Substitute-Chapter 4: Coincidence and Inevitability (3)

The goshiwon was a mess from the crack of dawn.

No doubt, it was Room 302—the fifty-something day laborer—fighting again with Room 307, the thirty-something civil service exam student.

Jiwon pulled the blanket over his head and forced himself to sleep, but the shouting only got louder. No one was trying to stop them. Not that the kind of guys who would listen even if someone did.

Usually the fight would end in thirty minutes or so, but today, it was dragging on.

Fucking insane.

Jiwon stretched a hand out from under the blanket and grabbed his phone.

9:13 AM. It had only been two hours since he got home from the night shift and tried to sleep.

“Shit.” He cursed and pulled the blanket over himself again, but right on cue, a sharp pain shot up his right arm. He sighed and half-assedly rubbed it.

There was no sign of the noise letting up.

Jiwon threw off the blanket and stared up at the ceiling, which was starting to mold.

“Fucking bastards, let me sleep!”

It was Room 303, next door to Jiwon, who yelled.

Room 303 was a small, scrawny man who thought he was a gangster. Jiwon had no idea what the guy’s real job was, but every time they ran into each other, he’d offer to make Jiwon his “lieutenant” or some bullshit. Since he clearly wasn’t right in the head, Jiwon just told him, “I’ll think about it.”

It seemed the argument had escalated into a physical fight. Thud, thud—someone’s body slammed into the thin plywood wall, making a racket. It felt like the whole building was shaking. Whatever sleep he had left was completely gone now.

Jiwon shot up from the bed and opened his door. Everyone was already out in the hallway, just watching.

Room 302 was on top of Room 307, who was lying on the floor with a bloody nose. Jiwon had no choice but to rush in, wrap his arms around 302’s waist, and pull him off.

“Stop it, ajusshi.”

He held on tight so the man wouldn’t charge at 307 again at any second.

“You little fuck. I could kill a piece of shit like you with a single kick. I let it go ‘cause I was too tired to deal with it, and now you treat me like some pushover? You wanna die? Huh?”

“Ajusshi, please, just let it go.”

Room 302 had clearly seen everything there was to see in construction sites. He was unbelievably strong. Jiwon was taller and had a bigger build, but his right arm wasn’t in good shape, so it was a struggle just to hold the guy back.

Luckily, 302 seemed to be out of steam and didn’t try to go at 307 again. Jiwon, catching the shift in energy, loosened his grip and let go.

That’s when the building manager finally showed up, strolling in slowly.

“If this keeps happening, I’ll have no choice but to kick you both out, you hear? This is your last warning.”

His breath reeked as he mumbled out the useless threat.

But the goshiwon owner almost never actually kicked anyone out, and everyone living there knew it. freewebnoveℓ.com

302 made a show of spitting at 307 and walked back into his room. 307, instead of getting up, threw a tantrum on the floor like he was the one who’d been wronged. Pathetic.

“Let’s eat.”

Room 305, who’d just been watching this whole time, tapped Jiwon on the shoulder.

When 305 said “let’s eat,” it always meant he wanted a drink. He was an alcoholic. Normally Jiwon would’ve refused and tried to go back to sleep, but there was no going back to sleep today, so he silently followed him to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Room 301, the old man, and Room 309, the job seeker, were sitting at separate tables eating breakfast.

305 set down two bottles of soju on the table next to the old man. As always, he poured the soju into a glass cup instead of using shot glasses. The old man gave the setup a sideways glance.

“How’s the designated driving going?”

305 asked. He’d probably asked the same question a hundred times before.

“It’s alright. Manageable.”

“How long you been doing it?”

“A little over two years.”

“Damn, that’s a while. Tch. Maybe I should try it too.”

“If you have a license, it’s worth trying. There’s no age limit and barely any start-up cost. If it sucks, you can just quit.”

Jiwon gave him the same canned answer he’d said a hundred times.

Most alcoholics didn’t have a license anymore or had lost it. 305, who drank soju every meal instead of eating, was no exception.

“Of course I’ve got a license. Show me how to get started.”

With that, 305 emptied the glass of soju in one go.

Jiwon used to drink like that too. He’d been rushed to the ER once for acute alcohol poisoning, and another time he nearly died after accidentally taking it with sleeping pills.

“Drink?”

305 asked again.

Jiwon shook his head with a faint smile.

305 was being extra persistent today. Even when Jiwon refused, he kept pouring soju and sliding the glass over.

