Don't Look for Me (1)
*Slurp. Sluuuuurp.*
A round, sweet thing rolls around inside her mouth. Sour flavors tease her tongue one moment, sweet the next. Her tongue works overtime in response, rolling it this way and that.
"...Hoo."
"What's up, Kim Joo-im?"
"Body's all achy. How 'bout a quick smoke?"
"You were watching Lena eat her candy again, weren't you?"
"Tch. Shouldn't have looked."
In the dusty warehouse where boxes kick up clouds of grime, the snacks you can pop in your mouth are limited. With work gloves always on, crisps are a pipe dream, and dust means bottled water only. But the job's grueling, stress piles up. The simplest fix? Sugar.
Back in the day, it'd be a cigarette. Not anymore— one drag and her lungs scream for mercy.
Funny thing: the delivery depot's tiny space is choked with dust during unloading, and that's fine. Lungs must love it? Youth? Then why no smokes?
Circumstances being what they are, her stress-buster became lollipops. Old smoking habit lingers—she holds the stick in a V-sign, and poof, Jeomjang-nim and Kim Joo-im vanish. They used to say bye at first; now they're Pavlov's dogs.
The last truckload box slides into the 1-ton truck. The driver locks up and tosses her a fistful of candies. Bright orange glares from the middle. She scowls instantly.
"Lena! Thanks again today!"
"Ah. Told you I hate orange candies. Tastes like Bupen."
"...Sometimes you don't seem foreign at all. How do you know stuff even my kids don't?"
"Blin."
"You just swore."
"Means 'super good.' Take care! All right!"
The truck revs and peels out. It's 9 p.m. already. Time for her to clock out.
Spotting the two coming back from their smoke, she jogs over.
"Jeomjang-nim. Headin' home?"
"Yeah, last truck gone?"
"Yep. Weather's nice—how 'bout some samssot?"
Two days straight begging for samssot, and Kim Joo-im frowns.
"Hey. Again? We had it yesterday!"
"My liver's still fine."
"You punk. Keep it up, you'll get it chopped out later."
"Not speaking from experience, are ya?"
"Cut back before that happened, punk."
"Good call."
"Whatcha gonna do, Kim Joo-im? Skip booze if it's tough."
She's already grilling pork belly in her head. Saliva floods her mouth. That usual spot's meat—god, so juicy. Dip the soaked samgyeopsal in ssamjang or oil, wrap in lettuce. Chase with cool soju—kuh, perfect.
Can't contain the excitement; she nudges Kim Joo-im's side with her elbow.
"Dust in our guts? Gotta wash it down with meat, right?"
"Brat. That's bad logic."
"If it tastes good, that's all that matters, yeah?"
Jeomjang-nim chuckles, slings an arm over Kim Joo-im's shoulder.
"Lena's hungry. Let's eat, Kim Joo-im."
"And you'll make me drink after?"
"Who, me? Must've been Lena."
"Wasn't me."
She sticks out her tongue, yanks off her gloves, chucks them into the office cabinet. Back at her spot: post-its and a few snacks. Ye-ju must've left them—accountant sis looking out again.
"Ye-ju always hooks up just Lena. Could spare one for our desks?"
"Thinks of her like a daughter. You see your hubby every day at home—wanna share snacks?"
Jeomjang-nim hits the solar plexus hard today. She grins, teases Kim Joo-im, bolts from the office.
"I'd hate a dad like you too."
"Hey!"
Dodging the chasing Kim Joo-im, she hops up the stairs. Mid-air, she spins a full rotation, lands light. 10/10? Try 13.
Kim Joo-im sighs at her ferret-like climb up the two-story iron stairs.
"Told ya, not bull about gymnastics as a kid."
"Lena. You'll get hurt."
"I'm good. Been kickboxing six months straight—still fine."
"That's youth! Cherish those joints, or you'll suffer like me later."
"Joo-im, that's your 180th time saying that. Know it?"
"You counted?!"
She ties her wild hair with an industrial rubber band.
"Hear it daily, sticks even if you don't want. Duh~."
Kim Joo-im descends, puzzled.
"I say that every day?"
Hard work demands proper rewards. But since isekai-ing to another world, money and fame lost their shine. No life goals left? Attention shifts to the big three urges.
Problem: solo meals can't sate her raging appetite. Sterile canned tuna's her limit—how's anyone surviving three squares of that?
Habit from the return. Eat alone, can't trust the cook's tricks. Unthinkable in 21st-century Korea, but routine in that demon tower.
With trusted folks, though—if they eat first—it's safe and delicious. That's why she loves company dinners. Samssot and chimaek with reliable ajusshis? Heaven.
"Lena. Wanna learn accounting now?"
"Nah."
"C'mon, kid! How long you gonna do this? As a dad with a daughter—not like you, but it hurts my heart!"
"Kim Joo-im. You're drunk."
