Chocolate

The little shop bell chimed.

Jiho was mid-repair when the door cracked open a sliver. He glanced over—and there, framed in the gap, was Grandfather Hwang, the scrap collector, poking his liver-spotted face through the doorway.

"Boss Kim. Busy?"

"No, sir. Come on in."

He was the owner of a ten-pyeong electronics repair shop—Lucky Repair Shop. Setting down the soldering iron, he wheeled himself forward to greet the old man.

"Boss Kim. Brought a few more finds today."

"Go ahead and bring them in."

At that, Grandfather Hwang dug something out of his handcart: a fan with a cracked blade, and a few smartphones with shattered screens.

"Hup—there we go."

The old man set the fan and the phones right on Jiho's workbench himself.

"Well?"

"Give me a second."

Jiho examined each piece carefully—checking for crushed casings, for any sign of water damage. They were throwaways, sure. But if he could fix them and resell them, they were money.

"Hmm. I'll take the fan and this phone—and this one. But that smartphone's way too old. No parts left for a model like that."

"That so? Well, anything you buy off me is fine by me."

If Jiho didn't take them, Grandfather Hwang would have to haul everything to a scrap yard. At a scrap yard a phone wasn't electronics—it was just scrap metal. One phone fetched a thousand won on a good day. Even with the fan thrown in, five thousand was about the best he could hope for.

"Ten thousand for the lot."

"Heh heh. Much obliged."

Grandfather Hwang took the bill with a broad smile. Double what the scrap yard paid—no reason for him not to keep coming to the shop. Not that Jiho was running a charity.

Behind the old man, a line of lettering stuck to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the glass caught the light.

His main trade was buying broken smartphones, fixing them, and selling them used. Prices varied by model, but the pattern was steady: pick up a busted unit for around ten thousand won, put in a fifty-thousand-won screen and a twenty-thousand-won battery—eighty thousand in materials total—and sell it for about a hundred ninety thousand. That was for the easy ones, of course. Flooded phones often meant tearing down the board itself, and then the repair costs could outrun the resale price. The real skill was picking pieces that looked dead but would come back to life without a fight.

Grandfather Hwang was already turning to leave.

"Well then, Boss Kim. Don't work too hard."

"Hold on a second."

Jiho pushed the handrim of his wheelchair back, rolled over to the snack shelf, and pulled out a chocolate pie.

"For the road."

"Nobody treats ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a man like Boss Kim."

"It's nothing."

Grandfather Hwang opened the door and went out. Jiho rolled himself back into place at the workbench.

He was disabled. Four years ago, during a family trip in his freshman year of college, a car accident had taken his father's life and left his mother severely injured—she was still in the hospital. Both of Jiho's legs had been lost; he lived by the wheelchair now. School had gone by the wayside. With a body like this, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had to cover daily survival and his mother's hospital bills. His father had run an electronics shop, and Jiho himself had some engineering school under his belt, so he had taken over the business and kept working.

Maybe I should rename the place…

Lucky Repair Shop. His parents had once debated changing it to Jiho Electronics after he was born—Lucky Repair Shop, or Jiho Electronics. They'd decided a kid might find his own name on the sign embarrassing when he grew up, so Lucky had stayed. Looking at it now, though—a dead father, a mother in a hospital bed, a son in a wheelchair—it didn't feel particularly lucky.

"Alright. Let's see what Grandfather Hwang brought in. Oho—this S-company one's got a clean body."

Calling a phone with a spiderwebbed screen "clean" sounded absurd, but the glass was replaceable. Everything else about the chassis looked solid. It was a model about five years old—perfect for the used market. Done right, it could go for three hundred thousand won or more. Swap the screen and battery, and he was looking at roughly two hundred thousand in profit.

He hooked the power leads for a test.

"Oh—it's booting!"

A good start. Even with a dead screen, a boot sequence and sound meant the board was in decent shape. He watched the current draw on the leads carefully—steady at 0.1 A. Stable current meant no shorts. Spikes or a drop to zero would have spelled board trouble; this unit still had a real shot at making him money.

