuff. You'll see."
Randomly selecting a disc, the shopkeeper inserted it into what looked like a battered VCD player.
The ancient TV buzzed to life.
"I'll fast forward a bit," he said, grabbing the remote and tapping the button repeatedly.
The footage sped along—two people engaged in animated conflict: shouting, scheming, hurling accusations with reckless abandon. All bark, no class.
Honestly, to someone like Su Jin, who had long been desensitized by the full force of neon-era media, it was fairly tame.
But when the camera zoomed in—Su Jin's eyes widened. He leaned closer.
Right on cue, a slow-motion close-up appeared.
Magnified, detailed—every angle, every line, every shadow.
The shopkeeper, watching his customer inch ever closer to the screen, frowned and tapped his back.
"Hey! Easy there, pal. You about to crawl into the TV? Been holding it in that long?"
Su Jin blinked, rubbed his eyes, and laughed awkwardly. "Sorry. Got a little... absorbed."
"Well? How was it? You want this one?" the owner asked, holding the disc up.
Su Jin shook his head and adjusted his grip on his briefcase. "I'll pass. Maybe next time. Thanks though."
"This one's really good! Store favorite! You were practically drooling over it just now—wait..."
The man's gaze froze.
He was staring under Su Jin's trench coat—his eyes fixed on the man's arm.
Beneath the fabric, Su Jin's hand had fumbled with something briefly, then gone still.
"No way..." the owner tilted his head, shocked. "You already finished?!"
"Finished what—?!" Su Jin followed the man's gaze, his expression darkening.
"Thanks. You're a good man. Peace and blessings. I'll be going now."
With that, he turned and strode quickly from the room, disappearing out the shop's front door.
The owner was left alone in stunned silence, staring at the exit as if it had betrayed him.
"The hell just happened...? Didn't even last three minutes! This kid... Jesus Christ! Three minutes? Freeloaded my fish, my movies—now freeloading my films?! Forget movies, go see a doctor!"