"Hey! Jeomjang-nim, don't stop me. This is important!"
She offers her glass for a cheers. Alcohol nukes lightweights like him.
"Kuhhh—."
Nailed it. One and a half shots, lights out.
She giggles, refills her soju solo. Gulp. The bitter burn wets her throat, ignites her soul.
"Lena."
"Yeah, Jeomjang-nim."
"Take some vacation? Or at least off Saturdays."
"Why?"
Jeomjang-nim's nosiness is harmless. Bright young girl's slaving 12 hours daily at a depot? Worry's natural. Even if she's the weirdo.
She ain't broke, yet works six days. Reason: gotta live with someone she can't dodge, must enjoy.
"Told you tons: lounge at home, that skirt flutters and torments me...."
"..."
She mumbles drunk; he chuckles low, used to it.
Girl hating skirts? Normal eyes see crazy. But she's dead serious. Filthy serious.
Over 20 years as a guy, suddenly a girl—who wouldn't be her? If Belial had warned about Astarte-power backlash sooner, no mess. Wouldn't sate disemboweling that bitch.
She's lining up soju shots when the next table amps up.
—Yo, saw what I sent?
—Yeah. Char play was insane. Who pulls Replicant right there?
—Mixer's the real deal. He'll top this tourney too.
—Thought #1 gets boring, but new chars each time? Just impressive now.
She grips her empty glass, glares silently. Clear the annoying nick, change topic.
They feel the sting, switch quick. To something worse, sober ears can't handle.
—Yo, know this guy?
—Who?
—RenMom. Red rank stalker, harasses nonstop. How you not know RenMom? Try Jong-un son of a bitch.
She pours soju wildly, slurps to the brim, blurs her mind. Tunes back in.
—Wtf man. Jong-un total fucker. RenMom—that 100% Ren-picker?
—Yeah? Hides ID, keeps changing.
—Frontier?
—Maybe. Funny: educates everyone with Tuhon. Details so deep, one match boosts you tons.
—For real?
"Lena?"
—I hit Orange thanks to him.
—You finally Orange'd.
—When you climbing, Green trash?
—Learned from him, punk.
—Luck meeting RenMom, idiot.
"Lena???"
"Yes?!"
Just eavesdropping wasn't enough—she slams her glass down. Doesn't shatter. Just chips.
Neighbor stares flock her way. She slaps on her mask, ducks head.
Next table guys whisper at her depot uniform.
—Kinda looks like Ren, right?
—...Too grimy for Ren?
She hoists Kim Joo-im awkwardly, fake-butchers Korean at Jeomjang-nim.
"Jeomjang-nim. Let's go."
"Yeah. Good eats?"
"Yes. Thank you kindly."
Wanna bolt. Rags lower risk, but someone might spot her.
Shoulder-carrying blackout Kim Joo-im, flees the shop amid murmurs.
—Foreigner?
—Foreigner with that physique?
—Most Eastern Euro girls built like that. Face-blind idiots.
Thanks for not recognizing. Desperately.
*
On the way back, she snags a flat stone from the street. Tosses and catches, dusts it off. Home soon.
Neighborhood's rundown old houses and villas. Uphill? Fancy pads emerge. Stark contrast, always.
Iron gate swings open to a modest yard. Sturdy conical stone tower greets her, flat stone in hand.
Round stones wedged midway always threaten stability. Gusts make it wobble faintly. Can't help—didn't build solo.
Not tricked by Belial; self-summoned doom, living Ren's life.... To face that bitter truth, she stacks with the landlady.
Where to place it? Ta-in'll grab junk and slap it on; gotta solid base.
Here? Nah. Ta-in's opener crumbles it. Right—here.
Drunk sway grips her sweaty. Tense.
"Hoo."
10-year tower pro: perfect base. Tomorrow's junk fits anywhere.
Rubs sore shoulders, climbs outdoor stairs to second floor.
Doorstep, checks phone: Sunday midnight. Annoying Sunday dawns.
Cause of endless hide-and-seek horror with tower-building hard mode: landlady Joo Ta-in.
Know the thrill of all-day tag terror? With Ta-in, possible.
Quiet room time—stairs creak. Open door: her hands full of fluttery clothes and incongruent chicken.
No Sunday scares; all senses back, punches door lock fast.
*Beep. Beep. Beep-beep. Click.*
Grips cold handle, eases open. House quiet. Good. Quiet Sunday ahead.
Shuts entry door pleased.
"Lena~."
Sunny-faced woman pops from behind the door. Ninja stealth.
"Still haven't changed the passcode?"
"Normal folks don't hide inside ahead...."
"But.... It's been ages since we saw each other. Waited early...."
Squishy girl saunters, hangs on her neck.
"Play with me? Even a little... hate it?"
Reintroduce: she took in homeless wanderer six months back.
Merciful, but friendless loner landlady otherwise.