Monopoly in Prison (1)
December. December holds...a ton of meaning in my life. Christmas, Jesus, church, my birthday, year-end parties, dawn songs, and all that jazz. Normally, when December rolls around to cap off the year, there's this weird social phenomenon where people get all hyped up and excited for no good reason. I've never really felt that. I'm too fucking soaked in this shitty society to get pumped just because it's the twelfth month.
"Boss, someone hung Christmas lights outside the office."
"I did it."
"Old man, why'd you set up a Christmas tree in our already cramped office?"
"It was on clearance, so I grabbed one."
Early December. The time of year when the world truly freezes over. Yet somehow, people's hearts warm up. Everyone gets nostalgic about their childhood when December hits, sighing, 'Yeah, I was like that back then.' Not that I'm getting all sentimental myself. Our office just feels too damn bleak, so I bought this stuff to keep the employees' morale from tanking.
"Thinking about it, I guess Santa really doesn't exist."
"Realizing that now?"
I leaned back on the sofa, sipping hot cocoa to recharge my sugar levels, and muttered. S-man shot back.
"We've got demons in this world, ghosts, even me—Han Daeri—and no Santa? Kinda weird. Well, not that he exists anyway."
Claiming Santa was real at this point? The evidence was paper-thin. For starters, he never granted my wish to smash the church so I wouldn't have to go. That fat-bellied, white-bearded geezer with his narrow-minded idea that toys are perfect for little kids? No way that bastard exists in this world. If he did, he'd have hooked me up ages ago.
Anyway, as the top decision-maker in this office, I was racking my brain over how to spend the year-end. Log into MysticNet, and sure enough, there'd be all sorts of requests. But I didn't feel like touching them during the holidays. You know that vibe? At year-end, you just wanna dodge the heavy shit and stick to easy tasks. That's why everyone dumps the complicated crap and focuses on year-end settlements (not that those are easy).
Bottom line: I didn't wanna bust my ass or my brain like usual. That's the average working stiff's mindset come December.
"Speaking of, where's the Mad Woman? Why'd you show up alone today?"
"Exams are over, and my training's progressed enough for some downtime. Teacher had something urgent come up, so she headed out. Figured it'd just be two gloomy dudes in the office, so I came to hang. You're welcome."
"Just admit you got no friends to chill with. Loser."
"Post-exam, kids are busy partying with peers, but she came here? Means zero real friends. Beep beep—total loner confirmed."
S-man and I tag-teamed the roast, and the kid fumed silently, too pissed to retort. She just slurped the cocoa I made her, stewing in quiet rage.
"Man, if I'd known I'd be stuck in the office with jack shit to do this year-end, I'd have time-traveled back, cornered the Bitcoin market, and built a few villas overseas."
Jesus really doesn't give a damn. Even novel protagonists get that regression cheat once. Not me.
"My family does own a few overseas villas."
"Too late. Overseas pads are off my radar now."
Should've spoken up five seconds sooner.
As I pondered loafing around the office with my rich-kid right-hand and the schoolgirl, someone knocked on the quiet office door. I nodded at the kid; she grumbled but dragged herself up to open it.
The visitor was a young guy in a sharp suit. About my age, if I had to guess.
"Why do all our clients show up in suits?"
"Haha, better than randos. Higher chance they got paying gigs."
The guy chuckled at my gripe, gave a light bow, then spotted the kid slouching by the door and flinched. He sat at the client table.
"You hire minors here?"
"Intern."
"Parental consent on file?"
"I get you're a bureaucrat nitpicking, but the answer to all that's 'YES.' No need to drag it out."
Not really. Her foster parents are in a nursing home, and she's just a freeloader managing family cash while bumming around. "Intern" my ass—she's the office poster girl. Uncomfortable with a minor girl as the face? Tough shit, fix your posture.
"Anyway, not here to quibble. Straight to business. I'd like to hire the Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office..."
"Pay?"
"Incentive-based."
Usually, these dramatic setups start with fat stacks upfront. This threw me.
"Not some huge sum—multiple targets, so we want as many handled as possible. Per-head rate."
"We're ghostbusters, not hitmen."
I glanced at the kid; she prepped for hypnosis on cue. Can't have folks eyeing us wrong—better nip misunderstandings.
Luckily, he didn't seem the type.
"No misunderstanding. Not asking to kill anyone. Literally just resolve supernatural phenomena. Except the phenomena...are people."
I urged him on with a look. He pulled a thick stack from his briefcase, stamped CLASSIFIED.
"Everything I'm about to show can't go public."
"You brought it 'cause you trust we won't leak. Skip the spiel—let's see the docs."
If he didn't trust us, he'd have rolled with armed goons.
I grabbed the top file: Cheongsim Prison Inmate Roster.
"Cheongsim Prison?"
"Won't find it online. Doesn't officially exist in Korea."
S-man searched his laptop—zip.
"Built post-democracy as the only undemocratic, inhumane, abnormal lockup. To isolate these inmates from society completely...a safety measure."
"Safety measure, huh."
I flipped through. Exactly 50 inmates, varied genders, ages, crimes. No male/female split, no sentence tiers. All got the same punishment, equal treatment.
"Irreversible sentence...how's that different from life?"
"Literal. No parole, no visits. Even if they die inside, no return to society. Bodies cremated, ashes dumped mid-West Sea."
Unlike death row (bodies out) or lifers (eventual parole shot), no corpse even. Extreme for national threats, crime listed as Social Collapse Threat. Interpol red-notice terrorists?
"Bet you're thinking Interpol-level terrorists, right?"
"You get us civilians, huh, suit."
"Fair guess from the charges. But swear—these profiles are way worse than terrorists. Hell, question if they're even human."
"Fire-breathers?"
He chuckled.
"Never seen that, but one thing's sure: one loose in society, and it crumbles fast. Tongues that enslave minds, disasters beyond human reason, unkillable freaks."
"Unkillable?"
"Gov threw everything at 'em. Elite soldiers, poison gas on whole buildings, even airstrikes."
"All flops?"
"Soldiers freeze at the trigger. Gas misses. Bombers malfunction or pilots bail. Twenty ops, all failed. So now, iron-bar lockdown. Status quo."
I shot a Why me? look; he played a video on his phone.
"You're Han Daeri—smashes abnormals. Solver of supernaturals. Figured you could purge whatever's possessing Cheongsim's inmates."
"Ah, per-head rate. Got it."
"Yeah. One mil each. All 50? Five mil. No meddling on methods—just neutralize the threats, we're good."
One mil per, five total. Big score. Scrape every won, hit five mil—add to my eight, cover next summer's shortfall easy. Fail? Still pocket change per head. Fun way to kill boring holidays.
No need for chit-chat. I shook his hand.
"Deal. Five mil! Thanks!"