This is Fucked! ~Hope Arc~ (1)
In an era of brutal job scarcity, developers were the most coveted profession. YouTube overflowed with new coding tutorials every day, and the widespread belief was that mastering development could land you a job paying at least two million won a month.
That must be why everyone these days was half-assing their way through some coding bootcamp just to snag employment. It had become trendy.
...Well, having dreams is free, I guess.
But few people truly understood what being a developer entailed. Who were they, really? Developers were the ones clashing with planners and headbanging in frustration at their monitors. They were the human lightbulbs illuminating Pangyo's night city with their overtime grind. And they were slaves catching the first bus home at dawn because a single bug refused to die.
And unfortunately, I was one of them.
In one of Pangyo's countless shared offices, inside a tiny room with a sign reading Railroad Software, I was pulling another late night today.
Ah... I need to fix this bug...
The issue I'd been chasing for a week still wouldn't budge. Under normal conditions, I'd have spotted the problem in no time, but after chugging five Americanos and pulling an all-nighter, I wasn't in my right mind.
As I groaned in agony, on the verge of collapse, someone suddenly spoke up.
"...Im Seong-u, don't you have anything to say about the workload?"
"..."
The woman in front of me—thwack!—slammed a binder onto the desk.
Too sleepy to even get mad, I rubbed my eyes and looked up at her. Red ponytail, sharp eyes. Brown irises laced with contempt. An overwhelming figure that threatened to burst the buttons on her suit jacket. It was Han Yu-ra, the president of this company.
Her scarlet lips moved, spewing abuse at me... but this wasn't our first rodeo, so I just let it roll off my back. I stared blankly out the window at the sunlight.
"This is just an idle game, isn't it? Honestly, what's so hard about developing it? Huh? If you've got a mouth, say something."
An idle game?
Rankings, player-versus-player battles, character grades and level-ups, personalized room decoration. Could you really call something packed with all that an idle game? Or had the definition changed without me noticing?
Who knew. And even if it was an idle game, coding server security, account linking, and the payment system from scratch was a headache in reality.
But if you get that, you wouldn't be a non-technical major.
I'd explained this several times already, but they had no intention of listening. So I kept my mouth shut. Communicating felt like a total waste.
I shouldn't be like this...
The absence of communication breeds ignorance, and ignorance breeds misunderstanding. I'd been hit with plenty: slacking off and killing time, acting superior despite barely knowing basic programming, and more.
What happens when those misunderstandings mix with ignorance, office politics, and gender tensions in a female-dominated company? The answer: isolation.
"Say something. If you've got a mouth."
I didn't snap back out of kindness. No naive hopes like they'll appreciate my efforts someday. I was just drained from the all-nighter, and I'd been through these misunderstandings and fights too many times before. My eyes were dry, and I didn't feel like doing anything.
I muttered offhandedly.
"I'll finish it all by today."
"How many times have I heard that one?"
The most exhausting thing about Han Yu-ra was that she wasn't as oblivious as she seemed. Put nicely, she had good instincts. Put harshly, she was paranoid. She was sharp at picking up the nuances hidden in words, and she pressed me on it.
"Are you implying I'm making you unhappy?"
"..."
"Take your hands off the keyboard. Now."
I don't have time for this.
Reluctantly, I pulled my hands away and looked at her. Maybe from all the coffee, or the sleep deprivation—my stomach burned a little.
The reason I'd pulled the all-nighter was simple. The Open Beta for the game we'd spent a year building was just around the corner.
Exactly four months away. Miss that deadline, and the investors would storm the company, maybe even sue us into oblivion.
But that wasn't why I kept working. There was only one reason I was still here.
Love for the game.
Like Pygmalion, I loved the game I'd sculpted, and that love turned into obsession. If only I'd known sooner that love becomes obsession, and obsession becomes pain. But it was too late now.
"Pulling all-nighters has to mean something, right? If that's how you want to do it, just go home."
"That's a bit much, don't you think?"
Han Yu-ra... you of all people shouldn't say that.
Indignation surged. I'd worked harder than anyone in this company. I could vouch for it. Sure, the other employees were idiots, but you—the CEO—had no right to say that.
But nothing was impossible in this world, for better or worse.
"Im Seong-u."
"...Yes?"
"I don't think we need you anymore."
The office fell silent. The other female employees stared at me.
"There's no progress here. A-ram's planning doc is a week behind, when are you going to implement it?"
"This bug I'm fixing is the top priority. What's the point of adding more planning when development isn't even moving?"
Planner Kim A-ram glared at me coldly. Her eyes screamed why aren't you implementing my plans faster? That shameless mindset had caused me endless grief.
Im Su-yeon snickered. The one who always whined about the workload and threw tantrums—her mocking me was a sight.
They whispered, loud enough for me to hear.
"Seriously, if he can't even code, why'd he join this company?"
"Beats me."
The company had four employees including me: one programmer, one illustrator, one planner, one animator. Did the imbalance fuel the politics? Who knew anymore.
"Haa..."
I looked up at the ceiling. The place I'd treated like home for so long. The ceiling fan hung there, spinning lazily.
I did my best.
