I'm hungry. But I'm used to hunger—it doesn't faze me anymore.
But sleepiness? That's something I just can't tolerate. I'm not the type to hold back. I'd skip dinner and raid the fridge at night anyway, and if I got sleepy, I'd catch a solid nap right in the middle of class—a true red-blooded man.
And above all, what I absolutely couldn't stand was...
"Han Deputy, you fucking piece of shit!"
Whoosh!
The stack of papers exploding in front of me like the paper fireworks from my first birthday.
"Do you handle your work like this just because you've got 'Deputy' on your badge, you fuck? Do I have to get hauled in front of the Department Head and chewed out because of you?!"
"I just followed the manual."
"Here we go again with this fucking guy."
A perennial Section Chief who couldn't do his own job properly but still scarfed down food when he was hungry, slept when he was tired, and collected his paycheck like clockwork—he shot up from his seat.
"I told you to handle that shit smoothly, not make it impossible for the guy to have a mother!"
"..."
"You fucking bastard, if you hadn't stuck your nose in, that project wouldn't have gone to hell! What the fuck gives a worthless Deputy like you the right to send a report straight to the Department Head?!"
"The project had problems from the start. The client's funding sources weren't clear, and their financial statements were..."
"Han Deputy. Do you have any idea how many months our team poured into that project? Or are kids raised without parents just clueless like that?"
"..."
"Thanks to our brilliant Han Deputy, the Team Leader clutched his neck and collapsed. It was just waiting for the Department Head's review and final approval from above—and you fucked it all up, that's why he collapsed!"
"If we'd gone ahead as planned, it wouldn't have just been the project—the whole team would've tanked."
"Oh, listen to this punk with a mouth on him. So who actually tanked it? The project? Our team?"
"We can just scrap the project and start over properly from scratch."
"Without a thought for the team that'd have to waste more time and money on it? Wow, when did our Han Deputy grow such leadership? We can just follow Han Deputy! Han Deputy Coin to the moon! You fucking asshole!"
The ashtray the Section Chief hurled nearly smacked me right in the forehead, but I tilted my head just enough to dodge it.
It barely grazed my temple before smashing into the office wall with a crash. Cigarette ashes and butts scattered everywhere, throwing the office into chaos, but the Section Chief didn't seem to care one bit.
"It's all because of you! If it weren't for you! Fuck... that's why I told HR we need to screen out punks like you from the start!"
"At least I caught the rotten project before it was too late, didn't I?"
Something was starting to boil inside me, so I tossed out a line to keep my temper from flaring needlessly.
I'm the kind of person who has to endure everything. But when push comes to shove, even knowing I must hold back, I always fail at the crucial moment. And there's a reason for that.
It's because...
"Hey, are you insane? Can't you read the room? I told you last time too. Stop showing off that you had no home training. If you can't even grasp the basic rule of not talking back to your elders, at least shut your damn mouth! Why can't you learn even when I teach you? Am I your fucking home tutor? Should I teach you how to wipe your ass too?!"
"I've been the one cleaning up everyone else's shit—why are you the one getting mad?"
"...Oh, man, you're killing me!"
Watching him overact like that, his bloated belly like a mountain keeping his back from bending properly—it was twisting my guts.
That's why I can't hold back even when I want to. It's always like this.
"Han Deputy. If you hate the job that much, just write your resignation. No one's gonna stop you. Hell, there's a whole truckload of guys who'd love to bash your skull in a dark alley."
"I think the Department Head might hold onto me."
"The President won't. I'll process your resignation nice and clean, so grab a template, fill it out roughly, and bring it in. Even a poorly educated punk like you can manage that much on your own, right?"
"Are you coercing me to resign right now?"
"Don't you even know what 'recommended resignation' means, you ignorant fuck? Even if the Department Head covers for you, the President won't!"
Only then did I piece together what was really going on.
In this shithole company—spun off from a major Korean conglomerate—the minority trying to save it was clashing head-on with the majority just looking to milk it dry and ride it out.
No surprise there. The guy recently booted to this affiliate presidency after losing out in the succession fight wasn't about to run it properly.
The Department Head had enough industry clout to avoid desk-clearing or forced resignation, but for a mere Deputy like me, it was fair game.
Pushing recommended resignation instead of outright firing was obviously to block me from reporting unfair dismissal to the labor board.
'Not bad—I held back pretty well this time.'
After my parents vanished when I was young, I bounced between relatives who devoured their estate like piranhas through my teens. As soon as I hit college, I went independent, snagged scholarships, and grabbed my diploma.
After military service, I lucked into my first job and made Deputy in three years—a fast track, but it drew plenty of baseless envy.
Especially from guys like the perennial Section Chief in front of me, stuck because they'd pissed off their superiors. They loved targeting me.
Surviving three years in this hellhole? Yeah, I'd done well.
