Today’s Date Doesn’t Matter
Today’s date didn’t matter. Right now, in this moment, I wasn’t some broke nobody with no parents working as an office drone at some company. I was just Han Daeri. Come to think of it, the title “Daeri”—assistant manager—rolled off the tongue so nicely. So from today on, that’s who I was. Not a junior or a section chief, just plain Daeri. It felt oddly fitting, like some lowly stand-in doing the grunt work for God’s chosen ones. I couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.
Anyway, this was some godforsaken outskirts with no subway station, not even a bus stop. To get back to the city center, I had to hustle. Korea in 2025 was still advancing its civilization at a blistering pace, full of promising potential for the future. Step just a little beyond the boonies, and you could enjoy all the perks of modern life in no time. Like, say, flagging down a taxi cruising an empty road if you were lucky.
Something you’d never dream of in a sprawling dump like the US, China, or Russia.
“Drop me off anywhere lively. Don’t worry, I’ve got cash.”
I pulled a 50,000-won bill from my sturdy camping duffel bag, caked in dust but tough as nails. The driver finally relaxed, realizing I wasn’t some homeless bum. He’d probably been on the fence until he pulled over—should he really pick up some sketchy guy wandering this empty road? Sure, the car might smell a bit, get a little dusty... but 50,000 won with no haggling? That’d more than cover it.
It had taken about 30 minutes to reach that Mae-ryeongji in the dead of night—who knew when exactly—so I figured the same here. I closed my eyes. Darkness crawled with bugs slithering across my vision. Sometimes they formed meaningless letters, other times human faces. The sin I’d faced there was heavy, profound, damp, and sticky. The chill and disgust burrowing into my skin, groping for more—it still haunted me.
And yet. I knew without this ordeal, I couldn’t even reach the starting line of the path I’d chosen. Life’s supposedly 80% talent, 10% luck, 10% effort, right? Unfortunately, I wasn’t some chosen holy roller or born shaman, and looking back, luck hadn’t exactly smiled on me. To bridge the gap with those freaks, I needed freakish ordeals and effort.
Christian history says God the Father cast Adam and Eve from Eden, yet loved all humanity enough to grant ‘talents’—or ‘gifts,’ ‘fate’—to everyone.
A talent wasn’t just some skill. It was your life’s starting stats, a passive or active ability. Sometimes a buff, sometimes a debuff. It influenced every trigger in your existence. And the joke goes, if you don’t use your God-given talent fully, you pay it back in hell.
Why do churches hand out talent vouchers to kids, preaching to live righteously per Jesus? To teach them to chase dreams freely, pioneering lives in God’s will. Sure, there’s that contradiction—freedom, but God’s way.
From childhood, dragged to church by my parents, I’d wondered what these talents really did. Couldn’t spend ’em like cash, and church use was limited. Trading snacks for 100 talents? What kinda scam economy is that? No wonder Jesus beat the crooked merchants out of Jerusalem. People should live frugally enough to trade one snack for 10 talents. You listening, Pastor? The guy who guilted old ladies daily that tithing was their heaven ticket.
Well, not entirely wrong.
Offering part of your wealth to God dated back to Cain and Abel. Harvests, earnings—all thanks to divine grace. Gratitude via sacrifice. In modern times, it’s offerings and tithes. Same principle. But skipping them doesn’t doom you to hell. Otherwise, the poor would all burn.
“Ahem... ahem... huuuuuhhh...”
“......”
Aftereffect of belting hymns till my throat bled? Just leaning back, eyes shut, and I was humming one. But hymns didn’t pay bills or fill bellies, so it was pointless fun. What fed and sheltered humanity from ancient times to now? Cold, hard cash.
“...We’re here, sir.”
“Here’s your fare. Keep the change.”
I handed over the prepped 50,000 won and returned to Seoul’s bustling heart, teeming with people and yang energy. I thought I dressed sharp, but streetlight revealed the truth: mystery black stains everywhere, dust puffing off like I’d rolled in the desert for years.
I ducked into the nearest motel. The owner, glued to a daytime drama rerun, quoted a cheap weekday rate. Or maybe the flies buzzing around prompted the discount. Key to room 404 in hand, I rode the elevator to the fourth floor.
Motels’ best perk? Total freedom when empty. Feels like you own the joint—rolling on the bed, flipping to adult channels on the dedicated TV. We call that “riding the vibe.” A massive understatement for getting swept up in the mood, flow, or situation.
Amusingly, “riding” also means when normies or shamans hit a haunted spot and get possessed, share emotions, or entranced. Yeah, I was riding it too.
Key labeled 404 in hand, I stood dazed in the fourth-floor hall. But no room 404. The secret spot between 403 and 405? Vanished.
“Heard hotels and hospitals don’t even make 404 keys.”
That idle owner must’ve goofed and handed me a dud. Heading back for a new one, elevator in sight—bam. 404 door appeared like magic.
Beep. Click.
Key to the pad, and the lock disengaged from inside. Grip the handle, push—creeeak. Door swung open limply.
Surprisingly spotless. No dust, stains, smells, or prior guest traces. Perfect for crashing one night.
“Shower first.”
Duffel had spare clothes and essentials. Wash up, change. Dirty rags? Coin laundry later.
The bathroom—roomy for one, snug for two—mirrored a pathetic 20-something bachelor. Not much worse than home. Starved for days, yet no skeletal frame; build intact. Had I broken the law of energy conservation?
A few days without food doesn’t transform you dramatically.
Grab some gukbap or delivery later, and I’d be oily-skinned like nothing happened. Dark circles deeper, but eyes clearer than the old foggy haze—small mercy. Eyes set first impressions; dumb foggy peepers doomed mine from the start.
Under the gushing showerhead, I rinsed off days of grime. Massaged scalp to fend off future baldness, soaped along my untoned lines. Buck-naked, foaming up before the mirror, shaking it—felt like a third-rate stripper. Embarrassing.
But strippers shouldn’t be ashamed. Own it. Better than a jobless guy calling himself Han Daeri.
Showered and fluffy-fresh as Han Daeri, I threw on spares. Stashed dirty clothes in a Daiso bag, tied tight.
“Sleepy. Bored. Hungry.”
Humans get stray thoughts when idle. And idle births primal urges overpowering reason. Like ordering Chinese delivery cozy in the motel over trudging out for hot gukbap.