Class Reunion (1)
"These past few days I let 'em loose, and now these one-day pups don't know to fear the tiger."
I hoped they'd enjoyed that brief peace enough, then dropped a Harlemba Mk 2 on the Mystic Arts Gallery.
It was an upgraded version of the Harlemba, refined with AI paint tools for precision and way more firepower.
After unleashing that mindless Harlemba barrage, I flopped back onto the sofa, basking in the warm glow of the electric heater.
Christmas was almost here.
The very Christmas that folks ignorant of the Bible often mistake for "Huh? Jesus's birthday?!"
"Sigh, if I'd known it'd wrap up this quick, maybe I should've dragged it out a bit."
The government had approached me to handle fifty inmates—living abominations they'd planned to unleash for global chaos—in a sort of hitman contract.
I'd said no to hitman gigs, but in solving it, I'd ended up doing the deed anyway.
Technically, they weren't human, so it wasn't "murder," but I'd still wiped the government's ass for them.
The problem? I'd handled it too fast, too brutally.
Blowing up the whole detention block meant massive collateral in the area—not minor damage—and without the chowhound's hypnosis, it'd have been impossible to cover up.
Bleeding cash was inevitable, of course.
The chowhound ran around on cleanup, while S-man and I slaved away half like day laborers erasing traces.
In the end, I'd "somehow" cleared the government's job, and they got no solid data from the "tragic accident(?)."
I had secrets to hide from them; they had truths to uncover about me.
Those factors meshed into a final agreement: "Let's just ignore each other."
No more obligations for me to take their requests; no meddling from them in my business.
We parted satisfied at that.
That was the fallout from the Gyodongdo detention facility explosion.
"Eh, got paid properly, so no more entanglements there."
They handed over 50 million won in pure cash—no paper trail—in a briefcase. Felt like they'd watched some spy flicks.
Already scraped together 80 million of the 130 million I owed Kim Bokja.
Just over three months in, and 80 mil? Was I a beast, or was that chain lighter than expected?
Either way, hitting 130 by next summer didn't seem tough.
Hell, my eyes were drifting elsewhere now, past the 130.
"Haven't spent a single Christmas with anyone since I was eight."
This year... exactly 20 years.
Turning 28 this year.
One week from 29—chokes me up.
Just one year till I'm a full-on uncle.
Suddenly hit me: I'd achieved jack shit in society.
Even in my stable salaryman days, no house, no car—just your average salesman grinding daily existence.
No matter how silver-tongued, those "connections" were pure business; no weekends meant no real friends.
The chicken joint boss was my closest—says it all.
"Christmas is great and all... but why's it gotta be year-end?"
Families swapping gifts, couples banging in motels, churchgoers chuckling while sizing up faith depths—all crammed into moody, listless year-end.
Everyone blissed out but me? Rage boils over to explosion.
Should've let the abominations flip Korea and cancel Christmas?
Then straight to New Year's sunrise viewing.
"What a shame."
Clinging to regrets over gone deeds, a sudden text soured my face.
Was dreaming of Santa and me showering bomb gifts worldwide for Christmas vibes.
"Ahh, college reunion."
Back in my salesman grind, I always skipped 'em—too slammed.
But I'd ditched my old phone for a burner; how'd the invite land fine?
Forgot to unlink my SNS accounts.
Dumbass.
That day at the coin laundry with the madwoman, I smashed phone and USIM in a rush, overlooked it.
Fiddling with the burner pulled in Google and SNS logins naturally—forgot to log out.
Sloppy as hell, yet dodged arrest as the 12-victim serial killer suspect.
Huge thanks, Han Daeri!
"Hmm......"
Legs kicking idly on the sofa, I eyed the reunion invite.
My teens were shit—no sugarcoating—so high schoolers wouldn't seek me.
But college? Quiet, smooth sailing.
Even with life's clusterfuck, dirt-poor grinders gotta grad or die in Hell Joseon, so I night-shifted my ass off for the diploma.
Skipped most student council events, but boozed with some dept mates—rep should've been decent.
Hell, self-funding tuition made me the era's model student poster boy.
I hustled scholarships too, studying balls-to-the-wall for living expenses.
This reunion, hosted by my cohort, was the fourth yearly.
They'd seen everyone else past three years; I was the lone no-show.
Maybe poke my head in once?
Han Siwoo was dead, but Han Daeri still walked.
Venue: Famous Shilla Hotel. Date: Dec 23, 7-11 PM. Afterparty optional. Fee: Courteous 100,000 won/head.
Chartering a hotel hall? 100k/pop wouldn't cut it.
Some cohort bigwigs with cash, apparently.
Replied confirming attendance, then shut eyes by the heater.
Dec 22 today—gear up and roll tomorrow.
Woke and immediately gave the chowhound and S-man end-of-year vacation.
Separate from their Gyodongdo heroics—if I mentioned reunion, they'd insta-popular-kid mode, nitpicking everything.
Hairstyle to fashion to micro-expressions—like a nagging mother-in-law "correcting" me.
A real man needs just one long coat.
Laundered proper at a human-run shop—not coin op—coat, shirt, slacks looked sharp.
Smartphone OK, wallet OK, knuckle duster OK, Google Book OK, bug necklace OK, pocket watch OK.
Feeling fresh, braving Seoul's brutal cold, I clocked the insane crowds—way beyond usual.
Tomorrow Christmas Eve, next day proper. Year-end frenzy, but still hustling romance or networking.
Busier than ever, naturally.
Subway through the throng to Jung-gu, hit Shilla Hotel right on time.
Not just us hogging year-end—staff and guests swarmed.
Showed the QR invite from organizers to staff, cleared entry.
As I headed up, someone behind flashed their QR and called out.
"Huh? You're Siwoo, right? Han Siwoo?"
Unlike my solo trek, a chummy group of guys and gals gawked.
Their head-to-toe luxury brands and nose-searing perfume screamed cash splurge.
"Han Daeri now. Call me that, easy."
Said it to the one with the standout baby bottle dispensers.