Prologue
It was an ordinary day.
Three in the morning, a convenience store on a busy street. Refrigerators hummed. Somewhere, shelves were being put back in order. An earbud sat in one ear, as if to hold all that sound at bay.
We are told that one of the people featured in today's Tower Newsletter is the family of David, an American.
Once a day, news from the Tower came through — a minute of it, sometimes as many as three. The Tower had appeared twenty years ago, but the broadcasts themselves had only started about six years back. And because it was never a conversation, only a signal running one way, a surprising amount of what reached us down here was genuinely interesting. Most people made a point of catching every one.
Still one left. My favorite lunch box was about to be pulled and thrown out. I toyed, briefly, with the idea of sneakily sliding it toward the back — then went ahead and stocked the shelf the way I always did. First in, first out. Angles lined up. The expiration date checked one more time.
We have word that the family of Zhang Chen — the Chinese man we reported on in our last broadcast — has been reached. We'll continue with more.
My hands knew the work, and my body had just started to slack, when a customer came in.
Ding— The bell gave a bright little chime, and a drunk came weaving through the door with a receipt crushed tight in one fist.
A gukbap place, by the look of it — one of those rice-soup joints. Someone diligent enough to actually keep his receipts. An office worker, then? Accounting, if so? Bookkeeping?
The thoughts drifted. My eyes stayed on him. His steps were a mess, and the display shelves looked about as ready to topple as he did. I watched them with my stomach drawn tight.
Two cans of beer and a dried squid. The store had a four-can promotion running; he ignored it and bought only what he needed. The scanner chirped. Beep. Beep.
"Would you like a bag?"
"......"
I went ahead and read him the total. He swayed, but he drew his wallet from an inner pocket and seated the card in a perfectly straight line.
"Bag's... fine... the receipt..."
He was a little late waving off the bag. The receipt, though, was no trouble.
I tore it free — a short rasp of paper — and held it out.
"Get home safely."
I meant it. With a walk like that, I couldn't begin to guess when he'd actually make it through his door. I only hoped he'd get there without getting hurt.
"Thanksh..."
He jammed a can of beer into each pocket of his suit. Squid in one hand; in the other, the earlier receipt and the one from the store, both crushed in his fist. Then he was gone.
Three years on this same shift. By now I'd gotten unreasonably good at watching people. Standing quiet behind the counter and looking out at the bright street was a good part of what made the work worth doing.
"Ah, oppa! That hurts!"
"Ahh, sorry, sorry."
A careless apology from a man hauling a woman along by the arm. I knew, by now, what lived underneath an apology like that.
"Yeah, yeah. You know that fucking bitch. The one from back then."
A woman came in with her phone sealed to her ear and her makeup laid on thick. She called like that every time she showed up, so I'd ended up learning far more of her business than I ever wanted.
"Young man. Mind if I rest here a little?"
The grandmother who always came around this hour. She sold gum, making the rounds of the bars, and she asked the same thing every time she arrived.
"Of course. Sit down and rest."
"Aigoo... I'm sorry. An old woman, taking up a seat again without even buying anything..."
Every time she said it, I told her it was fine and asked whether she'd eaten.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"Aigoo... what good is it, an old woman eating a lot..."
I knew it was only something she said.
"Would you at least have this?"
Handing over food already pulled for disposal broke the rules. But nothing had come of it, not through today... so I decided to look the other way this time too.
"Thank you."
Once the grandmother had left as well, I counted the stock and cleaned the store.
Rest a little until the next shift came in, then close out the register. That was the idea...
The Tower has selected you as a Challenger.
Time Remaining until Entry
00:00:60
A blue window had opened in front of my eyes, and for a moment my thoughts simply stopped.
"Ah."
I knew the signs that appeared when someone was taken into the Tower. And I knew that once you went in, you never came back out.
"Fuck."
It felt like being driven to my death. This was nothing like handling a rotten customer. The ground under my feet had dropped clean away.
As if to pin the shaking down, my body moved on its own. I cut straight for the shelves. All I could think was that I had to grab something — anything — and the only things I came away with were a toothbrush and toothpaste.
"Ah... what else... what else..."
What else did I need?
Underwear? Underwear. Socks? Socks. I started snatching up whatever my hands landed on. It took me about a second to remember I only had two of them. A basket—! The entrance was close enough that I got one into my grip.
But there was no time. All I'd actually secured was a toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, and underwear. I threw in whatever I could see — a towel, a power bank, a scrub towel, wet wipes. Taking things off the same aisle only went so far. I sprinted, dumped in ramyeon, and let a flicker of a thought about chopsticks pass without grabbing them.
Ten seconds left. I lifted the basket, and then I simply stopped.
"Ah."
I pulled out my phone. My hands were ice-cold and shaking, barely any strength in them, but I pressed through one tap at a time, found the manager's number, and opened a message.
What was I supposed to say?
Send.
The instant my finger came down on the button, white light swallowed me whole.
Ah... did the text even go through?
© GrandJackpot#1qxce
Please take good care of this story.
(The pacing felt slower than I expected, so I scrapped the earlier version and started over. If you were reading the previous one, please keep that in mind.)