Substitute-Chapter 19

The little diner looked like it hadn’t seen a crowd in years. Dusty windows. Cracked linoleum. Not a single customer in sight.

Han stepped inside like he owned the place. “Two bowls of hangover stew,” he called out.

“And a bottle of soju.”

A middle-aged man with wild bedhead shuffled out of the kitchen, yawning as he went. He didn’t say a word—just opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of liquor, placing it on the table like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Been a while,” he said flatly.

It was obvious Han was a regular. The exchange was short, but familiar.

Instead of the small shot glasses already on the table, Han grabbed a water glass and poured the soju straight into that. It made Jiwon think of the man in Room 305 back at the goshiwon.

“Want a drink?”

Han raised his glass.

“No, I’m good. Just tired,” Jiwon said.

But Han didn’t wait for a reply—he tossed the drink back in one smooth motion.

“Doesn’t this bother you?” he asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Well... I mean...”

Jiwon felt the tension in his chest but forced a flat tone.

“Of course I could use the money. But honestly, if it weren’t for you, Seoho, I wouldn’t have even made it to the interviews. Just getting the money from those was already more than I expected. I’m grateful.”

He made himself sound sincere, like he meant every word.

Because the Kim Jiwon Han remembered was a guy who had no idea disgusting sex parties like that even existed.

Han’s expression changed, like something had just clicked.

“You really never even thought about doing something like that, huh?”

He chuckled.

“Sorry. I mean, come on—you, of all people? Doesn’t really fit, does it?”

“I didn’t say no,” Jiwon said, waving a hand.

“I know.”

Han winked at him.

“I get what you’re saying. Whatever. Let’s just drink. Comrades, right?”

He poured another drink—this time into a proper shot glass—and pushed it across the table. After all that, Jiwon couldn’t say no. He took it.

They knocked back their shots together. Then another. Just one more, Han said. And then another. Before they knew it, the bottle was empty.

As the liquor settled in, the anxiety started to crawl back up Jiwon’s spine.

What had they said to him again?

“We’ll be in touch.”

Yeah. That was it. Sounded positive. But what if—what if they told someone else, “You’re in”?

Even imagining it made Jiwon go pale.

“What exactly did they say to you?”

He asked, too late.

Just then, the owner placed two steaming bowls of stew on the table. And another bottle of soju.

Han didn’t answer. He just poured himself another shot, drank it, and scooped up some broth.

“God, that hits,” he muttered.

“They told me this,” he finally said. His words were slower now, a little off—he was starting to slur.

“‘Unfortunately, we won’t be moving forward with Mr. Han Seoho.’ That’s what that ugly fucker with the thick glasses said.”

“Did they give you a reason?”

“Yeah. They told me to stick the dildo in. But they didn’t say not to cum. Now they’re saying they want people who follow orders exactly. Shit. If I’d known, I would’ve held back. I can hold it. I’m fucking good at it.”

He sniffled.

Jiwon did feel bad. But more than anything—he felt relieved.

He’d followed every instruction, exactly. Even if he bled—hell, even if they took points off for that—it wasn’t enough to fail him. If he’d failed, they would’ve said so. Like they did with Han.

He couldn’t be sure he’d passed. But he hadn’t been rejected either. That was something.

Still, he hated himself for feeling relief at someone else’s failure. What kind of person was he?

Life really made people pathetic.

“What about you, hyung? Did you...?”

Jiwon gave a vague nod.

Han slammed his glass down. “One more bottle!” he yelled toward the kitchen, then grumbled, “Fuck this shit.”

He looked at Jiwon with eyes that were glassy and wet.

“But seriously. Even if you weren’t expecting anything—how the hell are you so calm?”

He looked confused. Maybe even betrayed.

“You need the money. You work twenty goddamn hours a day, no breaks, just to pay off debt. That’s not a life. Seven hundred million won would change everything. So why don’t you give a shit?”

He sounded desperate.

“What, is it because it’s dirty? Selling your body? You think that’s /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ something to be ashamed of? Be real—even if you sold all your organs, no one’s offering you that kind of money. So why?”

His voice cracked as the tears finally spilled over.

“Why does it seem like it doesn’t matter to you at all?”

His voice trailed off, barely a whisper now.

Jiwon didn’t answer. He just emptied his glass and stared at Han for a long moment. Then sighed, slow and deliberate.

