“Is this 4-1 Seongbuk-dong?”
Munyeong stepped into a chicken shop in the busy commercial district, still wearing his helmet, and checked the delivery address with the owner.
“Yes―! They’re asking you to get there fast so it doesn’t go cold!”
The owner, clearly in the thick of the rush, called out loudly. Munyeong answered with a tidy “Yes,” grabbed the chicken in a hurry, headed outside, and climbed onto the electric bicycle. He’d paid to borrow it from a neighbor nearby. He adjusted his position and pedaled fast. In order to honor the request that the chicken not go cold, he pushed the speed up until his vision blurred slightly at the edges.
A few more days passed after that. Munyeong steadily readjusted to an ordinary routine. These were the only things he had to do right now, and the only things he could do. Doing nothing only filled his head with more thoughts. He felt like he’d need to reach out at some point about the money situation, but he couldn’t quite muster the nerve.
Munyeong cleared his head of distractions and arrived at his destination. He tucked the chicken against his body so it wouldn’t get cold and pressed the doorbell. Two small children came to the door and lit up the moment they saw the chicken — he gave them a faint smile. Then he hurried off toward the next delivery.
When the deliveries ended in the early hours of the morning, he had to head to a nearby entertainment venue for his next shift. It was a private-room bar that a former employer of his had recently opened. He’d been told it was light serving work, so he was going in on weekends only. Munyeong was exactly the kind of employee owners and managers loved. He showed up when asked, never grumbled about late nights, and did whatever others were reluctant to do without complaint — there was no employee more convenient than that. Which was why former employers would occasionally reach out. Asking lately if he needed work.
Once his last delivery was done, Munyeong headed straight to his shift. The venue near Jamsil in Songpa wasn’t particularly large, but it was more upscale than where he’d worked before. The previous place had been a bar aimed at ordinary college-age crowds — this one had a more composed atmosphere that suited slightly older clientele, the kind of people who had found early success in business. The marketing had apparently been effective, because even though it had just opened, it was already drawing plenty of customers. Perhaps because of the higher price point, there were very few young faces to be seen.
“Oh, you’re here.”
The owner, reviewing the ledger at the counter, offered a casual greeting when he saw Munyeong clock in.
“Hello.”
Munyeong bowed his head politely.
“Right. Get changed and come out―. It’s fully booked again tonight.”
The owner said it without even glancing up, his expression frazzled. Munyeong answered with a short “Yes” and headed straight to the staff room. The staff room was cramped. There were only male employees, and since there was no separate smoking area, the changing room and smoking room were shared. Through the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, he could see them clustered together, cackling over something on their phones. Whatever’s so funny, Munyeong swallowed the small question and quickly changed clothes.
“Hyung, you’re here?”
He crossed paths with a part-time university student he saw often, since they worked the same shift. Munyeong gave the student who’d acknowledged him a faint smile and nodded.
“Yeah. Hello.”
When Munyeong greeted him formally, the other made a face.
“Come on, I told you to drop the formalities.”
“……It’s not easy.”
Munyeong answered with an awkward smile.
“You really are something else, hyung. Did you come from a delivery run again today?”
“Yeah. How did you know? Do I smell like sweat?”
Munyeong’s eyes went wide as he lifted his arm and gave himself a sniff.
“No―. Your hair’s all flattened.”
The student laughed at the guileless reaction and reached up to ruffle Munyeong’s helmet-pressed hair loose.
“Oh right, hyung — did you see it?”
The part-timer pulled out his phone.
“See what?”
Munyeong asked with a puzzled look.
“It’s all over the place right now. This.”
It seemed this was what they’d all been huddled over earlier. What the student showed him was a short video clip. Thirty seconds at most. Less than thirty seconds — and watching it, the neutral expression on Munyeong’s face went rigid in an instant.
“This is…….”
“You know it, right, hyung. That big conglomerate.”
“…….”
“Apparently it’s their son. Already famous for throwing his weight around, they say.”
The person in the video was none other than Yeon Haejeong. And he had a feeling he knew exactly when that footage had been taken.
“The original video was longer, but apparently it got taken down so this is all that’s left.”
Chaebol third generation abuses power. The title of the video was brief. In it, Haejeong was moving somewhere in a hurry, shoving aside people who had been in his way — knocking them over like they were obstacles. “Move!” “Get out of my way!” “What are you staring at? Fuck. You’re not leaving?!”
That day. In front of the café where he’d seen him last — frantically chasing after him, shoving aside anyone he collided with. As though he couldn’t see anything around him, pushing people out of the way and panting hard.
It was a familiar voice. The fact that a video like this was circulating was shocking enough — but the reason Munyeong went utterly still was because it had been so long. His face. His voice. It felt like something he’d forced down to the very bottom had risen back up to the surface.
“Rich guys are all like that, in the end.”
The part-timer clicked his tongue and slid his phone into his pocket. Then, as if remembering something, he picked back up in a more cheerful tone.
“Oh right, hyung. Did you hear? There’s apparently some insanely wealthy guest coming in tonight.”
Munyeong remained frozen even after the screen went dark and the phone disappeared from in front of him. Seeing him standing there as though time had stopped, the part-timer called his name again with a puzzled look.
“Hyung? What’s wrong?”
“……Ah…. What?”
The student gave his arm a light tap, and Munyeong seemed to come back to himself, turning his gaze away. He looked dazed, and the part-timer tilted his head like something was off.
“Are you sick? Your face went pale all of a sudden.”
“…A-ah, no…. I’m fine.”
“Do you want me to tell the manager you need to rest? I can let the owner know.”
“No. I’m fine.”
Munyeong shook his head with a faint smile at the other’s consideration.
“Anyway, apparently some seriously loaded guest is coming in tonight — the biggest room.”
Munyeong let out a short breath and gave no particular response. At the look of obvious disinterest, the younger guy shook his head and gave Munyeong’s arm a nudge.
“Hyung, you really don’t get it.”
“…Hm?”
“Those are the rooms worth going into, money-wise.”
“…….”
“The tips alone are insane. One time I waited on a bunch of chaebol kids, kept them in a good mood, and got fifty as a tip just for that. Crazy, right.”
Munyeong gave a small smile at the other’s excited chatter. There was something both endearing and quietly sad about someone that worked up over money. He still looked young — but the taste for it had already found him. Once you get this deep into chasing money, you can lose your way sometimes. Like his friend who’d disappeared — Shin Juho.
Sure, it would be nice to earn from tips — but money that came easy carried a strong pull with it. Once was easy, so you did it twice — and twice meant before you knew it you’d lost yourself and slipped somewhere you couldn’t come back from. Munyeong had his own experience with that. Over ten years of irregular, day-labor, and part-time work. There had been more than one or two times he’d nearly ruined himself going blind for easy money. Part of why he’d grown so attached to his previous job was that.
“I guess so.”
But Munyeong kept any unsolicited advice to himself. He answered plainly and was about to hurry out of the changing room when his steps faltered. He hesitated for a moment, then asked the part-timer carefully.
“…So…. Is it…… okay?”
“Hm?”
The abrupt question made the part-timer’s eyes go wide. He didn’t seem to follow the intent behind it. Munyeong opened his mouth again, hesitant.
“Earlier…. That video.”
“Ah―, oh. That abusive chaebol guy?”
“……Yeah.”