“304’s drinking too?”

The old man at the other table chimed in.

Here, people didn’t go by names—just by their room numbers. Jiwon was known as 304.

“Nope. Not drinking.”

He waved it off.

“Yeah, drinking this early in the morning ain’t it. Eat, eat. Still, those bastard punks ruined your sleep, didn’t they.”

The old man looked at Jiwon with sympathy.

“I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are. Eat up and catch some sleep while you can. You’ve got work later, right?”

With that, the old man ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ shoved a spoonful of rice and kimchi into his mouth.

At least wrap it with some seaweed or something.

Jiwon couldn’t help but grimace.

“Want me to fry an egg for you?”

Jiwon offered.

“Nah, forget it. Can’t keep mooching off you all the time.”

Even as he said it, the old man subtly put his spoon down. He knew Jiwon was going to do it anyway.

“Just a second.”

Jiwon went back to his room, grabbed two eggs from his mini fridge, and returned to the kitchen.

He poured oil into a frying pan crusted with old grease and started cooking. As soon as the egg hit the pan, the old man was ready with his rice bowl.

“Thanks, 304.”

He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth.

305, who’d been watching silently, suddenly slammed his glass down on the table.

“Fuckin’ hell, old man! Have some damn shame, will ya? Always sponging off someone young enough to be your grandkid and acting like nothing happened. You think we don’t know you’ve got eggs in your fridge?”

“What’re you talking about? I don’t have any eggs.”

The old man played dumb.

“You want me to go check? Huh?”

At that, the old man’s face stiffened. He shoved his rice bowl at Jiwon in a panic.

“Hurry up.”

“304! I’ll take the egg, just stay there.”

As 305 started to rise from the table, the old man snatched the spatula out of Jiwon’s hand and grabbed both fried eggs, dumping them onto his rice. Then, as if his life depended on it, he bolted out of the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed through the hall.

“Ugh, that fucking geezer. And you, 304, stop being so nice to him. What’s so cute about that wrinkled old fuck that you keep trying to take care of him, huh?”

Jiwon just smiled.

305 sat back down and took another swig of soju.

“You’re not eating?”

“Not hungry right now. I’ll eat later.”

His appetite had completely disappeared, probably thanks to the old man.

How long do I have to live like this? The thought hit him, and exhaustion washed over him all at once.

Leaving 305 still holding his glass, Jiwon went back to his room and forced himself to sleep. Sleep was the only remedy, and soon he was out cold.

The noon alarm woke him. His whole body was drenched in sweat. All night, he’d been haunted by nightmares of the past.

If only they’d really been nightmares.

He panted, trying to catch his breath.

Before he could even fully regain consciousness, he moved to get up and accidentally pressed down on his right arm. A groan escaped him. The pain was sharp, like his arm was being torn off. He curled up and lay still. It had never hurt this bad recently. He was honestly a little worried.

But he wasn’t going to a hospital anyway. He just crunched down some painkillers and left it at that.

He lay stuck to the bed like a soaked cotton pad, staring at the ceiling until the painkillers kicked in.

He had to head out to the frozen logistics center in the outskirts of Gyeonggi-do by 2 PM. With designated driving, at least you could rest when you really needed to. But the warehouse job? No excuses, no way out. Sure, if he said he was sick, they might reluctantly find someone to cover, but he never wanted to say that kind of weak shit.

He knew it was pride, but what could he do? That’s just how he was wired.

He forced himself to eat, then headed to work. The small cold-storage warehouse swallowed up people and product, then spit them out again. He stepped into the container used as an office, filled out the time sheet, grabbed a white work uniform from his locker, pulled it on, and layered a padded jacket and gloves on top. He bowed his head in greeting to a few middle-aged men and women in similar outfits, then headed for the towering stack of frozen pollock boxes in the corner.

A man in his team greeted him with a friendly, “Hey, welcome.”

“You’re here early,” Jiwon said.

“Yeah, I’ve been coming in late the past few days. Thought I should show some effort.”

The guy chuckled. He was one of the few full-time employees at the warehouse, with no real risk of being fired—but still always acted like that.

Jiwon didn’t reply. He just stood next to him.

Their job was simple. Pull down boxes of frozen pollock, tear them open, and place the rock-solid fish onto a conveyor belt. The belt ran past a set of cutters, where the fish were chopped into sections by workers lined along the sides. The pieces were then sorted by weight into transparent plastic bags, packed with ice packs into foam boxes. It was also Jiwon and the man’s job to stack those boxes for the forklift to pick up later.