"That's it. Keep flowing."

Power was in. The phone was coming up—and then a voice he'd never heard on any boot sequence spoke from the speakers.

"Constellation System?"

What was that supposed to mean? He'd been repairing used phones for three years. How many devices had he fixed? How many boots had he run? Android was supposed to come up—not something called a Constellation System. Constellation, as in stars? Because Android was a star? Wait—if it was about stars, wouldn't that be Andromeda, not Android?

The boot tones kept going.

Then another voice cut through—different, human.

"Hic… Lord Constellation. Please… answer…!"

A woman, sobbing.

"…What—what is this?"

The screen was still shattered; he couldn't see a thing. A weeping woman's voice at boot was anything but normal. An ordinary person would have been thoroughly rattled. But who was he? A man who bought broken phones, fixed them, and sold them. How many boots had he sat through? He knew this model's boot time by heart. A voice before the sequence even finished meant only one thing.

"Private boot program."

Regular people didn't write custom phone boot software. But this was Korea—an IT powerhouse, home to more programming monsters than anyone cared to count. Some bored developer had clearly gotten their hands on this unit.

"O Constellation! Please… answer…."

A woman's voice, pleading for a constellation. Good thing he was alone in the shop; boot that in front of customers and it would have gotten weird fast. Power on a phone and a desperate female voice fills the room?

"Man. Developer taste is something else."

He didn't know much else, but somewhere out there a shut-in programmer had very particular hobbies. People used to say Japan's past was Korea's present—he'd known Japan had its share of room-dwelling otaku, and it seemed Korea was growing its own crop of eccentric enthusiasts.

Still, the developer's taste mattered less than the practical takeaway.

"If it's booting, the board's solid."

Board good, body good—swap the battery and screen, wipe the weird software, flash a clean install, and an in-demand model like this would pull three hundred thousand easy. A clean win for him.

"Alright. Let's fix it properly."

He had spare screens and batteries for this model—A-grade stock. Not brand new, but close enough. He powered it down and checked for a SIM. Sometimes one was still in place; this one was empty.

He took up the heat gun and carefully warmed the phone's edges. The display adhesive needed heat before it would release—pry it cold and it fought you. After a few minutes, when the glue felt soft enough, he slid a thin pick into the seam.

The temperature was right. He eased the pick in and applied gentle pressure. With a sticky little crack, the cracked screen lifted free. He disconnected the cable linking display to board, set the broken panel on the bench, carefully seated a new screen's cable, and hooked up test power.

The display lit.

"Okay."

A light like a resurrection. He ran adhesive carefully along the new screen's bezel, set it down on the board, waited for it to set, and reassembled. An A-grade battery went in next. He dampened a microfiber cloth with cleaning solution and wiped the chassis until it shone.

And there it was—a three-hundred-thousand-won used smartphone.

"Perfect."

Hardware done. Next came wiping that bizarre boot program and installing a clean one.

"Hmm…"

And yet—for some reason—he wanted to turn it on first. That boot sequence had been too strange. Even audio-only, the developer's eccentricity had come through loud and clear. A boot program that could pour longing into a voice alone… how much creativity had they poured into the visuals?

Taking a peek at some unknown developer's handiwork didn't sound half bad.

"Before I check the craftsmanship—"

He pulled another chocolate pie from the snack drawer. Rule number one of watching anything: you needed popcorn, or the next best thing. He chewed. The pie was good. Then he powered on the phone he'd just repaired.

The screen came alive—and the moment it did, a video filled the display. A grand hall. At its center, a woman in white knelt in prayer. Candles and golden patterns shimmered around her.

"Is this a movie?"

Then the woman on screen lifted her head.

"O Constellation…."

"Oh…!"

The woman in the footage was striking—pale skin, golden hair, bangs falling over her forehead, every feature arranged with almost unnatural balance.

"That face is pure actor material."

You needed looks like that to be on camera, apparently. He'd half expected anime; this was live action. The world really was full of hidden masters.

