Regret, Ruin, Obsession (2)
South Korea boasts the highest college enrollment rate in the world. Even amid murmurs that a degree isn't everything anymore, or that it's tough to land a job even with one—making enrollment rates dip compared to the past—the early 2000s, the peak of private education and sky-high admissions, saw just about everyone heading to university unless they were a total hardhead dropout. And even those hardheads? Korean parents shoved them into college anyway.
Fresh-faced rookies stepping into society soaked up the college vibe quick, soon learning the "rules" of their own league. The first thing that cropped up was the seniority culture. Born from the brutal hazing of 80s and 90s military barracks clashing with early-20s campus life, it forged a new kind of bond. Was this the spark of shitty hazing? Seniors—or returnees from military service—started gripping juniors like rats in a trap. Downing booze and causing mayhem became daily routine, and they even formed cartels to prop each other up.
The military, once rocked by the Hanahoe clique, got a generational purge, leaving universities—free from government scrutiny and public backlash—as the new breeding ground for mini-Hanahoes. Then the economy boomed, nightlife and the internet exploded, and alumni associations sprouted like weeds. They existed before, sure, but pre-2000s reunions were worlds apart from what came after—in scale and purpose. Old-gen get-togethers were nostalgic nostalgia fests, scraping together time to reminisce. New-gen ones? Cutthroat arenas of pure profit-and-loss calculus. If medieval Europe had aristocratic salons, modern Korea had alumni meets—no exaggeration.
That's when someone got the bright idea: What if we fleece the nobodies no one gives a shit about at these reunions? At first, "fleece" meant straight-up scams—insurance hustles, phone flips, car deals targeting the relative losers' wallets. It escalated: real estate schemes, business investments, stock tips. But all that drew social scorn and risked jail time if you crossed the line. Crafty con artists, craving high returns without the risk, cooked up something better: no traces, efficient exploitation, and the scraps cleaning themselves up. Enter the occult.
Stuff a hundred randos would dismiss as superstition? They dove right in. Hired "experts," shelled out fat fees, and siphoned "future assets" from promising alumni with bright horizons. Future assets: crystallized potential—what you could earn living life. Assume ten hours' work equals ten hours' pay; it's the baseline lock. Picture stripping 50 years' worth from a healthy, average-personality 20-something with decent creds. Pure cash? At least a billion won. Hit the jackpot in that potential? Double it. Potential isn't ironclad fate, but it's a solid guarantee—like elite genes breeding elite kids.
Success bred the first fruits: sweet-yet-bitter unearned immortality income. Those who tasted it revolutionized alumni culture. They built tight-knit secret cabals, acting like shadowy global operatives. That's why campus hazing spiked at some tipping point, why OT, MT, and events started sorting insiders from outsiders, why they imported lame-ass seniority rites. You're either one of us—infinite indulgence, sharing the spoils—or you're prey to exploit. Cute, right?
Kim Eunhye, attending Hanseong University's XX class reunion for the third year running, was one such player. Prepping for a lowly grade-9 civil service gig, she'd checked SNS one day and realized way more alumni were killing it than she'd thought. They were the "purebloods"—four-time attendees. She networked hard, bedded plenty of guy alums for intel, but who cares? She cracked the code, joining the purebloods' free-ride fate-munching line.
Especially sweet: last year and this, Park In-ha—that thorn from college days—waltzed in voluntarily and got plucked like a sucker. Natural looks, sunny personality, middle-class roots, popular YouTube and blog. Prime potential. Dozens of billions easy; marry into upper crust, hundreds. She even showed up again this year, post-plucking.
"Dumb bitch. Brain's a flower field, so she just gets fleeced like a mark."
Kim Eunhye lit the premium aroma candle she'd "won" at the raffle—pre-rigged for her. Inhaling Park In-ha's massive potential baked into it? Her life would level up huge. Prettier, richer, better men. Light-years beyond grade-9 drudgery—a luxe existence awaited.
"Sniiff... haaah... Not cheap crap, huh? Smells good. Calms the mind, even."
Too eager to wait, she burned it in the solo suite Kim Jun-gong booked, skipping her usual scrub-down ritual. Fate-munch was priority—addictive high, no side effects, instant kick. Like celebs' milk shots, but better.
'Way better, actually.' Even scraps from potential-rich folks boosted health, looks, assets, luck. She and other girls had openly vied for In-ha's fate-laced prizes—extra potent for women.
'Next year, maybe a Seoul luxury pad. Or snag a prosecutor, doctor... Nah, mid-tier chaebol heir's better. Dream big.'
Lights dimmed to a bedside lamp, she lay still, eyes shut. The candle's magic stirred—something slithering over her skin, melting in like warm eyes on flesh. Ticklish, familiar from twice before. Post-high, New Year's always brought windfalls. Kim Jun-gong's business boom amid recession? Same vibe. His crew scored stock and real estate wins too.
'2025's hell ends, 2026 dawns—I'm reborn.' Prettier, bigger than Park In-ha, strutting reunions like a queen.
Crunch.
"......?"
Crunch-crunch! Snap-snap-snap! Screeeeech!
"Eugh, hnnngh...?!"
As sleep crept in, agony hit— she writhed, moaning faintly. Moments ago, fluffy clouds and sun; now, what the fuck?
"!"
Head whipping aside, she locked eyes with something gnawing her arm—black teeth bared, hands clamped like a vice.
"Nom nom......"
Voice like rusty metal on steel. It chomped harder. Agony stabbed—not just arm. Bed-end creeper with lank black hair gripped her lower half, twisting ankle like chicken bone.
"Pretty legs... mine."
She screamed—or tried. Mouth locked. Opposite side, skeletal hand roamed her gut, plunged in casual. Past squishy organs, down to pelvis—clutched a key woman-part.
"My baby!"
Ripped free: a fetus, barely past six weeks.