Life Is No Drill
Park Hanna was what people commonly called a delinquent.
She skipped school as a matter of habit, and on top of that she drank and smoked. Her one real pleasure in life was standing in an alley with a cigarette while everyone else sat in class.
Tuk.
"Hey. Gimme another one."
Hanna flicked the cigarette onto the pavement and held out her hand to the friend beside her.
"Jesus, how many are you gonna smoke? A humidifier probably puts out less smoke than you."
The guy snorted and rummaged through his pocket. What came out of the pack, though, was not a cigarette—just a sad little puff of dust.
"Ah, fuck. We're out."
"You're no goddamn help! Hold on a sec."
When the smokes ran out, the next move was already decided.
Go buy some at a convenience store? How were minors like them supposed to purchase cigarettes? What you needed at a time like this was a sucker—some useful idiot who'd buy them for you.
Guess today was just an unlucky day.
I had definitely taken a different route this time...!
"We ran into each other again. At this point it's destiny, right?"
When an unavoidable crisis lands on people, they tend to do more or less the same thing.
There's a saying that even if you fall into a tiger's den, you'll live if you keep your head. So you spin your brain as hard as you can, hunting for a way out.
I was no different. I scanned the street, looking for a gap I could slip through.
"There's a bunch of us this time, so one carton, please~"
Of course there wasn't one.
They say if you can't avoid it, enjoy it—but who the hell was supposed to enjoy this? Getting sent on a cigarette run by high schoolers is not a situation anyone would have fun with.
"Try running like last time. Just try it."
Fuck!
What am I, their errand girl?
You could argue I should just trip one of them and bolt the way I had before, but the problem was there were more of them this time. So contrary to every vow I had made after the last incident, I found myself unable to refuse the fifty-thousand-won bill the girl held out.
Why. What. Why.
Even if I used to be a mercenary, I was not invincible. In the game my body had basically no physical limits, so I could fly around like that—but that kind of play was absolutely impossible in reality. Fighting with Lee Harin's ridiculously frail body was a non-starter from the beginning.
You know the type. People who look at a woman with skinny legs and think, If I kicked that, would it snap?
Actual bone strength means it wouldn't break that easily. Lee Harin, though, was so weak it genuinely felt like she might.
So this was not cowardice, and it was not shame. It was simply the survival instinct you choose in order to stay alive. It is not that the strong survive. The ones who survive are strong.
Fine. If it were just one or two of the kids in front of me, I could probably do something. Then what about the rest? It wasn't as if the ones behind them would politely take turns jumping me one at a time.
There were more of them than last time, so the old "use a moment of panic and run" plan was also off the table. And who the hell gets burned by the same enemy twice?
But if I actually went and bought them cigarettes, I was pretty sure I would become their dedicated shuttle for real.
Should I just report them to the cops?
No. Thinking about Korean law, they would walk with zero consequences, a hundred percent. And if I reported them and then ran into them on the street again like this...
I would be completely fucked.
Should I just run?
"......"
I glanced back. The high schoolers were not even looking at me. They were lost in their own conversation, talking endlessly among themselves.
"But is it okay not to watch her?"
"What's she gonna do if she runs? We'll catch her anyway."
The conversation pissed me off a little, but I could feel how thoroughly they trusted me.
They still did not know that the scariest thing in the world is having the axe you trusted bury itself in your foot.
I took off toward home without looking back.
Wondering if they were following, I glanced over my shoulder—and locked eyes with one of them.
"Hey! Hey! That bitch is booking it!"
"What? That's the fifty thousand I got my ass beat by my mom for!"
"Get back here, fuck!"
Shit. They'd already noticed.
People don't realize it, but our bodies can sometimes produce superhuman strength. You can sprint like lightning in an emergency, walk away from a fall unharmed, lift weights you would never dream of on an ordinary day. Millions of tiny sensors that detect danger, plus muscle and bone, can generate power in the final stage of a crisis that you would never imagine in ordinary times.
No matter how weak Lee Harin's body was, in an emergency...
"The hell? She's so fucking slow."
"My grandma's faster than that."
This goddamn body.
I had started running first and they were still catching up. How weak was this athletic ability, exactly? I had no choice but to resent the Lee Harin who had never exercised a day in her life. If she had possessed even the minimum athletic ability—hell, just the average woman's athletic ability—things would not have turned out like this.
"Ha... This unnie really betrays a person's trust like this, huh."
"Who told you to trust her."
I may not have athletic ability, but it is not like I don't have pride. I might be a woman now, but I used to work as a mercenary.
"Thinking of calling the cops? Let's see what's faster—the police or my fists."
I had no intention of just standing there and taking it. I was vowing to put at least one of them in the hospital with me when—
The high schoolers' faces went stiff in an instant.
Wondering what had happened, I looked back—and there stood three men whose bodies all but announced, I work out.
"What... Ah, what business is it of yours, misters? Keep walking."
"Doesn't look like anything good is about to happen. Can't do that."
Whether they had been cowed by the muscle or not, the swagger from a moment ago had vanished without a trace.
"Hey, fuck. You're a guy! Do something!"
"What's that got to do with anything here? How are we supposed to beat people who actually work out!"
Is this why people say appearances matter? If I had still had my old body, I would not have been ignored like this.
"I-if you don't leave, I'm calling the police!"
"The police? You guys just said it yourselves. Let's see what's faster—the cops or a fist."
Even through their clothes, the muscle was obvious. And they were flexing; veins stood out with a presence that was hard to look away from.
"Fuck, just let's go!"
"My fifty thousand!"
"You wanna die over fifty thousand?"
Watching them scurry off like rats, an indescribable feeling washed over me.
Until recently I had had a body like that... no. A body far better than that. I had never even imagined a situation in which I had so little muscle I would need someone else's help.
"Um... are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine."
I had not actually been hit, so my physical condition was excessively good. My pride and my mental state, on the other hand, had long since been reduced to powder.
Do hospitals treat that too?
"You look pretty shaken. Want us to help you walk?"
"No. I'm all right."
Even if I had a woman's body now—wouldn't it look strange, getting escorted by a man? And if I accepted an arm on top of everything else, whatever pride I had left would disappear completely.
"If you're okay, we'll be on our way."
"Ah, yes. Thank you for helping me."
Pride aside, I had received help. I bowed my head lightly in thanks.
The men scratched the backs of their heads, looking embarrassed, and left. I was left alone on the street. No more punk high schoolers sending me on cigarette runs. No more musclebound men who had shut them down in a single breath.
The street was so quiet that anyone looking would have thought nothing had happened at all. Of course, from my perspective, I preferred they think that. The fact that I had been grabbed twice by high schoolers and nearly sent on a cigarette run was a secret I could never tell anyone.
"Ha... How did it come to this."
Me. The one who used to sweep enemies off the battlefield with a gun in my hands. Nearly sent on a cigarette run by high schoolers, and then having to get rescued on top of it.
I could not believe something that would not even happen in a third-rate novel was my reality. If I told anyone this story, I would probably just hear, If you're going to write a novel, at least make it more original.
Sadly, for me, it was real.
"Let's just go home."
There was no better place than home for treating a tired body and a pulverized heart. Lie on the bed, stare blankly at the ceiling, and the day's worries fade a little.
Just as I started to walk, the fifty-thousand-won bill in my hand caught my eye.
The money the high schoolers had given me to buy cigarettes.
What do I do with this fifty thousand...
Even if I turned it in at the police station, I did not think the owner would ever come claim it.
Guess I have no choice but to hold onto it.