The Business Department Wants to Dispose of Defective Inventory
Inside the military, I had coasted through without any real hardship.
Guard duty became nothing special once you got used to it, and the medical unit’s routine ran like clockwork. The seniors were decent people, and none of my peers or juniors were dead weight. It wasn’t just tolerable—it was genuinely enjoyable.
That said, I still wouldn’t become a non-commissioned officer even if they brought me back from the dead.
I enlisted in March and was discharged at the end of August. A year and a half. Long if you looked at it one way, short if you looked at it another.
The moment I finished my discharge report and stepped through the base gate, a strange mix of relief and wistfulness washed over me. I never wanted to come back, yet leaving still felt oddly hollow.
After discharge I rested for about a week, then immediately returned to school. Because my release date fell at the end of August, I was able to time my re-enrollment with the start of the second semester in the first week of September.
Most people avoided graduating in the fall semester, preferring to come back in March so they could take graduation photos under cherry blossoms. Everyone wants that picture. I didn’t have that luxury.
I was already three years older than my classmates after retaking the entrance exam twice. I needed to graduate and get a job as soon as possible; I couldn’t afford to waste another half-year waiting until March.
Before discharge I managed to finish course registration from the base internet café. Fighting the slow connection, I secured most of the classes I wanted and built a decent timetable. Monday, Tuesday, and Friday were packed; Wednesday and Thursday had only one lecture each. It was brutal, but I had to cram as many major credits as possible in my third year.
And above all else, I was returning to a university filled with fresh-smelling female students instead of a barracks full of men. My chest fluttered at the thought.
Not that I had ever actually spoken to any of them. If I’d had that kind of courage, I wouldn’t have been such a loner to begin with.
For a year and a half the only women I saw were the nursing officers and nursing NCOs in the medical unit. Even there, not a single one matched my taste, and I never had a proper conversation with any of them. The only people I talked to in the army were buzz-cut men in combat uniforms reeking of instant noodles.
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Thursday of the first week of September.
For everyone else it was the first morning of the second semester, ten o’clock. In front of Seohan University’s main gate.
Sweat stung my eyes. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my favorite shirt. The sun and the asphalt’s reflected heat baked my body mercilessly, though it was at least cooler than last month.
From the campus park a short distance from the gate, cicadas let out their tired, fading cries, as if announcing autumn. For someone who hated heat as much as I did, the promise of cooler weather was welcome news.
Because it was the first day, students swarmed the main gate—something I hadn’t seen in a long time. Colorful outfits, people hurrying with coffee in hand, groups chatting on benches. The lively, vibrant scene of a university campus. A completely different world from the military.
Normally I wouldn’t have needed to pass through the main gate to reach the cluster of natural sciences buildings. But after being away so long, it felt wasteful to skip it. I wanted to soak in the campus atmosphere and see the banners lining both sides of the entrance.
Familiar large-company recruitment banners for the second half of the year fluttered in the breeze.
“Seeking talent to grow with us.” “We support your challenge.”
Clichéd slogans, yet my heart still raced a little. With a chemical engineering degree, I might actually land somewhere among them.
Half hopeful, half anxious, I walked past the banners and entered the campus proper. Seohan University was fairly large; I still remembered getting lost trying to find buildings as a freshman. Now I could navigate it with my eyes closed.
Turning left from the main gate revealed the humanities buildings lined up in a row. Xavier Hall came first, followed by Dasan Hall—buildings mainly used by the College of Humanities. Beyond them stood the Geffert Nam Duck-woo Economics Hall, and deeper inside sat the Kumho Asiana Paul Business Hall. The Colleges of Humanities, Social Sciences, Economics, and Business were clustered together on the left side of the gate.
Turning right brought the natural sciences buildings into view. Past the main athletic field and up a small hill stood Adam Schall Hall, with Ricci Science Hall rising beside it. The natural sciences were split into two major groups: the College of Natural Sciences and the College of Engineering. Pure sciences like physics, chemistry, and life sciences belonged to the former, while applied fields like chemical engineering, electronics, and computer engineering belonged to the latter.
My own department, Chemical and Biological Engineering, was naturally housed inside the engineering buildings.
I crossed the central plaza, climbed the hill on the right, passed the athletic field and the gymnasium, and finally spotted the familiar structure.
Ricci Science Hall.
A modern glass-covered building at the far right edge of campus. Its entire seven stories were sheathed in windows that reflected sunlight so brightly on clear days they could blind you.
I reached the front of the building.
And there, right in front of the central entrance, stood the same ginkgo tree that had always blocked the path. A year and a half later, it was still there, forcing everyone to walk around it.
Why anyone had planted it dead-center in front of the doorway was beyond me. At least it was only September; the nuts hadn’t fallen yet. Come October, though, the ground beneath it would turn into hell—yellow ginkgo nuts everywhere, that sickening smell filling the air. You’d have to hold your breath and sprint just to get inside. I wasn’t the only engineering student who thought that tree should be cut down.
