Room 404: The Sinful Delivery Loop
I opened the door to find a typical delivery guy in a full-face bike helmet standing there with a massive metal case. He casually slid it open with a rattle and set down the wrapped jjajangmyeon and tangsuyuk inside the room.
"Enjoy your meal!"
I was baffled by how he'd found the place, confirmed it was my order, and bolted without taking payment, slamming the door behind him. Why the hell did I get jjajangmyeon and tangsuyuk but no danmuji? Griping about this half-assed chink joint skimping on the basics, I moved the containers—and that's when a rough scrap of paper stuck to the bottom caught my eye.
Pulling it off, it was some business card-like thing, the kind you'd get from a rundown inn or a motel near a red-light district calling for a call girl. The sort you summon to a dump like this? Probably on par with the whores from the brothel district, or worse—some ancient hag way past her prime. The last lifeline for women who couldn't call themselves "girls" anymore.
Which meant the motel owner and the nearby chink joint were in cahoots, pimping call girls on the side. They slip the card under your free meal when a lone guy like me checks in. Motel takes at least 50,000 won for the stay, call girl pulls 70-120k, and they split the take. Hand over machine-squeezed, non-handmade budget jjajangmyeon and mystery-meat tangsuyuk, and it's pure profit. Humans are primal beasts loyal to their base urges, after all.
Stuff your face with free chow on impulse, pick your teeth lounging on the bed, and that call girl card catches your eye. Tempted, you dial her up, and when a girl matching this slop-tier meal arrives, you pay up and scratch the itch. One stone, two birds—exorcise the hunger, then the lust.
That's when it hit me: how this fleabag motel survived smack in central Seoul, and why the owner was chilling watching dramas. Smart bastard, really. Teaming with a cost-cutting chink joint to drag in call girls for extra revenue. No paper trail on these shady deals, cops don't bother—surprisingly safe gig.
"Who knew a rundown motel and cheap eats could teach such profound lessons in society's underbelly."
I silently thanked the motel owner for the life lesson and scarfed down the jjajangmyeon. Still pissed about the missing danmuji, but considering I hadn't eaten in days from my recent fast, I let it slide. Calories are calories—what matters is filling the gut. Bug or bargain slop, as long as it doesn't kill you, it's human survival.
At least better than stale rice scraps and kimchi bits from bumming off relatives.
That must've been when it started—my habit of stress-eating junk.
The MSG-loaded black bean sauce was suspiciously addictive for the price, and how could fried tangsuyuk taste bad? Slurrrrp!Crunch crunch! Started light with noodle swirls, then crammed two pieces of tangsuyuk mouth-full. Hell, throat-stuffing gluttony.
I demolished the set like a gale hiding a crab's eyes, then got up to dump the empties outside. As I headed for the door, faint footsteps echoed from the hall.
"......"
Peered out—empty corridor, shadows from flanking high-rises blocking all light. No plans for a call girl anyway, so I left the card with the containers by the door and shut it.
The instant it clicked locked—
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
Maybe a second after closing? Or less. Lock engaged, bell rang. And unlike the delivery guy's low squeak, this was a clear, soft woman's voice.
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
Humans get complacent with a warm back and full belly—next up, sex drive.
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
Which meant I'd triggered something in this sequence. Motel's for crashing: check in, wash up, flop on bed, ease the body, grab a bite if hungry... leaves one thing.
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
A "phenomenon" born from a long-running "system."
Like a desperate exam cram student who botches the answer sheet on test day, missing perfect score. Crushed by his mistake, misfortune, and society's ruthless intolerance for tiny slips, he jumps. Sprints rooftop edge, vaults rail, dives dozens of meters. Mid-air, regret over sorrow, despair over relief—but too late. Impact spills rage, remorse, grudge from one unprepared to die.
Does that soul become a grudge ghost or evil spirit? Surprisingly, not always. Higher odds for place-specific, situation-specific deaths turning grudge-bound, but no hard stats—just shamans and sensitives venting online grudges I cherry-picked.
Simply: system glitch repeating phenomena. Top-student jumper resents world, loops soul-jump to broadcast grudge in self-satisfying tantrum.
In nonexistent Motel 404, shady motel owner, chink boss, call girl—glitch between? The guest who stayed. And now, that's me.
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
I'm the glitch, twisting the system, sparking anomaly. Without me, no glitch—no picking this motel. But linking to fate or inevitability ties to my shit life, so fuck those thoughts.
This is my choice. Not Jesus Daddy's script for Han Siwoo—Han Daeri's life, Han Daeri's call. No room for destiny, providence, divine plans. Just one of countless trials for Han Daeri.