Within ten minutes of stepping into the –20°C freezer, heat rose through his body. Soon he was sweating like it was a regular warehouse. But if he took off his jacket, he’d catch a cold for sure.

He worked nonstop, and before he knew it, it was break time. The tiny break room, barely big enough for a couple chairs, was already full—claimed by the few full-timers. Jiwon and the others had no place to sit. So, like always, they grabbed the company-provided bread and milk, mixed instant coffee, and regrouped near the freezer entrance. Most people stuck to groups by gender.

Jiwon considered sitting with the older women who always treated him kindly, but they asked too many nosy questions about his personal life. He opted to be alone. He wasn’t the only one keeping to himself, so it didn’t draw attention. Honestly, everyone was too busy catching their breath to care about anyone else.

Thanks to a surge in volume, he didn’t leave the freezer until after 8:30 PM. Someone on the same bus grumbled about how the company squeezed them for everything without even paying overtime.

The bus cruised along quiet country roads, then turned onto a street lined with apartment buildings.

His phone buzzed in his sling bag.

[Got any cash?]

It had been a while.

[What cash would I even have.]

He replied immediately.

[Can you do 5 mil?]

[Fuck off.]

[You heard from President Choi?]

[Nope.]

Then the call came in.

He didn’t answer.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Three missed calls from “Fucking Bastard.”

Whenever he got missed calls from “Fucking Bastard,” tension gripped him for the rest of the day. It had been six months of this, and he still hadn’t gotten used to it. Normally he would’ve napped on the commute back, but not today. His nerves were fried, and it ruined his whole rhythm.

Still, the bus reached its destination like clockwork, and Jiwon, too, got off like a machine at Gangnam Station and headed into his usual convenience store.

He bought a triangle kimbap and a canned coffee, sat down at a table. Even after stretching, his body didn’t feel any better. With no other option, he popped some painkillers, chewed them down, and used the triangle kimbap to wash away the bitterness.

He thought about turning on the regular designated driver app, but there was no way he could work like this. He gave up. Decided to wait until the pain in his arm dulled.

It was only early June, but summer had come early this year. The air was already thick, hard to breathe. He had no appetite. Maybe I’ve already gotten heatstroke, he thought as he forced the rest of the triangle kimbap down and sipped at the sweet canned coffee.

His phone buzzed again. Still on edge, he checked the screen, then let out a faint sigh.

It was the office for the designated driver dispatch company.

Did someone complain? He mentally scanned through the clients from last night as he picked up.

“Yes, this is Kim Jiwon.”

— “Driver-nim, you not working today? We noticed you haven’t turned the app on.”

A call center employee with a cheerful voice.

“Ah, well...”

Do I really need to make excuses?

“I was just about to turn it on. What’s the call for?”

— “You did a drive to Seongbuk-dong the day before yesterday, right?”

They read off the address.

Of course he remembered.

No way he’d forget a customer who tipped him ₩150,000.

“Yes. Why?”

— “Can you go again?”

“To Seongbuk-dong?”

— “Well, yeah, where else? Can you do it?”

The employee laughed lightly.

“I can, but I’m at Gangnam Station right now. It’d take me over an hour to get there at this time. Is that okay?”

— “Ah. Got it. One moment.”

While he waited for the rep to check, Jiwon opened the driver app.

— “Hello?”

“I’m here.”

— “They said never mind. They’ll use a different driver today.”

Oddly enough, hearing that actually made him feel relieved.

He faked a tone of disappointment and hung up, then stared down at the now-black screen of his phone.

Another call had popped up. He quickly switched the setting to general dispatch, then walked out of the convenience store.

The heat from the asphalt, buildings, and passing pedestrians made it hard to breathe. Still, he kept walking. To forget the pain in his arm, to keep his mind from drifting somewhere darker—he walked just hard enough to feel slightly winded.

Soon, sweat dotted his forehead and trickled down his face.

His phone buzzed again. A call had come in through the alternate designated driver app—the one he only turned on on days when he got missed calls from “Fucking Bastard.”

Pickup: Exit 7, Gangnam Station.

Drop-off: Exit 7, Nowon Station.

Fare: ₩5,000. Card. Scheduled.

It was a job nobody else would accept.

Jiwon tapped the details, confirmed the customer number, and turned in the direction of Gangnam Station.