I finished all my morning classes without incident. Being the first day, they were mostly orientation—professors explaining the syllabus, introducing textbooks, outlining exam ranges. The usual routine. Still, after a year and a half away, sitting through major lectures again made me oddly nervous. My brain had probably gone soft in the army; I wondered if I could keep up.
Lunchtime arrived.
I briefly considered the cafeteria, but on the first day it would be packed. Not wanting to stand in line, I headed for the convenience store instead.
I grabbed a boxed lunch from the store on the first floor of Ricci Science Hall and paid. Spicy pork stir-fry—6,500 won. More expensive than the cafeteria, but at least I could eat in peace.
I sat on a bench behind the building and ate under the warm September sun, watching students pass by in a daze. The meat was a little tough, but it was edible.
Once I finished, I took the elevator to the fifth floor.
My destination: the Career Counseling Club room.
Most club rooms were gathered in Emmaus Hall—bands, dance teams, volunteer groups, academic societies. Almost everything was there. The Career Counseling Club, however, was oddly located on the fifth floor of Ricci Science Hall, our engineering building. It had always been that way, probably because the club had historically attracted mostly natural-sciences students. Sharing job information, resume editing, interview practice—engineering students, who were especially sensitive about employment, had gravitated toward it.
At the end of the fifth-floor hallway I stopped in front of a small door tucked in the corner. A faded sign reading “Career Counseling Club” hung on it, the lettering half-worn away, showing its age.
Knock, knock.
I tapped the door carefully. No answer.
I knocked again. Still nothing.
I tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. With a creak, the door swung open.
“……”
No one was inside.
The room was completely empty.
It was small—maybe ten pyeong at most. One glance took in the entire space: a single window, one old desk, three chairs. The desk looked like it might be real wood or just particleboard; its surface was covered in ballpoint-pen doodles and sticker residue. There had originally been seven chairs, but someone had apparently stolen four. The remaining three had broken backs or missing wheels.
A shabby bookshelf stood against one wall, its employment-related books and old exam files coated in dust and leaning at odd angles. Between the books someone had stuffed snack bags and empty coffee cans.
On the opposite wall hung a corkboard pinned with two-year-old job postings and faded photographs. The seniors in those pictures had probably graduated long ago, yet no one had bothered to take them down.
A broken air conditioner clung to the ceiling, producing not even a breath of air. The only cooling device left was an ancient standing fan whose blades were thick with dust; turning it on would probably just blow grit everywhere.
One of the two fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. Its dying glow cast an unsteady light across the room. Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight streaming in from the window.
Something felt wrong.
There should have been at least two or three people here. Before I enlisted, the club had four members including me—two seniors, one sophomore, one freshman. We weren’t exactly an active club, but someone was always around during free periods, lounging, doing assignments, or just killing time.
Now there was no one. The room itself felt like it hadn’t been touched in ages. Dust coated the desk, the chairs were neatly aligned, and there were no signs anyone had sat in them recently.
……What was going on?
Head tilted in confusion, I closed the door and stepped back into the hallway. One person came to mind: Senior Kim Minwoo. He had been the club president before I enlisted. After graduating, he had considered graduate school elsewhere but ultimately stayed on as a teaching assistant in our department. He should still be working in the department office.
I took the elevator down to the first floor and entered the Chemical and Biological Engineering office. The familiar scene greeted me—partitioned workspaces, the sound of the copier, cool air from the AC. Behind one desk, staring at a monitor, sat Kim Minwoo.
Black horn-rimmed glasses, neatly combed hair. He hadn’t changed much in a year and a half, though his hair was a little longer and his face slightly thinner. Being a TA clearly wasn’t easy.
“Senior. It’s been a while.”
I walked over and greeted him.
“Hello. I’m Seo Chaewon.”
Kim Minwoo looked up, blinked once, then recognized me.
“Oh, Chaewon? You got discharged?”
“Yes, last week.”
“Wow, good job. Must’ve been tough.”
He turned his chair to face me, smiling.
“It really has been a long time. How was the army?”
“Better than I expected. I was a medic, after all.”
“Lucky you got assigned as a medic.”
We exchanged a few updates before I got to the point.
“Senior, I went to the club room but no one was there. Did something happen?”
“……Ah.”
Kim Minwoo’s expression tightened slightly.
“Well……”
He scratched his head.
“Chaewon, things changed after you enlisted.”
“Changed how?”
“So……”
He let out a sigh.
“The two seniors, Jeongho and Subin, graduated last year. The freshman, Jaemin, took a leave and went into the army.”
“……”
“On top of that, the school opened an official career support center last year. They do resume editing, interview consulting, special employment lectures—everything, and it’s all free with professional counselors.”
Ah. I understood immediately.
“So no new members joined?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded.
“No point joining the Career Counseling Club when the school already provides professional help. Why bother?”
“……”
“Last year’s recruitment drive brought in zero freshmen. Not a single one. So in the end……”
He gave an awkward smile.
“You’re the only member left.”
“……Excuse me?”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Just me?”
“Yeah. Technically you’re both the president and the sole member now.”
“……”
I had no words. Before I left there had been four of us. In a year and a half, I had become the only one.