A Man Who Doesn't Hold Back
I'm hungry. But hunger's nothing new, so it doesn't faze me. Sleepiness, though—that I can't stand. I'm the kind of guy who doesn't hold back. I'd raid the fridge at night even if I skipped dinner, and if I got sleepy, I'd crash out during class like a real man.
And above all, what I really can't tolerate is...
"Han Daeri, you fucking piece of shit!"
Whoosh! The stack of papers scattering in front of me like a thousand sparrows—or like the paper fireworks from my first birthday party.
"You call this handling shit as a manager? You think I wanna get hauled in front of the department head and chewed out?!"
"I just followed the manual."
"This fucking asshole's at it again."
The Perpetual Manager—who couldn't do his own damn job but scarfed food when hungry, slept when tired, and still pocketed his paycheck every month—bolted up from his seat.
"I told you to handle that shit smoothly, not fuck it up so bad your mom's funeral gets delayed!"
"......"
"You fucking punk, if you hadn't stuck your nose in, that project wouldn't have gone to hell! What the fuck gives a worthless manager like you the right to send a direct report to the department head?!"
"The project had problems from the start. The client's funding sources were shady, their financial statements were..."
"Han Daeri. Don't you know how many months our team wasted on that project? Or do orphans just not get social cues?"
"......"
"Thanks to our brilliant Han Daeri, the team leader grabbed his neck and collapsed. It was just waiting for department head review and final approval from above—and you fucked it all up, that's why he collapsed!"
"If we'd pushed ahead, it wouldn't have been just the project—the whole team would've tanked."
"Oh yeah? Got a big mouth for someone in over their head. So who actually tanked? The project? Our team?"
"We can just prep the project from scratch properly."
"No thought for the team wasting more time and money? Wow, when did our Han Daeri grow such leadership? Just follow Han Daeri! Han Daeri Coin to the moon! You motherfucker!!!!!"
The ashtray he hurled nearly smashed right into my forehead, but I tilted my head just enough to dodge. It grazed my temple and shattered against the office wall with a crash. Cigarette ash and butts scattered everywhere, messing up the office, but the manager didn't give a shit.
"Because of you! If it weren't for you! Fuck... that's why I told HR to screen out greenhorns like you from the start!"
"At least I filtered out a rotten project—shouldn't that count as a win?"
Something was starting to boil inside me, so I tossed out a line to keep my blood pressure from spiking.
I'm the type who has to endure anything. But when push comes to shove, even knowing I must hold back, I always fail spectacularly. And the reason is...
"You crazy? Can't read the room? I told you last time—stop showing off your shitty upbringing. If you can't grasp basic manners like not talking back to your elders, at least shut your trap! Why can't you learn? Am I your fucking home tutor? Should I teach you how to wipe your ass too?!"
"I've been wiping other people's shit my whole career—why are you pissed?"
"...Jesus, my neck."
His bloated gut like a mountain kept his back from bending much, but he still overacted. Watching it twisted my guts. That's why I can't hold back even when I try. It's always like this.
"Han Daeri. If you hate the job, just quit. No one's holding you back. Hell, there's a truckload of guys who'd love to bash your skull in a dark alley."
"The department head might."
"The president won't. I'll process your resignation nice and clean, so grab the form, fill it out half-assed like you do everything. Even a dumbass like you can manage that."
"Are you pressuring me to resign?"
"Don't even know 'encouraged resignation'? You ignorant fuck! Even if the department head covers for you, the president won't!"
Only then did I piece together what was going on. In this shitty spin-off from a major Korean conglomerate, the minority trying to save the company was clashing head-on with the majority just looking to milk it dry and bail. No surprise—the guy recently booted to this affiliate as president after losing the succession race wasn't gonna run it straight. The department head had enough industry clout to dodge demotion or forced quit, but for a mere manager like me? Easy pickings. Pushing "encouraged resignation" instead of outright firing was just to dodge a wrongful termination claim at the labor board.
'Held back pretty well this time.'
After my parents vanished when I was a kid, I bounced between relatives who devoured their estate like piranhas through my teens. As soon as I hit college, I went independent, scored scholarships, and grabbed my diploma. Post-military, lucked into this first job and made manager in three years. Fast promotion, sure, but it drew plenty of baseless envy—especially from guys like the Perpetual Manager, stuck because they'd pissed off the higher-ups. Surviving three years in this hellhole? That's an achievement. Even if I'm turning thirty in a couple days. Even if my only edge is being a bit sharp at work. Even if I always snap at the end.