“Seoho... it’s not that I don’t care. I just don’t have the room to care. Like you said—I work my ass off just to stay alive. There’s no time to feel shit. Try living like me for three months. Hell, just one. Then you’ll get it. But me? I’ve lived like this for six fucking years.”

His tone was cold. A quiet accusation.

“Of course I want that money. But people like me—we can’t afford hope. If I let myself believe, and it all falls apart? That’s not just disappointment. That’s destruction. I wouldn’t survive it.”

He poured himself another drink and knocked it back.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Han whispered. “I’m just so fucking angry. I’m sorry, hyung.”

Jiwon was about to say it was okay when Han suddenly slumped forward. He reached out fast, catching Han’s head and gently laying it on the table.

No way that guy was out cold from just two bottles of soju.

How much had he drunk?

Jiwon grumbled to himself but paused, suddenly uneasy.

That bastard’s a grim reaper.

The words echoed in his ears, sending a chill down his spine. Whether he passed or not, the one thing he absolutely couldn’t allow was anyone discovering the truth about him. He clenched his jaw, remembering the boy his own age, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. He made himself a promise.

“I’ll pay.”

The owner, already eyeing Han slumped over the table, gave him a puzzled look. “What’s going on with him? Never seen him this drunk before.”

He took the fifty-thousand won bill from Jiwon’s outstretched hand.

“Is there a motel nearby?” Jiwon asked when the man came back with change.

“There’s one down the alley out back. Dream Motel. Bit shabby, but it'll do.”

The owner even helped hoist Han up and walked them to the edge of the alley. Thanks to him, Jiwon found the place easily and booked a room.

He half-dragged, half-dropped Han onto the motel bed and collapsed beside him.

His right arm felt like it had been torn off.

From the sling bag at his side, he fished out a painkiller, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it dry.

He looked down at Han. The guy’s lashes were damp, his eyes swollen.

The more Jiwon got to know him, the less he made sense. Han was nothing like what he'd been told.

Don’t fall for it. It’s all an act. Guys like him—no one’s better at feeling sorry for themselves.

You really believe that? How many times have I told you—lying comes more naturally to them than breathing.

Asleep, Han’s face looked so young—childish, even. He didn’t look like someone capable of sending two men to their deaths.

Be careful. That job he hooked you up with—might not be a chance. Might be your grave.

You were always telling me to be cautious. But you couldn’t stand to see me hesitate, not even for a second.

I chose this. I walked into it on my own. And yet... more and more lately, it felt like I was just being dragged along.

Not Han Seoho.

You.

You’re the one leading me to the grave.

Jiwon shook his head.

And even if that’s true—so what?

You were the only one who ever told me the truth.

You gave me this place. This moment. This shot.

He steeled himself.

Then looked down at Han again. He resembled him, but didn’t feel like him.

The truth was, Jiwon never really knew what he had been like. He was cautious. Quiet. Thoughtful. Sometimes so quiet people said he wasn’t "manly" enough. But even then, he’d just nod and stay silent.

Guy acts like some scholar or something.

But the reality had been nothing like that.

The person Jiwon had known all those years had worn a mask.

A sex addict wearing a scholar’s face.

That was the rumor, at least. And even if it was true... it was fine. If he could just see him again—if he could just hold him with his own two hands—he wouldn’t care if he was a killer.

His eyes stung.

Han Seoho. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. Just... let this be a real chance for me.

Jiwon stared down at Han like he might kill him.

Because if it wasn’t a real chance—then there was nowhere left for him to go.

No reason to keep going.

The thought made his chest tighten. Made him want to cry.

He wasn’t ready to give up, but the future might not give him a choice.

All night, Han tossed and turned, drifting in and out of sleep, sobbing and muttering to himself. Jiwon, choked up, stroked his back gently. Not really Han’s. His face. On someone else.

Do exactly what they tell you.

He repeated Han’s words to himself.

That had been a gift—a crucial clue.

If they let him through, no matter what they asked, he’d follow the script. No hesitation.

He stayed with Han at the motel until noon. When he left, Han was still asleep. Jiwon headed straight to the frozen warehouse for his shift. After pulling overtime, he finally arrived at the pension around ten.

To his surprise, Han was there to greet him.

Bright-eyed. Cheerful. Like he hadn’t sobbed through the night or passed out in a drunken mess.

“Hyung! You made it! Come on, we’re grilling meat!”

The next day was the last time he ever saw Han Seoho.

After that, he vanished—like smoke.

Like he’d never existed at all.