I Refuse to Be an Extra
Just like I'd seen in the webtoon.
The Random Box — the reward for completing the first quest.
Apparently I'd fulfilled some perverted hidden condition, and this Random Box was what I'd gotten for it.
But there was something a little off about it.
In the webtoon, quest windows and message windows were always blue by default. The only exception was the occasional red warning message. Everything else was blue, no exceptions. So a Random Box materializing in midair like a hologram should have been blue too.
This one, though, was an unsettling black.
It looked like something that would curse you the second you opened it — but they'd called it a reward. Surely they wouldn't stick a curse inside a reward box.
"Should I open it?"
In the webtoon, Random Box rewards were exactly that — random. Sometimes you got something as useless as a ballpoint pen. Sometimes you got a decent weapon or a survival tool. Of course, the pens only ever came out of boxes opened by extras who weren't even worth drawing a second time. The protagonist and his party always got weapons at minimum, or food and tools they needed to survive. Sometimes they got items that were essential to the plot itself.
But the best thing you could pull from a Random Box was a skill.
"Maybe this is how I find out."
What I actually am in this world. If I'm protagonist-tier, a skill comes out. If I'm at least a major supporting character, I get a weapon or a survival tool. But if I'm just some disposable extra who's going to die here, I'll get something completely useless — like a ballpoint pen.
Alright. Let's put my fate on the line and find out.
I raised my hand and reached toward the black box floating in the air.
The box started shaking violently, and the lid blasted open like an explosion.
Come on! My destiny!!
Am I cut out to be the protagonist!!!
......
......
......
That's... ambiguous.
I stared blankly down at the black gloves that had tumbled to the floor after I failed to catch them. Looking at the dense cluster of shiny little nubs on the inside, the grip was clearly excellent.
But what the hell was this supposed to mean?
It wasn't an amazing reward like the ones the protagonist or major characters got. Then again, it wasn't complete trash like a ballpoint pen either. No matter how I looked at it, it was just... middling. Neither here nor there.
Right. If it's ambiguous, then the answer's already clear.
"Gloves.... So I'm just an extra who's going to die here, is that it?"
That's what you want to say, isn't it? That I'm some half-assed, neither-here-nor-there existence — just like these gloves.
"......"
"KRAAAAAAGH!!!! KRAAGH!! KRAAAGH!!!"
God, that is loud.
I lifted my head from where it'd been hanging and saw the zombie still jammed between the iron bars, screaming its head off. The same one whose hair I'd yanked before the bonus reward notification popped up. The one with the key to get out of here sitting in its pants pocket.
"Ah... this is pissing me off for real..!"
Some insane god dragged me here because I left a half-assed comment. And now I'm being treated like some neither-here-nor-there extra. Destined to end up just like that thing — shrieking and gurgling until my skull splits open. Or else starve to death locked in this cell.
"Bullshit. No! I am not doing the extra thing!!!"
I bent down, scooped the gloves off the floor, and pulled them on one at a time. They fit like they'd been custom-made, and when I clenched my fists the grip was immediately, unmistakably solid.
Squeeze!!!
Yeah, I know. I'm an extra whose final appearance was already written for this episode. But that's what the pervert who dragged me here thinks — and I have zero intention of dying here. I'm going to survive. Using these gloves.
"So what if they're useless? I'll just make them useful myself. These gloves are the key item of this story. I'll make them that."
I bent down again and reached out with a black-gloved hand. Then I picked up the galbi-tang earthenware bowl. The inside was caked with white globs of congealed fat, but it wasn't slippery at all.
Why?
Because I had the key item that would solve this entire story — the Non-slip Gloves.
"KRAAGH!!! KRAAAAAAGH!!! KRAAGH!!"
"......"
I looked at the thrashing zombie with indifferent eyes. I wasn't going to end up like that. I was going to survive, no matter what, and go home.
Squeeze!!!
I clenched the hand holding the bowl as hard as I could. I can do this. This isn't reality — it's inside a webtoon. So there's no need to feel any guilt.
"KRAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!"
"Bowl!!!"
I brought the absolutely non-slip bowl down with everything I had. If once wasn't enough, I'd keep going until it was.
Thud!! Thwack!!! Thud-thud!!! Thud!!!!
These gloves really were the key item of this story after all. Does that make me a core character, even if I'm not the protagonist?
[@#$%^@$^#@$^!!!]
I have no idea what you're saying, but don't act so wronged. A god might have everything predetermined — but humans are the ones who carve out their own fate. I have no intention of accepting whatever destiny you decided for me.
Don't like that?
Then come down here and take a bowl to the face yourself.
"Hoo... stubborn bastard just won't die."
"......"
I looked down at the zombie hanging limp and motionless, then tossed aside the shattered pieces of the bowl. After that I flopped onto my back and pulled the blanket over my head.
Once the surroundings went quiet, I threw off the blanket and got up. I walked over to the zombie still wedged dead between the iron bars, reached through the gaps, and pulled the key out of its pocket.
Click—
The sound of the key turning in the lock drew a sigh of relief out of me.
"Whew...."
But it wasn't time to relax yet. The quest wasn't about getting out of the holding cell — it was about getting out of the entire police station building. Only then would I finally receive a Status Window.
This webtoon didn't give you levels for killing zombies, but you could earn stats and skills through various quests, so securing a Status Window was non-negotiable.
Creeeeak....
I carefully removed the latch hanging on the holding cell door. Then I cracked it open just enough to stick my head out, ready to slam it shut at any moment.
"......"
"Grrrr..."
"Krrr..."
Only two zombies in sight. If I could take those two out quickly, I could make this place secure. From what I'd seen when they dragged me in, the entrance to this office was a double setup — a regular glass door plus an iron-barred gate like the holding cell door I was holding now. The barred gate was wide open, but it had a latch too. If I shut it fast and locked it, I could stop any more zombies from pouring in.
