Regret, Ruin, Obsession (3): "Hey! Put It On!" "Grrrr!"
"Hey! Put it on!"
"Grrrrr!"
His real name was Choi Ho-ban, nickname Hoban. Back in high school, he was just your average nobody in the class. Unlike the natural-born popular kids, he wasn't particularly good-looking, nor did he excel at studies or sports. So naturally, he ended up in that awkward in-between zone—not quite in with the cool crowd, not quite an outcast.
Suddenly gripped by the fear that if he kept drifting through life like this, he'd still be a mediocre loser in college, the military, and even at work, Choi Ho-ban made one firm resolution. If he couldn't be the head of a dragon, he'd settle for the tail—at least the head of a snake.
The life-changing plan he chose was ridiculously simple. First, he repackaged his bland looks into something "ridiculously funny." He twisted his speech, gestures, and personality toward making people laugh and lightening the mood. He devoured memes and jokes online, delivering gags at just the right level—not too cringey. He shifted his image from "clumsy guy who sucks at sports" to "hilarious idiot who's fun to work out with."
Before he knew it, he'd become a 1.5-tier insider, serving the top-tier popular kids but earning the glory of hanging with them.
Leveraging that experience, Choi Ho-ban maximized his clownish image even at Haneung University. He showed up to every event—the flower of college life—with heroic gusto, and he'd chug booze the morning after a bender like a legend. Sure, his GPA took a hit, but in return, he left a great impression on tons of seniors, juniors, and peers.
Especially after snagging the nickname Hoban, which tied back to his real name, making everyone remember him.
"You know Hoban?"
"That funny oppa?"
"Can't have a drinking party without Hoban. It's no fun without him."
"That fucker Hoban sucks at gang fights! How many times does he mess up the gang cheers?!"
"Hoban, look after the kids a bit. Too many drunks. I'll treat next time."
"Hoban, you gotta try dating. Girls would lose their minds on a blind date with you."
Somewhere along the way, plain old human Choi Ho-ban vanished, leaving only the clown Hoban behind. But that was fine. He'd succeeded, after all.
Right after graduating from Haneung University, alumni seniors dragged him in and laid out plans for the reunion. Key insiders like Kim Jun-gong, plus the loyal opportunists who'd been tight with the seniors, stood on the same line as clown Hoban.
Who'd have thought a mere jester like him could ascend to elite status! He could exploit the bland, overlooked outcasts who'd faded from seniors' and peers' memories, upgrading his life with ease!
Tears of gratitude welled up for his long, depressing clown life finally seeing light.
He'd attended four reunions this year alone with the elites, pocketing big cash from three through fate exploitation. Money he'd never touch in his wildest dreams rolled in on a vine, and he even scored a hottie he'd never dare eye in society.
How many guys in their late 20s owned a house, car, and business under their own name in Korea? Among regular dirt-poor to middle-class kids—not trust-fund heirs—probably fewer than a thousand, he was damn sure.
"Heh heh... You have no idea how lucky I feel to be buddies with you elites."
Hoban chuckled slyly as he downed premium whiskey he couldn't touch at the formal reunion. Beside him sat six elites, including Kim Jun-gong.
In Shilla Hotel's best-view, spacious, secretive room, they celebrated another killer year.
When senior alumni first picked him as elite and revealed the plan, he never dreamed their lives would transform like this. Exploiting others' fates was real, and absorbing it visibly boosted life quality. Their fates had literally bloomed.
If they were this far along, imagine the seniors who'd run reunions for years. Probably execs at big firms, rolling in cash, living blissfully with hot dates.
Maybe even politicians, celebs, or underworld bosses.
Knowing the waters they splashed in now dwarfed their old pond, but sharing the same path brought relief. When seniors stepped down one by one, they'd inherit those spots.
"Heeey! Empty glass is no good—especially since you couldn't drink much earlier. Chug now!"
As Hoban topped off others' glasses, he grinned at the iPad prize tucked in his pocket. Fate-infused items worked if used or just carried—fate absorbed either way.
All the elites here had picked portable prizes: Kim Jun-gong a luxury watch that suited him, his buddy a necklace, another an e-cig. Easier than hoarding bulky stuff at home—once fate was absorbed, swap it out naturally.
With booze flowing in, good vibes poured in too; their moods soared by the minute. The sweat from playing serious adult at the reunion? Long forgotten.
"Oh yeah, what about that Han... Han Siwoo guy who showed up? What're we doing with him?"
Kim Jun-gong scowled mid-sip at Choi Ji-seok's question—one of the elites. They'd planned to humble Han Siwoo lightly at the reunion, but he'd slipped away like a mudfish.
"Why bring up that buzzkill?"
"Nah, he bugs me. Weird timing to show at the reunion, and his vibe's... off? Creepier than before. Kept catching my eye."
"Others dressed appropriately, but he rolls in with some raggedy long coat—who knows where from. Unshaven, messy hair; thought he was homeless at first."
"Gave off a bad vibe. Gloomy? Shady? Felt like bad luck'd hit if he got close. Explains why he had no friends in college."
"But he hung with Park In-ha fine?"
"In-ha's just nice to everyone. Jun-gong, weren't you chasing her this year? Why let her go?"
"Yeah, you said you'd take the fate-sucked empty shell and raise her like a pet?"
Kim Jun-gong couldn't admit why he hadn't brought her. Han Siwoo stuck to her side, and every time he approached, his steps veered, gaze shifted—some inexplicable pull.
He'd tried approaching her repeatedly, but gave up. By next year, her depleted fate would crash her anyway; he'd swoop in then. People cling hardest to saviors in desperation.
"Tripping her up's nothing. Just too many eyes tonight."
"Kek, the confidence of a successful businessman? Looks, money—you name it, he's got it!"
Hoban clapped dramatically, reaching to refill glasses—crack! A thick glass shattered.
Shards rained on his suit; instead of frowning, he forced a pitiful clown laugh, playing the unlucky fool.
"Fuck, this custom suit cost a fortune..."
"Isn't that an advance? Next year's fate paying early."
"That how you see it? Tsk, at least do it cleanly."
Brushing shards off casually, Hoban noticed his hand only got nicked—shards on the suit wouldn't budge.
Were they embedded? He prodded carefully; stuck like glue.
"No fucking way, holes in the suit can't be fixed... Huh?!"
"What?"
"The shards! The shards...!"
Countless shards burrowed inward, stabbing his body everywhere. He frantically brushed— they dug deeper.
Desperate to rip off the suit, it suddenly tightened, freezing him.
Crunch crunch crunch.
"Aaaarrrgggghhhh!!!"
Like a buff macho crammed into skinny jeans, the suit constricted him—shards and all.