I woke up to find my lips parched and my throat scratchy.
The room was pitch black—no lights on, and all the blinds pulled down tight. I fumbled around until I found my smartphone and unlocked the screen out of habit.
329 unread KakaoTalk messages 26 unread texts 21 missed calls
Ah, right. Today, I tossed my resignation letter and bailed on all the work I'd been handling.
But the company never told me to do a handover before leaving. Even if I'd stubbornly insisted on one, they would've shot it down first anyway.
So even if clients were complaining, it wasn't my fault.
The big shots at the accounts I'd been managing must've been pissed—their rep suddenly switched out, deals going sideways.
No one else pulled overtime and entertained like I did, so yeah, the place probably flipped upside down in a single day.
I figured I'd just kick back as a NEET for a while, living off my severance and final paycheck whenever they came through.
Once I flicked on the lights to brighten the dim apartment, I finally noticed the dried blood crusted on my palm. Whenever anger surged, I'd clench my fist so hard my nails dug in—no end to those wounds.
I rinsed it off at the sink, grabbed some antiseptic bandages from the first-aid kit, and wrapped it up tight. Routine as brushing my teeth—I always kept those stocked, even if there wasn't a single pack of ramen in the house.
"Not even instant noodles..."
My stomach had been howling after two straight days of nothing, so food was priority one. But opening the pantry revealed jack squat.
There were a few cans of tuna and bottles of canola oil from company holiday gifts, but that wouldn't fill me up. Not even a pouch of microwave rice.
Lately, all I'd done was shower and crash, so no grocery runs for ages—that was the problem.
September 9, 2025, 9:09 PM. Early fall after August's swelter. That eerie date and time nagged at me as I grabbed my wallet.
Ever since I was eight, I'd gone long stretches without a dime to my name. Money burned a hole? Nah, I'd hoard it.
Back in school, I'd stash pocket money from relatives straight into my personal account. Same with part-time gig cash—saved every penny.
The balance barely budged unless it was bare essentials.
That weird habit stuck even after entering the workforce, so by year three, I'd saved a decent chunk.
Perks of cheap government-subsidized youth housing instead of pricey rent—fixed costs stayed low.
'Might as well spend some now that I'm off the clock?'
Hobbies? Just fiddling with games on the PC. Even that was a lightweight time-killer for rare days off, max efficiency.
Fishing and golf I'd picked up for client schmoozing were solid adult guy pastimes... but no one to enjoy them with. Plus, no car made solo runs tough.
Can't even do the basics right.
Grumbling inwardly, I stepped out—and before I knew it, I was at the neighborhood midsize mart.
Late night meant no housewives stocking up on dinner sides. Fresh veggies and meat flew off shelves early; fierce competition, I'd heard.
The booze and snacks aisle tucked in the back was dead quiet, just waiting for broke single guys like me to pity-buy and haul them home.
Couldn't just walk past. Grabbed a canned beer, a bottle of soju to mix, spicy-salty jerky perfect for somae. Salted fried peanuts tempted, but too skimpy—no real satisfaction.
Next stop: snack aisle for potato chips tossed in the basket. Further down, swept up armloads of ramen and microwave rice.
This seamless route felt like a red carpet for single dudes—prime photo-op for their pathetic, self-neglect vibes.
Early evening? Sympathetic stares from housewives. Morning? Glare from staff clearing inventory.
Any time, any crowd—solo guys looping these aisles got nothing but side-eye.
Whatever. For a stress-racked body from overwork, these petty rebellions hit hardest.
Late-night ramen, booze, chuckling at a dark future—that's the standard script for guys like me.
Some say: Hit the gym, stay healthy, socialize.
I'd tried. Three years of this without my body totally tanking? Thanks to some self-training.
But now? Didn't care anymore.
Sick of machine-like work and abuse. Burned out on machine-like workouts piling on stress. One robotic routine was enough—I ditched the gym.
"36,200 won."
"Card. No receipt."
Card beeped. 36,200 won of rebellion now mine.
Heavy plastic bag swinging, I trudged back through the dark streets.
Passed a school laced with someone's youth, approaching the quiet church where faith slumbered.
...Giggle.
"!"
Empty street—no one but me—yet that faint, eerie laugh froze me mid-step. Right then.
Something massive thudded down in front of me.
KABOOM!
"..."
Less than 3 meters away, asphalt cratered, a huge metal pillar jutting up.
Church steeple cross—impaled upside-down.
Typhoons, quakes—it'd stood firm. Now, no warning, it crashed right before me.
Craning up carefully, I saw the severed neon sign sparking—pop!
In the flash: a small crow.
Then the circuit breaker tripped, sparks died, crow vanished. Like no black bird had ever pierced the night.
"What rotten luck..."
Knew better, but impulse rage boiled over like always. I booted the cross hard.
Job gone, NEET life ahead—kicking this near-death trap seemed fair game.
Pastor hustling for dawn prayers would sob at the inverted cross marring the church front. Repair bill huge, optics trash.
Misfortune meant for me alone, now shifted? Rage eased a bit.
Always me eating crap, swallowing anger. Step out of society's grind? World looked different.
How could I not feel good?
Straight home, pot on the stove, soju first.
I love big glass tumblers: cool canned beer mixed right with soju. Most grab pitchers and pound away; I stick to measured pours.
Like self-delusion: perfect match for my moderate life.
Boiling water for ramen, nuked frozen dumplings. Set up late dinner booze spread in the living room.
Slurped chewy noodles, crunched steaming mandoo. Somae chaser? Heaven.
Yeah, world a shithole hell or whatever—this moment, this spot, rivaled zealots' promised paradise.
Even if sneered at for choosing this life—I'd clap back confident.
Don't strut when life's choices weren't fair to all.
Losing parents at eight, bouncing cousins' houses? Not my pick.
Those punks trash-talking my folks, right in punching range? Not my doing.
Never chose—always forced into bullshit, victim biting tongue.
How many hours yapping solo over drinks?
Hiccuping, back to my room.
Austere space, that cross hanging.
Blinds down, door shut—like a prison cell trapping me.
Barely awake, flopped onto the mattress again. Eyes hit the wall cross, as always.
Church one fell—why this puny knockoff still dangling straight?
Flung my phone. Nailed it—dropped upside-down. Had to crane hard now to see it.
Finally, satisfied sleep.
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