But the bowl was already smashed. How was I supposed to deal with two whole zombies?
"Hmm?? Hmm? Hmmm~"
A good idea hit me. I'd need the crazy woman's help for it, though.
(Hey. Get up.)
(......)
(You asleep?)
(Th-the zombies..?)
(Just get in here. That one's dead, so don't worry about it.)
(Huh..? H-how did you open it??)
Instead of answering, I cracked the door a little wider, and the crazy woman — still wrapped in a blanket — crawled in on all fours. I explained the plan short and simple. She didn't seem to trust me much.
(W-what if I die..!)
(And sitting still is going to fix that how?)
(Someone might come to rescue...)
(If they were coming, they'd already be here.)
Two days had passed. The fact that a police station of all places was in this state meant outside help wasn't coming. The crazy woman knew that too, so instead of clinging to useless hope she grabbed my arm with trembling hands.
(I-if I just do what you say... I'll be safe, right..?)
(Of course.)
I couldn't actually guarantee that. I was betting my own life on this too. But there was no other way.
It wasn't a complicated plan. Explained out loud, it was genuinely simple and straightforward. The risk level, though, was maximum. If either one of us failed at our part, we both died.
So yeah — I was worried. Could I really trust that crazy woman?
I trusted her. Not because I believed in her, but because I had no choice but to. If I couldn't trust her, this plan was impossible from the start.
Tap-tap—
I gently rapped my nails against the desk, and the crazy woman carefully opened the door and came out. I was already outside, watching from behind a desk.
She opened the door until it stood perpendicular, then slipped behind it, pulled the blanket over herself, and lay flat on the floor.
She shot me a pitiful, anxious look. I gave her a firm nod — the signal.
Her lips worked like she had a lot to say, but instead of wasting words she pressed herself fully against the floor and shoved her right hand — spoon clenched in it — as deep as she could through the iron bars. Then the operation began.
Tap.. tap.. tap.. tap..
The spoon striking the floor made a tiny, ringing sound. The two zombies wandering the office turned their heads toward the holding cell.
Please.. please... please...!!!
"Krrr..."
"Grrrrr..."
First step: success. Instead of screaming and charging, they just cranked up that distinctive phlegmy growl a notch and started walking slowly toward the cell.
Time for the second prayer.
Tap.. tap.. tap.. tap..
The crazy woman kept tapping the spoon against the floor, her body completely buried under the blanket. Her arm, shoved through the bars, was not. If the zombies walking toward the cell went through the open door to bite that arm, we were good.
If they had any intelligence, they'd realize the arm was sticking out from under the blanket. But I didn't think zombies had that kind of awareness. If they did, nobody would survive this — protagonist or not.
"KRAAAAGH!!!"
"KRAAGH!!!"
Just as I'd expected, the zombies' eyes locked onto the arm inside the cell. The problem was she screamed too early. No — she yanked her arm back too early. The two zombies hadn't even entered the cell yet, and the moment the hand vanished under the blanket, their target switched to the bulging lump of fabric.
But that was still within my calculations. That was why I'd stationed the crazy woman behind the door opened perpendicular to the wall.
The door, shoved by the zombies, bumped into her behind it and hesitated for just a moment.
Thud!!
I scrambled up onto the desk and launched myself.
"KRAAAAGH!!!"
"KRAAGH!!!"
The two of them spotted me late and tried to scream, but my body — flying off the desk — hit them first.
WHAM!!!
A full-body flying tackle, every ounce of my weight behind it. The two zombies lined up against the cell door toppled like dominoes and spilled inside.
"Shut it!!!"
Several seconds had already passed since the zombies started screaming. That meant I didn't have time to get up, close this door, and latch it myself. I scrambled up and sprinted for the entrance, twisting my body left and sliding across the floor.
Screech!!
My shoes caught my sliding body, and I burst through the glass door and jumped with everything I had.
Grab!!
I caught the bars stretching across the top of the wide-open iron gate like a chin-up bar, then used the forward momentum of my body to drive both feet straight out.
BOOM!!!!!
A clean double-foot kick planted square in the chest sent the zombie that had been about to come through flying backward, tangling up with the ones behind it.
These gloves really were the key item. Bare-handed, I would have slipped right off. Thanks to the gloves, I shoved the zombies back clean, dropped down, shut the door, and locked the latch.
Clack!!!
Done..
Holy shit, that actually worked...
"Fuck, it work—"
"KYAAAH!!!!"
Before I could even savor the success, the crazy woman's scream rang out and a chill shot down the back of my neck. If she hadn't managed to close the holding cell door and latch it, I'd have to fight two zombies bare-handed and win.
Ah — not bare-handed, I guess. But grip strength doesn't do shit in a zombie fight!!!
I spun around, shot back through the open glass door, and whipped my head toward the holding cell.
"KYAAAH!! It's disgusting!!!!!"
"......"
The crazy woman was slumped in front of the cell, eyes squeezed shut, head turned away, thrashing her arms and legs like she was putting up a last desperate fight against a zombie pouncing on her.
Is she an idiot?
"KYAAAH!!! Do something about this already!!!"
"......"
I walked over, grabbed the collar of the crazy woman still begging for help, and dragged her somewhere the zombies locked in the cell couldn't be seen.
If it's disgusting, just don't look.
Still — she pulled her weight well enough. Closed the door properly, sucked me off pretty hard, and even swallowed the cum so I could get the bonus reward.
Hey. You watching?
These gloves, me, maybe even this crazy woman — none of us are the half-assed extras you wanted us to be.
Got that, you stupid pervert bastard?!
[#^$%#@$%@#$%@!!!!]