Curious how long the clip ran, he tapped the screen.

"Huh?"

Touch a playing video and you expected a player UI. What appeared instead was something else entirely.

Dialogue? With whom? About what?

"Weird. So it's not a video?"

He poked the screen again, trying to make sense of it.

In that instant, the woman on screen startled—head snapping up as if she'd heard something, eyes sweeping the hall.

"L-Lord Constellation? Oh my! Adeline! What do we do?!"

Her shock jolted him too.

"…Excuse me?"

"Thank you. Truly—thank you."

Confusion still flickered across her face—then tears spilled down her cheeks. Something was wrong here.

"Um… hello…?"

"Yes, Lord Constellation. I am listening."

Hold on. What was this? The woman on the screen was staring straight at him with bright, earnest eyes. Not a boot sequence. Not a video?

"Uh… is this a video call?"

"That the Lord Constellation would look upon us and deign to speak—we are overwhelmed with gratitude."

She answered now with a soft, luminous smile.

"Hello? Can you hear my voice?"

"Yes, Lord Constellation."

"For real?"

"Yes, Lord Constellation."

"Can you see my face too?"

"No. Your form is not visible. But your voice reaches us clearly."

Good lord. Only then did it sink in: this wasn't a boot program—it was a video call. He could see her; she could only hear him. He'd turned on a phone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and been dropped straight into a live connection. Mentally, he cursed the otaku—no, the hardcore otaku programmer who'd built this thing.

"Ah… so it was a video call. I'm sorry. I powered the phone on and it connected by accident."

"Ah… by chance… you say?"

"Yes. I wasn't trying to connect. It just happened."

"Then… you found our Rodriguez territory by pure chance?"

"Yeah. Seems that way. Is this some kind of random chat app?"

"Ah—random! I have heard of it. The Chief God's random Constellation connection. There are territories said to meet a Lord Constellation by pure chance."

"Ah… yeah, something like that. Sorry. I'll hang up."

At the word hang-up, her voice turned urgent.

"Ah! Lord Constellation! Please—a moment!"

"Yes?"

"Just a moment! May I speak briefly of our territory?"

"Territory?"

Whatever the rush, she launched into her pitch without pause.

"Yes! Lord Constellation! House Rodriguez is a territory of devout faith. I myself, as its count, am a Fourth-Circle Magitech Engineer. Our lands thrive on mining and metalwork—we even host a dwarven forge. Arms from Rodriguez are recognized by all. And the piety of our people, myself included, is thoroughly prepared. Mining prospers here, but agriculture does not, so we cannot feed ourselves fully—ideal conditions for deep faith in the gods to take root."

It was quite the speech.

"However, our territory lost its Constellation's patronage ten years ago. And yet—looked at another way—is that not an excellent condition as well? A land that has never known patronage might find a Constellation unfamiliar. But we have known one before, and with none present now, our longing runs deep. They say those who have tasted bread know best how to eat it, do they not? Lord Constellation!! That a random connection has joined you to House Rodriguez is itself the Chief God's grace. Please—look with pity upon Rodriguez territory."

Jiho swallowed dryly. The woman on the screen—he'd thought she was in a film because of the unreal setting and that actress-grade face. And now that same woman was pouring a full sales pitch at a total stranger. Have pity. Don't hang up. And, most telling of all, the word patronage.

In a situation like this, the right answer came easily.

"Sorry, but I'm not buying."

Hearing the refusal, she crumpled forward as if the strength had gone out of her.

"Ah… O Constellation…."

Hard times all around, it seemed—him included. He pressed the power button on the side of the phone.

He clicked his tongue. Strange—he'd just shut down some unknown woman's sales pitch, and somehow he was craving sugar. He stuffed the rest of the chocolate pie into his mouth.

"Sales pitches these days are getting weird."

Text appeared on the phone.

Huh? A piece of chocolate pie? Had he dropped some? And transmit what, exactly? He ignored it and moved to power the phone off—

Huh? Transfer what, exactly?