Anyway, this mess isn't my fault. It's the god who made this shitty world.
"Got it. Taking someone else's shit detail and getting a cushy resignation feels like kowtowing, but what can you do."
"Sigh... seriously, watch your mouth out there. I'm saying this out of human decency—you'll get fucked up bad."
"If you run into me outside, you'll need to watch yours—why worry about me?"
"......"
"Hope we never cross paths again. Deposit this month's pay and severance on time. Unless you wanna hear from the labor board."
I chucked my prepped resignation letter at him. As someone once said, a worthless manager like me always carried it in my pocket.
"Orphan trash making a scene."
As I grabbed my stuff and headed out, his parting shot made me clench my fist till my knuckles cracked—but I didn't swing. Not because I worried about lawsuits or jail. I held back desperately, terrified I'd keep pounding till his breath stopped, or lose my mind and bathe my hands in someone's blood. It happened in school, in the army—no need for that stain at work.
But hey, not my workplace anymore. Does it matter?
'Just wanna rest.'
Hungry, exhausted, and verbally gut-punched on an empty stomach. Normally, I'd wrap up overtime, hit the work-area kongnamul gukbap joint run by generous Kim Malja for hot soybean sprout soup to soothe my gut, then crash at home. But today, even her kind heart didn't appeal. I just wanted to get home and sleep like the dead. Even if it meant actually dying.
Unlike the usual late-night grind followed by early-morning roasting from the Perpetual Manager prick, the sun was still blazing. City traffic belched exhaust that clawed my lungs as always, and smog from China stung my already dry eyes. This city was always like that. By day, orderly like some educational TV show flaunting its best side. By night, a filthy, debauched mess. I was just witnessing its shift from night to day. Nothing had actually changed. In the unseen corners, the same dirty, slimy bottom-feeders wallowed. They were kings of the night—romanticists reveling in darkness, doing whatever the fuck they wanted. Unlike me, the night slave. A sudden, fierce urge hit me: I want that too.
But I know desire from impulse. Desire's primal instinct; impulse is just a drug tormenting me for no reason. Craving a woman is one thing; blowing your strained wallet on illegal hookers is another. I've held that razor-thin line so far. Like when I charged the school bully mocking my dead parents and smashed his face till my fists broke. Or in the army, when I finally swung a rifle butt at my senior's endless taunts, spilling his teeth like corn kernels.
That crossed from longing to reunite with my parents, to the raw impulse to kill anyone who badmouthed them. So I separate desire from impulse rigorously. Fail, and someone dies—me or them.
"Peace like a river... peace like a river unto me... it's overflowing."
The hymn I'd memorized from Mom stuck in my head since childhood spilled out reflexively as rage boiled, blood dripping from my clenched fists. A hollow laugh escaped at the selfishness of a god demanding worship while denying me that peace, that joy. Because I dozed off in church? Lip-synced the hymns? Scribbled Bible copies half-assed? Retaliation for that? Tossed into this shitty world, parents ripped away—curious how an eight-year-old drags through hell? Maybe Santa stopped visiting after eight because he wanted me sprawled like those alley lowlifes. Same for my no-contact parents.
"Hoo."
I rummaged my pocket, tore open the pill packet roughly, and swallowed the tablets with the metallic tang of blood. Meds I'd popped for years to curb my bad habit—no, my full-blown illness now—of uncontrollable impulses. Proof they worked: the Perpetual Manager's face was still intact. I'm getting better. I'm okay. I'm becoming someone to be proud of. I'm ready to reunite with my parents.
Beep! I swiped into my youth rental housing. The heavy, stagnant air greeted me. Guy living alone: work desk, PC, basic rental appliances. That's it. I chucked my clothes into the washer and flopped onto the mattress.
Staring up from the mattress, my eyes hit the small crucifix on the wall. I don't go to church anymore, don't copy Bible verses, but since going independent, I've always kept one. Not for emotional crutches. More like a target for resentment and rage—right where I could glare at it.
Jesus Christ, carved groaning on the cross. How much did it hurt? Did his palms bleed like mine? Did he curse his father too, lamenting his shitty life?
"At least you got back to your dad's arms in the end."
Even as exhaustion closed my eyes, I glared at the wall crucifix.
Jesus, you're just a goddamn fraud.