"I promised to send everything tied to me straight to heaven."
Even if I have to drag you by the hair, force repentance at Jesus Daddy's feet—I'll fill heaven's slots to bursting. Lend a hand to God's selfish flock-managing. Use 'em as fanatics packing pews, but spare me. If that's eternity with his zealots, it ain't heaven or paradise anymore.
Take those outside the door if you want. You've ignored 'em forever, never bothered calling to heaven—but you claim to love all equally? So accept these doomed-to-hell dregs too. Stinking trash piled with karma, unfit for heaven—still your kids, right? I'll make 'em repent for free. Can't say no, eh?
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
"I ordered chink, not call girl?"
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 delivery!"
"I ordered call girl, not chink?"
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest, open up please."
"I ordered both chink and call girl?"
"......"
"......"
Ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest delivery!"
Slurrrrrrrp! Chomp chomp! Sluuuuuurp!Squelch squelch!Crunch crunch crunch!Siiiizzle!Shudder!Crispy crispy!Gulp gulp!Huuuuh!Glorp glorp!Sip sip sip!Gulpgulpgulp!
"I ordered a prim, quiet ace call girl who holds her own against top clubs, and a jjajangmyeon tangsuyuk set so huge two could share and one die unnoticed. Extra danmuji and fried dumplings service."
Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!
"Room 404 guest! Your prim, quiet ace call girl call girl jjajangmyeon tangsuyuk set so huge two could share and one die unnoticed, with extra danmuji and fried dumplings delivery!"
"I ordered an ace call girl so top-tier two could fuck and one die unnoticed, and a prim quiet jjajangmyeon tangsuyuk set you can noodle-slurp. Extra condoms and lube service."
BOOM! The 404 door ripped outward right in front of me. There stood an ace delivery girl: long jjajangmyeon-noodle hair, gyoza-face features, soft snow-flower tangsuyuk body—prim and quiet, holding danmuji chopsticks and a box of lube-smeared condoms.
Deep sins piled high, tied to glitches like me (guests) aplenty.
"Jesus hated merchants with a passion. Whipping temple traders extra hard? Maybe fed up with money-corrupting humans. Nagged tightfisted Judas over wasting perfume sale cash. Why loathe money so? Answer: everything's Daddy's as Creator. Savages squabbling over His stuff? Infuriating. Funny, right?"
I quietly opened the Bible.
"Yet strife and corruption persist 'cause Jesus Daddy filters out posers like you. Blasphemous? But He who loves all equally ignores you suffering here, tending only zealots—proof."
You'd feel wronged. Motel owner, delivery guy, call girl—just running the shady hustle as usual. Then shady guest in 404—ragged, mentally off like me. Starts with delivery sans danmuji—petty spat ends in murder. Guest clears body guilt-free, eats slop, finds call girl card. Summons her clueless; used for lust, then killed. Finally, killer offs owner over shitty service. Thus I get nonexistent 404 key, become glitch.
Not certain, but the ugly sins and wailing torment match.
"Hear me, you misdesigned from Creation's blueprint, trapped in choiceless hell till sinning in agony."
I murmured low to the dripping jjajang entity.
"Is the guest to blame, demand answers from? Or..."
Raised index finger skyward.
"...Him up there who won't love, respect, save you?"
Kneel, truly repent. Pray fervent, soul-ablaze. Then ascend to longed-for heaven, stand before Jesus Daddy. Purge grudges, hate, sorrow, rage piled like dregs—plus untasted satisfaction. All through Him.
"Your true home ain't hell blaming unfair lives."
Prison for unbelievers kicked out last-minute. I'd vowed to elevate these convicts. You created, fated 'em—own it to the end.
"I'm no proxy, no slave, no pitiful lamb like you. Just me. Roadside sign pointing right path. Or ignore, stumble to hell's pit? I'd heaven-bound from spite."
Repent. Pray. Tithe if time.
"Aaaaaaah......!"
Crunch!
As it knelt, jjajang-glossy, I placed hand on head.
"What do you repent?"
"Curse-shouldered life self-doomed in ruin sin!"
"What do you pray for?"
"Salvation!"
"Do you believe in Jesus Daddy?"
"Yes! To reach heaven!"
"Then go. To your rightful place, brimming with denied blessings and love, at Jesus Daddy's side."
Black oily sauce melted ice-cream-like, crispy gyoza and tangsuyuk sogged to rot. I knew the sinners tied here ascended to heaven.
"Sex."
A truly satisfying exorcism.