Overwork came with physical tolls: chronic fatigue, back pain, blurry vision. I'd endured on love for the game I'd built and anticipation of user reactions. But now it all felt meaningless.
I really worked hard.
I glanced around. Im Su-yeon giggled like she couldn't hold it in. Kim A-ram scowled while churning out docs no one would code—salary thief. Animator Yoon Se-hee twitched like she wanted to speak but gave up.
Was it self-aggrandizing to think I'd worked the hardest?
Maybe it was time to let it all go.
"...So, you're firing me?"
"Yes. You'll get good unemployment benefits."
"What about handover or docs..."
"Hah."
Kim A-ram let out a mocking laugh.
?
"Im Seong-u."
Han Yu-ra said to me. In the sunset glow through the window, she still looked beautiful even now. Memories twisted in my gut.
"For an idle game like this... huh? No matter how much effort you put in, how much could it be? No need for handover or docs—just voluntarily resign by tomorrow."
I met Han Yu-ra's eyes.
Sudden termination notice...
Programmers usually documented code thoroughly and handed it over before leaving. Code was a logical cipher tough to decipher without the author. So if firing one, the smart move was to have them document everything first.
But Han Yu-ra didn't want that.
Why...?
"Security concerns..."
I got her angle. Some programmers sabotaged code out of spite on exit, or leaked core tech. Her caution made sense.
Suspicion wasn't bad. If my code was that simple, they could just rewrite it. Why cling so hard?
She probably had no clue what fate awaited this company.
If she was pushing that far, I had no lingering attachment left. Any fondness evaporated.
"Got it."
"..."
"Thanks for the hard work."
I turned to leave.
"Pfft. Acting all cool..."
Im Su-yeon's mocking laugh rang out, and a flicker of unease lingered in Han Yu-ra's eyes.
Do big companies handle resignations like this?
I'd never quit before, so I wasn't sure... but probably not. This was a shithole micro-company; informal exits came with the territory.
Hoo...
Mark my words—that company was fucked come the Open Beta in four months.
Railroad Software. In truth, it was an ultra-micro game dev outfit: a one-million-won-a-month rented shared office and four employees total.
And as of last night, employees numbered three.
Illustrator Im Su-yeon. Planner Kim A-ram. Animator Yoon Se-hee.
The makers of the simple collectible mobile girl game Sepiros Online grinned smugly.
One reason for their good mood: the gloomy male programmer was gone.
"...Feels better with him out. Hehe."
Im Su-yeon, the annoyingly foxy short-haired girl, giggled mockingly at the programmer who'd left yesterday.
"Always pulling overnights, whining how his work was sooo hard..."
Planner Kim A-ram had a grudge. The developer always rejected her plans, then got mad when they changed.
In her view, it was baffling.
"How can you make perfect plans from the start? Always dragging his feet on deadlines, nagging that planners should know some programming... Ridiculous."
"Oh, I know, sis. Coming in with that death glare like, Haa... Do you know how long it'd take a normal company to dev this?"
"Exactly, exactly."
They cackled in delight. To them, Im Seong-u was clueless about his job, nitpicking even a simple game like this.
The world was wide, programmers plentiful—that was their thinking.
Han Yu-ra spoke up.
"Things will get better from here. We'll hire someone better than Im Seong-u."
"As expected of the president. Great call."
Han Yu-ra felt a twinge of tension.
We have to nail the Open Beta in four months, no matter what.
This ragtag club alumni crew had only shaped up into a proper company because Han Yu-ra lucked into investment: ten billion won. Big money for a startup.
But her contract demanded Open Beta in four months. Fail, and lawsuits would turn her into a debtor.
Im Seong-u was a fresh grad, not even a year out. Didn't know coding, so he probably worked in roundabout ways. Cutting him before Open Beta was the smart move.
She believed it was the right call.
The mousy-looking animator Yoon Se-hee spoke up.
"...But, did we really do the right thing?"
The mood soured. Planner Kim A-ram shot her a quiet glare. Illustrator Im Su-yeon eyed her like what the hell?
"What do you mean?"
"N-no... I mean... Im Seong-u was always pulling all-nighters, right? Never watched YouTube or surfed the web much... Typed a ton of code..."
Yoon Se-hee was passive, zero politics. Next in line for bullying after Im Seong-u, she now faced gleeful pecking from the two woodpecker-like women.
Kim A-ram's attack!
"Se-hee, that's hilarious. Didn't you hear him always singing about overtime pay?"
Im Su-yeon's attack!
"Yeah, we're family here, sis. You got a crush or something?"
"N-no, not that..."
Kim A-ram and Im Su-yeon's combo attack.
"Then why take his side? Last time, you just nodded along quietly."
"Right, sis. Weird defending someone who's gone."
The frail Se-hee shrank back, penguin-like under assault.
Han Yu-ra couldn't stand it and intervened.
"It's fine, Se-hee. We'll hire a good one, so don't worry."
Han Yu-ra said. To her, the departed Im Seong-u was just a 26-year-old nobody. Replacements abounded.
...There are plenty to replace you, Im Seong-u.
With that thought, Han Yu-ra shouted.
"We're gonna make it big!"
"Yeah, yeah!"
Four months to Open Beta. The problem hit the very next day.