Regret, Ruin, Obsession (5)
"Goddamn it!"
BAM! The man who slammed the table with a curse was the head of Shilla Hotel's security team—a man in his early forties slated for promotion next year. He'd started as a manager, switched to security, and spent nearly a decade handling the aftermath for VIP guests. He'd finally clawed his way up to team leader, dreaming of stretching out his legs as department head next year and taking it easy. But shit had hit the fan from the most unexpected angle.
"What the hell do these idiots do for internal management...!"
This year, when his juniors from Hanseong University Class of XX announced their year-end reunion, he'd pulled strings for them left and right. But getting an emergency call from the chief manager in the dead of night had made his heart drop. Despite those green-as-grass juniors begging him to keep things quiet, they'd gone and fucked up big time. Word had already spread to the other alumni, and the internal group chat was blowing up.
They did have internal protocols for this kind of thing, but the emergency had escalated because the very first step had failed. If the "harvesters" couldn't handle a certain "supernatural phenomenon," they'd immediately dispatch allied shamans, wizards, or sorcerers to deal with it on-site. Then, using their real-world power and money, they'd bury the incident so it never leaked out. That was the basic first-response manual. But just moments ago, the shaman they'd sent had gotten taken out by "something."
Watching via CCTV, the shaman had reached the floor with the VIP private rooms, started looking uneasy, and then been brutally murdered. Her neck twisted while she was still alive, her body hacked to pieces by some sharp invisible force. It was like a transparent serial killer was toying with her at will.
'Nothing showed on CCTV, but something was definitely there. No way a healthy person ends up that mangled otherwise.'
With the manual shredded, if this got exposed to regular staff or guests—who weren't in on it—the entire reunion would suffer massive fallout. Reporters swarming like rats at the slightest whiff, TV stations, YouTubers, even conspiracy nuts. The masses they'd always assumed would stay under their elite feet would rise up in an instant.
'Damn, our kind's already scraping by without alumni to leech off, and these junior assholes are just piling on the work.'
Still, if their past embezzlement got exposed, they'd have to cough it all up one way or another. That was how one elite clique devoured another. To avoid that, they absolutely could not get caught. Even if it meant cutting off tails.
Right then—
"Sir, you need to see this..."
"...What is it."
"Uh... something weird's crawling around the guest floors."
"What?"
The team leader peered into the CCTV screen at his subordinate's words. In the regular guest floor hallway, a black meaty blob—like a giant slug—was slithering along. About the size of a bull, moving a bit slower than a normal walking pace.
"Where the fuck did that thing come from..."
"Checked the guests on that floor... it's, uh, the juniors."
Between juniors whining about weird shit elsewhere, a perfectly fine shaman getting offed, and headaches piling up from just one incident, this new migraine trigger was the last straw. The team leader wanted nothing more to do with any of it. If the thing on his belt was a real gun instead of a taser, he'd have blown his temple off ages ago.
"Sir...!"
"What now!"
"Th-the entrance...!"
He snapped irritably and glanced at the entrance CCTV. His brain felt like it had forgotten every word in existence. Speechless.
"No way, what the... insane."
Most juniors had checked out fast after the reunion to head home, but now they were shambling back into Shilla Hotel. The problem? They didn't look remotely human anymore. Some had skin melting like ice cream, others necks stretched giraffe-long with heads dangling like fruit. Faint memories of their human days lingered, maybe—some crawled on all fours, desperately hunting elevators and stairs.
Terror gripped him. Not fear of whatever had done this to them. Fear that he'd end up the same—he'd pulled the same shit back in the day.
This was straight-up malicious terrorism aimed at their alumni clique. No, not just terrorism. Occult or supernatural terrorism.
Beyond normal senses or logic, an unknowable realm where even understanding the surface was impossible. That's why the "reunion" outsourced it to experts for big bucks. In return, those pros backed them up and kept leaks from spreading. But now that line had blurred. Shattered, really.
Even dumping high-paying requests on MysticArtsGal got lukewarm responses, and their usual contacts were ghosting calls en masse. The victims didn't even know the cause, but the horrific outcome was clear. No need to explain the dread.
"Wait, where the hell are those things heading?!"
"The... suite floor."
"Isn't the suite floor empty right now? No reservations today, right?"
Shoving his subordinate aside, he fiddled with the CCTV and spotted a group entering a suite floor—left vacant by rich misers for personal reasons. They'd casually swiped a hall manager's security card to unlock a locked room, then ordered room service like crazy.
The figures on CCTV weren't reunion members. They were the sacrificial lambs getting fleeced at the Hanseong University Class of XX reunion today.
'It's them. They did this.'
Instinct screaming they were behind it, the team leader barked orders.
"Grab every bastard in that suite and drag 'em out! Stealing staff security cards and squatting illegally!!"
"But those freaks are heading up too. What about them?"
"What do you mean 'what about'? Zap 'em with tasers, bash 'em with batons—clear 'em out! Sitting here does jack shit! If this blows, we're all dead!!"
Finally grasping the gravity, the security team geared up and rushed to the floor. Chaos had already erupted inside Shilla Hotel—regular guests and staff spotting the grotesque monsters—but the monsters and security didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
"Bullshit! Where'd this punk get his dope? Think I'm some pushover hotpants? Wanna taste Spicy Fist from Hongdae Street?"
"Why's your tongue so long? Just admit I won fair and square~ No need to drag it out."
"This fucker swapped cards and acts like he won legit."
"Mad? You know what to do. Arm wager~."
"Fine, you're on. Arm if you swapped cards."
I confirmed a crowd gathering outside the door and deliberately raised my voice, drawing even more alumni eyes my way. This was the real start. Like junkies popping wood at the word "drug," these fate-leeching addicts craved others' fortunes like mad. Precisely because I'd slipped impurities into their fates—they had no usable luck on hand, so they followed the scent here in desperation.
'Now I can collect some genuine repentance.'