Severance Pay

His phone had rung twice since early that morning. One was from the credit card company, the other from the bank. The credit card company, in its usual polite tone, informed him of the expected payment amount for the following month. The bank sent a text message urging him to check the balance of his automatic debit account. Kang Chi-yeol lay half-buried in his comforter, staring at the notifications, before finally turning off the screen. Perhaps because he had stayed up late in front of his laptop the night before, his eyelids felt heavy and the back of his neck was stiff. The room was quiet, but that quiet carried a particular discomfort known only to those who had lost their jobs. Mornings with nowhere to go were not as sweet as people claimed. It felt as though the world had quietly removed his one allotted place and begun the day as if nothing had changed.

He rose slowly. He washed his face and brushed his teeth as always, but the realization that he no longer needed to choose a tie left his fingertips strangely empty. Habits clung to the body like tiny hooks; no matter how firmly the mind believed it had let go, the body refused to release them so easily. He wiped away the moisture and studied his reflection in the mirror for a long time. He looked tired, and he was. What bothered him more, however, was his expression—the face of a man who had not yet made any decision. The face of someone for whom morning had arrived even though he still had no idea what to do next.

Standing before the narrow sink that felt too small to even call a kitchen, he made coffee. He dumped instant coffee powder into a mug, poured in hot water, and watched the dark brown slowly bloom. Kang Chi-yeol wrapped both hands around the warm mug and stood by the window. People said spring had arrived, yet the wind remained cold. A few articles of laundry fluttered on the veranda of the building opposite, and delivery boxes were stacked beside the convenience store at the entrance to the alley. Scenes he would normally have passed without a second glance on his way to work now stood out with unusual clarity. Having time to spare, he realized, might simply mean being forced to notice things one never needed to see.

He took a sip of coffee and opened his laptop. The sentences he had scribbled in his notepad the night before were still there.

Kang Chi-yeol let out a small, wry laugh at the final line. He had written "tomorrow," yet here he was, turning on this screen first thing again. Still, the notes he had dashed off last night looked somewhat less flimsy in the morning light. At the very least, they felt like a promise that he would not simply lie there thinking of nothing.

He added a new line to the notepad.

Once the severance pay arrives, see how far it can take me.

He logged into internet banking. The moment the balance appeared on screen, a chill settled in one corner of his chest. It was an amount he already knew, yet seeing the numbers displayed made it feel entirely different. The full retirement bonus and settlement pay had not yet been deposited, and touching his remaining savings before maturity would mean a loss. As he began listing monthly rent, utilities, credit card bills, and insurance premiums one by one, the calculator in his head started to pant. The money required to live kept flowing out at a steady pace, while the money coming in had been severed overnight. The numbers were cold, and their coldness possessed a certain dignity. They neither mocked nor raged; they simply showed things as they were. That made them even crueler.

Kang Chi-yeol created a new file and titled it.

After typing worst-case scenario, his hand paused. Writing out the possibility that nothing might work was more painful than he had expected. Yet he deliberately left it there. He knew his own nature. He was the type who, if he only looked at what he wanted to see, would crumble even harder later. He had been that way since childhood—always tackling the hardest parts of an exam first, always double-checking the train schedule before any trip. He had lived believing that while it lacked romance, it at least reduced the odds of catastrophic failure. And yet here he was. Life, it seemed, was not fair.

He swallowed a sigh and scrolled through his account transaction history. Small expenditures marched down the list. Convenience store runs, café visits, company ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dinner expenses, a portion of his parents' hospital bills, internet payments, taxi fares. There was nothing that could be called extravagant, yet his account always felt strangely light. Kang Chi-yeol stared at the records for a long time, then scratched his head. He had reached forty-one without buying a car like other people, without spending money on watches, without ever splurging on a girlfriend's birthday gift. The fact that he had so little despite all that sometimes felt more bitter than anything else. If he had at least dated, there would have been some explanation for where the money had gone. In that regard, he had remained impeccably clean. And in this world, there were clearly cases where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠being clean only made the sadness sharper.

Just then his phone rang again. This time it was his older brother. Kang Chi-yeol hesitated briefly before pressing the answer button.

"Hey, hyung."

"I heard from Mom. She was quick, as usual." His mother always called his older brother first whenever she was startled. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. When Chi-yeol had fallen off his bicycle in middle school and torn up his knee, when the house had been thick with tension before his college entrance exam results, his mother had always dialed her eldest son first. Kang Chi-yeol had never found it particularly unfair; he was simply used to it. He had long understood that in their family there was the person who received the first call when trouble arose, and the person who explained the situation afterward.

"So you really got laid off?"

"Yes."

"Of all times."

His brother's voice carried worry and irritation in an odd ratio. It did not exactly sound like blame, yet it was difficult to call it comfort either. That was simply how his brother was. Having resigned himself early to the way the world worked, his worries were realistic and his words of reassurance somehow gruff.

"I didn't expect it to happen at a time like this either."

"What are you going to do now? Look for another job?"

Chi-yeol delayed his answer by a beat. His brother apparently sensed something in that brief silence and asked immediately.

"Don't tell me you're actually thinking about starting a business?"

"Did Mom already tell you?"

"She did. A chicken shop, of all things. Are you out of your mind?"

Chi-yeol nearly laughed. His brother was always like this. He worried, but his delivery was so blunt that his first sentence always came out sounding like a challenge.

"Why? Is there some rule against opening a chicken shop?"

"It's not that you can't, but it's not the kind of thing you decide on a whim. You've only been out of work a few days and you're already talking about starting a business."

"It has only been a few days... but I can't just lie around doing nothing."

"I'm not telling you to lie around. I'm telling you to think it over again. Business is brutal these days. And chicken shops are the most saturated of all. You know that."

"I do."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

The question left Chi-yeol momentarily speechless. If he tried to explain why, the list would be endless. The fact that he could no longer picture himself remaining at the company. The way the mere thought of entering a new workplace and enduring while reading the room from scratch made his chest tighten. The desire to try running something that carried his own name, even if he was late in doing so. And above all, the conviction that if he gave up now he would regret it for the rest of his life. But how could he compress all of that into a single sentence for his brother?

"I just... want to try doing something with my own hands for once."

His brother fell silent. Within that silence was a faint, subtle tremor. He had probably noticed—that this was not mere bravado, that Kang Chi-yeol had spoken words he would not normally utter.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"If you're serious, then take it slower. You're not usually the impatient type, but right now everything has hit you too suddenly."

"I know that too."

"Receive the severance pay first. Start with the calculations. Ask any friends who run businesses. Look at everything thoroughly. If ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you jump in on a hunch, it'll end badly."

"I agree completely."

"...But why chicken, of all things?"

The question had lost some of its force. It sounded closer to confirmation now than objection. Chi-yeol leaned against the window.

"Because it's the thing I've liked the longest."

"It's not even a person..."

"People don't like me."

His brother finally let out a helpless laugh. Only after hearing it did Chi-yeol feel some of the tension leave his own shoulders.

"That's true, you idiot."

"Right?"

"You've lived so diligently your whole life. How is it that you've never even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dated?"

"That's the greatest mystery to me too."

The call with his brother ended on that somewhat flat note. There had been no grand words of comfort or encouragement, but at least his brother's final remark had been the practical advice typical of him: "Anyway, don't overdo it. Start with the calculations."

Kang Chi-yeol ended the call and added one more line to his notepad.

Hyung is against it too, but says to start with the calculations.