Turning thirty in a couple days.
Aside from being a bit sharp at work, no standout qualities.
And topped off with a personality that always fails to hold back at the end.
Still, this mess wasn't my fault. Blame the god who made this fucked-up world.
"Got it. Cleaning up everyone else's shit and getting a nice recommended resignation feels like kowtowing, but what can you do."
"Phew, seriously—watch your mouth out there in the world. I'm saying this out of human decency; you'll get burned bad if you don't."
"If you run into me outside, you'll be the one needing to watch your mouth. Why worry about me?"
"..."
"Hope we never cross paths again. Deposit this month's pay and severance on time. You don't want a call from the labor board."
I tossed the resignation letter I'd kept ready onto his desk.
As someone once said, it was the resignation of a worthless Deputy I always carried in my pocket.
"Orphan punk putting on a show."
As I grabbed my personal stuff and headed out, his parting shot made me clench my fist till it hurt—but I didn't swing.
It wasn't about lawsuit payouts or jail time.
I held back desperately, terrified I'd keep pounding until I snapped their windpipe—or lose control completely, hands drenched in someone's blood before I knew it.
It happened in school, in the army too. At least I wouldn't stain my work record like that.
But it wasn't work anymore, so did it matter?
'I want to rest.'
Hungry, exhausted, and fresh off getting chewed out on an empty stomach.
Normally, I'd wrap up overtime, hit the bean sprout soup joint near the office run by generous Ms. Kim Mal-ja to warm my gut, then head home.
But today, not even her hearty soup appealed. I just wanted to crash at home like the dead. Even if it meant dying for real.
Unlike others wrapping up late and dragging in at dawn, I'd gotten reamed by the perennial Section Chief asshole early afternoon—sun still blazing.
Exhaust fumes from cars crisscrossing downtown choked my lungs as always, and the fine dust from China stung my already dry eyes.
Come to think of it, this city was always the same.
By day, it put on an orderly show like some educational TV program highlighting the good side. By night, it was a filthy, debauched mess.
I was just witnessing its shift from night to day. Nothing had actually changed.
In the corners out of sight, the filthy, ragged dregs of society always wallowed.
They were kings of the night—the opposite of a night slave like me. They did whatever they wanted, reveling in the darkness like romanticists.
Suddenly, a fierce desire hit me to become like them.
But I know the difference between desire and impulse.
Desire is primal instinct. Impulse is just a drug tormenting me for no reason.
There's a clear line between wanting to hold a woman and blowing your strained wallet on illegal prostitution.
I've held that razor-thin gap apart all these years.
Like when I charged the school bully mocking my parents and smashed his face till my fists broke. Or in the army, when I finally swung a rifle butt at my senior's nonstop taunts, cracking his corn teeth clean out.
That was me failing to overcome not just the desire to reunite with my parents, but the raw impulse to kill those who insulted them.
So I strictly separate desire from impulse. If I don't, either I die—or they do.
"Grant me peace like a mighty river... grant me peace like a mighty river... it's overflowing."
The hymn I'd picked up from Mom in childhood slipped out reflexively as rage boiled, my gripped fist drawing blood.
A bitter laugh escaped at the selfishness of a god who demands constant praise and worship but grants me no mighty peace, no overflowing joy.
Because I dozed off every service? Lip-synced the hymns? Scribbled Bible homework sloppily out of laziness?
Is this his payback?
Did he toss me into this shithole world, yank away my parental shield, then watch curiously how an eight-year-old scraped by?
Maybe Santa Claus, who stopped visiting after eight, and my parents, with zero contact, wanted me to crash spectacularly like those lowlifes sprawled in the alley.
"Hoo."
I rummaged in my pocket, ripped open the pill packet, and swallowed the tablets with the metallic tang of blood.
Meds I'd been taking for years to curb my bad habit of losing my temper—no, my disease now: uncontrollable impulses.
Proof they worked? The Section Chief's face was still intact today.
I'm getting better. I'm becoming okay. I'm becoming someone to be proud of.
I'm ready to reunite with my parents now.
Beep!
I unlocked the door to my youth rental apartment and stepped in. Stale, heavy air greeted me.
A single guy's pad had just a work desk, PC, and basic appliances from the rental package.
I chucked my clothes into the washer and flopped onto the mattress. Staring up from there, my eyes hit the small crucifix on the wall.
I'd stopped going to church, stopped copying Bible verses, but for some reason, since going independent, I'd always kept a crucifix.
Not for emotional support. More like a target to glare at and vent my resentment.
Jesus Christ, carved groaning on the cross.
How much pain did he feel? Did blood drip from his palms like mine? Did he curse his father too, lamenting his shitty life?
"At least you got back into your father's arms in the end."
Even as exhaustion closed my eyes, I glared at the crucifix on the wall.
Jesus, you're nothing but a fraud.