Regret, Ruin, and Obsession (1)
"Ah, seriously! This is my second time entering, and I can't go home empty-handed again? I really wanted that fancy aroma candle...!"
The prize draw event had wrapped up successfully, with most of the alumni snagging big and small prizes. But Park In-ha grumbled about missing out once more. When she'd been clutching her smartphone, desperately hoping her number would be called, she looked like a hamster eyeing sunflower seeds. Now, stomping her feet in frustration, she resembled an angry cow.
Lee Sang-ho had watched the whole prize draw with skepticism, but seeing that he and a few others had been left out seemed to confirm his suspicions. The winners—all decked out head-to-toe in luxury brands, the "nothing special" crowd—were huddled together, laughing and chatting merrily.
"Finally, all guests attending today's reunion have been assigned private rooms, so please relax and stay as long as you'd like."
Kim Jun-gong, wrapping up the event, announced it like a final act of mercy for the prize-less: they'd even booked rooms for them, so they should crash comfortably.
"Nothing left to see here. Food's all gone anyway."
I brushed my hands clean after polishing off the table scraps and got ready to bail. I wasn't the only one thinking it—some prize winners were already slipping out after perfunctory goodbyes. They weren't even hiding that the prizes had been their whole goal. Whatever, they were the majority, so no one cared much.
I slung my arms around the shoulders of Lee Sang-ho, standing there with a bitter look, and Park In-ha, poking at her dessert with a fork like it had wronged her. The two, suddenly dragged along, stared at me quizzically. But I wasn't done yet.
Sorry, guys, but hang with me a bit longer.
"Looks like the ones who wanna bounce have bounced. Now, let's hit round two, just us."
"Round two? It's late, end of the year—most places are closed. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve."
"Why leave a spot like this for some dive? We'll do round two right here, our group."
I called out to the rest of the stragglers looking awkward in the suddenly empty hall, faces full of regret. Scraping them together, we had eight including me—perfect for an all-nighter of Mafia.
The single rooms Kim Jun-gong's side had comped us weren't big enough for eight people to party in, not even close. But no worries there. I had the hall manager's security card.
"We're doing round two in the suite."
"S-s-suite? No one's booked that, right?"
"Yeah, we don't have the cash for a suite anyway."
"End of year? Suites are probably booked solid."
Skeptical grumbles erupted everywhere. That small-time mindset was exactly why these idiots had shown up to the reunion just to get fleeced.
To prove a man's word is his bond, I led them boldly up to the VIP floor with the suites. Thinking high-end hotel suites are always booked solid at year-end? That's pure peasant thinking. Most who book them this time of year are big spenders who no-show half the time. Hotels keep the deposit anyway, so it's a win for them—and the VIPs are off boozing elsewhere.
I opened the door to a suite that felt untouched, like a brand-new gift box still in the wrapping—no signs of life inside.
True to a five-star suite, it was beyond luxurious—grand. High-end decor you don't see every day, a king-size bed, a tub big enough for a crowd, a living room wide enough for volleyball, and a panoramic view of Seoul's night skyline. All standard perks for a five-star suite.
"Holy shit... even the room service menu's on another level."
Regular rooms had basic fare, but suite service started at tens of thousands per item. Wines with tongue-twisting names topped a million won a bottle; even light meals rivaled full course prices. And for off-menu stuff, you could call a server or intercom for extras at a premium—like tipping a few bucks for a pack of smokes.
"Night view's insane!"
Park In-ha rushed to the massive window, gasping, and the others piled up, murmuring bland approvals. You'd think they'd escaped North Korea with no city lights in sight.
I left the country bumpkins gawking and flicked on the TV. The absurdly huge screen—practically a billboard—blasted year-end specials in crisp 8K.
"Get comfy, everyone. We're crashing here tonight anyway."
"We could still grab a cab or the last train..."
"I've got plans tomorrow; I'd rather head home and rest than stay over."
"Dude, bailing day-use from the Shilla Hotel? Kinda wasteful, no?"
"How we doing round two? Order that pricey room service? Even splitting it'd bankrupt us."
They were having a painfully pragmatic chat that tugged at the heartstrings. I could send them home now, or respect their privacy and ship them to their solo rooms. But then they'd miss the sunrise tomorrow morning.
Explaining that? Too much hassle, and they'd never buy it. Unless they were Lee Sang-ho-level gullible, dumping wedding funds into crypto, they'd just call me crazy and ghost. In that case, he's the weirdo, not them.
But holding them with lame excuses like "round two" or "afterparty" was tricky too. They were all too grounded, terrified of bleeding their bank accounts.
So, what now?
"I'll cover all round two costs. No worries on your end."
I waved my check card—linked to a dummy account—and their faces lit up, guilt mixing with glee. Who'd say no to a sugar daddy footing the bill? I finally got the vibe S-man must feel daily.
We ordered pricey booze and snacks via room service, then had the server fetch board games and cards on the side. Eight guys and girls crammed in a ritzy five-star suite, not throwing some wild orgy but playing board games. The staff must've thought we were the weirdest guests ever.
"Back in the day, I rolled dice like a pro."
"Bullshit. You got wrecked in Sydney earlier—how you gonna take Seoul and Busan?"
"Gonna coin-flip São Paulo~."
"No way in hell? Banks won't loan you."
"Bribing the bank prez."
"You go bust again, that's three bomb shots. Got it?"
Deep into Monopoly—the board game's patriotic conservative, true right-wing classic—we amped it up with adult rules to kill the boredom. No bankruptcy; instead, every million in the red meant a bomb shot. Not hiding our cheap tastes, we mixed pricey wines with soju and whatever into bombs. Third-party observers would've been shocked.
"Took Seoul? Nabbed Tokyo? Built hotels and landmarks? Then tanked hard?"
"This guy's unkillable."
"But yeah, bought capitals and landmarks, still in the red."
"Fuck."
"Breaking: Han Siwoo royally fucked."
Under esteemed Bank President Park In-ha's decree, I chugged another mystery bomb shot. My tastes might be trash, but raisins crushed into it? Unforgivable. Raisin bugs deserved head-smashing.
Mid one-shot of a spicy bomb—makgeolli, fruit juice from snack crushing, and chocolate milk—the suite door rattled violently amid the game-and-booze haze.
"Huh? What was that?"
"Someone outside?"
"Suites are soundproof. Probably nothing."
"Nah, the door definitely shook..."
As we tossed out theories, the suite's lights started flickering like they might die any second. Surreal in a five-star suite—not some cheap motel.
I set down my bomb shot glass and pulled my pocket watch from my coat. The hands pointed precisely to 4:44:44.
It was just past 3 a.m., so four hours, forty-four minutes, and forty-four seconds from now would be sunrise. Winter solstice (December 22) dawn hit around 7:40 a.m.
Pretending to spear fruit with the sharp fork I'd given them for snacks, I stabbed my tongue deep. Then twisted the fork, spinning it.
Soon, the spiral pattern etched on my tongue naturally drew all their eyes to me.
The pattern I'd used before to slip police encirclements by erasing my presence was one thing. This spiral was "Attraction"—funneling everyone's focus onto me.
It visualized the silver-tongued demagogue ranting nonsense to the ignorant in a square, or the sly negotiator merchant bewitching a mark. From here on, these seven classmates must never notice what happened outside that door—or who came knocking.