The Shut-in BJ Yona, Having Lost Everything
Ding-dong... ding-dong... ding-dong...
The TV left on in the living room blares the sound of the New Year's bells tolling as the old year fades away. After fooling around with the girls all that time, everyone happens to be busy right as the new year hits, so I end up ringing it in with the chimes echoing from the screen. Seon-hwa wanted to keep partying somehow, but canceling plans twice during the busiest season would've looked way too suspicious, so she gave up. In a way, it might be the perfect day to set some New Year's resolutions.
○○○ Bank Balance
₩592,969,311
It's so overflowing with cash it's practically bursting at the seams. And this is just what I've racked up in a few months—my sense of money's going numb. My heart races every time I check it. Last week, I even splurged big time: tossed a Yoplait lid without licking it clean, bought some high-end sneakers, and went full fried chicken for every meal—peak luxury. But it didn't even dent the balance. If anything, it kept piling up at a scary rate every morning. Still, I'm not scheming like some ultra-rich prick. I've got Yeon-su's car to borrow, and materialism doesn't really pull me, so it's all going into savings. I thought about buying this place outright if I keep stacking it steady, but the rent here's comfy enough, and it's too soon to plant roots. When I had no money, I worried about scraping by; now that it's overflowing, the dilemma's what to blow it on.
"Guess there's only one option."
The answer was set in stone. Upgrade the Enjoy Together! app one more time to accelerate the money-making. I didn't expect it'd come this fast, but it's already time to snag the priciest feature—
Have consensual sex with BJ Yona
If you fail the mission, you'll receive a penalty where all the money in your account vanishes.
*This is a penalty mission for the wrongdoing you committed.
*Until mission success, your account and Enjoy Together! app features will be locked.
*Rape or forced sex regardless of her consent will result in failure.
The mission pops in at the perfect goddamn moment. My finger's hovering over the button when the chime hits and the screen switches.
What's this now? A mission?
It's been so long it almost feels nostalgic, but I scrutinize the details and my eye twitches. "Wrongdoing" and "penalty" snag me, but the real gut-punch is line three: all the account money gone. It's packing destructive, violent force.
"Hey! I busted my ass for that cash—where do you get off swiping it on a whim?!"
I glare at the ceiling, fuming alone in the house. Even for the God of Delinquency, this is random and brutal. And wrongdoing? What the hell did I do to earn that lofty word? Wrongdoing penalty... did I foul up somehow? With billions on the line vanishing before my eyes, I steel myself. Target: BJ Yona. Kinda vague name. Rings a bell but feels fresh. With all the BJs and girls I've tangled with, I can't recall every one. I yank out my phone for a quick search, and one pops up.
"...Last stream was two months ago?"
She must've quit broadcasting. Anyway, checking old vids jogs something: wavy long hair, pretty face, big tits. Right up my alley. But life's been too dramatic day-to-day to commit it to memory. Probably one of the girls I blackmailed into bed. Why'd the God of Delinquency pick her now, though?
"...No streams, number's wiped private—I'll brainstorm tomorrow."
No real info on her right now, so I table it. Quick shower, then bed.
In front of BJ Yona's apartment. She hasn't gone live forever, so I bought intel from the Black Market app, got the address, and came straight here. Snagged her number too, but useless—phone's always off. Tried hacking for deets, but if it's potato-dead 24/7 and she ignores calls, even the Hacking Tool can't touch it.
"More like... evicted?"
The iron gate's plastered top to bottom with eviction notices, like talismans sealing a demon. Straight out of a horror flick opener. Visuals kill my vibe, but I hit the intercom anyway.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong-ding-dong!
No response after three, four tries. Ear to the door: dead silence.
If she quit streaming and ghosted without a trace, even the Hacking Tool's worthless...
I mull frantically, then yank the handle on a whim.
Creeeeak...
It swings open, rusty hinges wailing ominously.
"Uh... excuse me..."
Door's ajar, so I announce myself. Peering in cautiously, it's not abandoned—lived-in smell hits. Problem is, it's way too lived-in.
"This is too much."
Massive trash piles. Not scattered—stacked like a landfill in the house. Used tissues, empty cup ramen, snack bags, delivery wrappers. From the entryway, no room to step without crunching. Winter mutes the stench, but summer? Nose assault, bug party central, fly farm.
No guts to ditch my new kicks, so I tiptoe in on toes.
"Hello...?"
Trudging through the dump, hunting for her. Pass the bathroom—worse. Any more detail and you'd hurl at the grotesque scene.
"Ugh..."
Hand over mouth on reflex, push forward. Nobody. Stomach churning, I reach the bedroom with the bed— just more trash strewn about. I scratch my head hard, headache brewing.
"Did she bail 'cause shit hit the fan?"
"...Who?"
"Whoa, shit!"
Voice from the side corner—fist clenched on instinct. She's there. Blended into the trash paradise like camouflage. Mushroom in the shadows, squatting in the corner. Unkempt hair, split ends fried to dust, ramen-noodle curls, even a plastic scrap tangled in. Eyes unfocused; she called me but stares blankly at the right wall. Threadbare doll on the verge of snapping. Baggy loungewear reeks—days unwashed? White shirt hem stained ramen broth from the floor. Perfect shut-in specimen.
Gulp.
Tension shifts; I ease in carefully.
"Hey... you're BJ Yona, right?"
"...? Who're you?"
"Hey... don't you remember my face?"
The second I saw this dump-princess-on-the-bed setup, it clicked. Fleeting encounter, but definitely one I blackmailed into sex. Stats tanked hard since, but the original's faintly there.
"..."
Her neck snaps my way, lifeless eyes scanning. That dead stare bores into me for a solid 30 seconds.
"...Ah. You. The blackmail prick."
"Y-yeah. You remember?"
"Only a freak wouldn't remember trash like that."
"Haha... glad it rings a bell."
"Glad...? That glad?"
Heart drops at the jab. Sounds pissed, but voice is emotionless. More self-mocking sneer at her state. Too gloomy, too dry—true intent's a mystery. Kinda scary.
"Hey... looks like a lot's happened since?"
"Yeah...? Since? ...How long's it been?"
"Uh... new year's as of today?"
"...Already?"
Has that much time passed?
She mulls, head tilting, glances at the sunlit window, drops it. Feels like more time than expected, but I let it slide.
This is bad...
No need to probe deeper—BJ Yona's state is crystal from the cup ramen litter. Doesn't matter when it hit the floor or got tossed. Point is, it's empty junk crashed down. One woman's broken, needs rehab. Blackmail trauma? Something else? Whatever— she's hit rock bottom, lightless basement level.
Mission: Have consensual sex with BJ Yona. How the hell in this? Forget mission; this is a rescue op. Headlines flash: <BJ Leaves Note About Exhaustion, Hangs Self...>
Gulp.
Second swallow slides down. Resolve hits: ditch the coat, roll sleeves. Unlike easy-mode missions, this could be the toughest. I get why the God of Delinquency sent me.