Chapter 216
Chapter 216
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 216
Chapter Title: 94. Influencer (2)
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Hard to believe, but Divorced Man was apparently a wealthy magnate who'd made a fortune in business before the war.
I had no idea what kind of business it was, but in the AI-generated image he'd posted himself, there was a depiction of a man in a suit gazing down from a luxurious high-rise office, his face blacked out in shadow.
"Ha."
I let out an involuntary chuckle.
The BGM was some slick jazz track that sounded vaguely familiar.
Anyway, self-proclaimed successful entrepreneur Divorced Man had fallen for a woman in her thirties, gotten married, and plunged into newlywed bliss, living a life anyone would envy.
But as his nickname suggested, that happy marriage was doomed to fall apart from the start.
The rift between the couple began when China's hardliners started raising their voices within the party.
Shells rained down on Taiwan's Kinmen Islands for the first time in decades.
As China openly threatened war, global stock markets reeled, and fears of total destruction from war—along with apocalyptic prophecies—flooded both reality and the internet.
I remember that time all too clearly.
Back then, I was on the front lines, scraping together funds to build a bunker.
I vividly recall watching the apocalyptic events unfold faster than I'd anticipated, viewing it all with deep concern.
But people generally prefer to envision a bright future over a grim one.
Once China's rabid-dog antics were tempered by warnings from the US-led West, the optimists dismissed it all as mere internal posturing for unity, and the world bounced back to its former vibrancy as if nothing had happened.
Divorced Man, however, was one of those who never recovered from the societal reset.
He became a doomsayer.
There are two main types of doomsayers.
Active ones and passive ones.
Active doomsayers are convinced the end is nigh and prepare for survival by abandoning their social prestige, status, income, and relationships.
Stockpiling years' worth of food at home, scouting suburban properties for post-war living, or considering—or even building—a bunker on their land all fall into this category.
Someone like me, who poured every last penny into a bunker, would be in the extreme faction even among active doomsayers.
Passive doomsayers, on the other hand, believe the end is coming but prepare discreetly—boosting their portfolio with liquid assets like gold or dollars, accumulating knowledge, or hedging against the unknown—without drawing much attention.
Divorced Man was a passive doomsayer.
He sensed doom looming someday but had no desire to forsake the social standing and wealth he'd built.
He was certain of the end, yet deep down, he hoped the world would carry on as is.
Misfortune, as they say, stems from differences.
Divorced Man's wife was someone who wanted to see the world optimistically.
And while he was passive in his doomsaying, his mouth certainly wasn't.
He frequently voiced his views to his wife, insisting the end was coming.
There was probably a clumsy intent to persuade her, at least a little.
The next AI image showed a shadowy man and woman arguing in an American-style seaside mansion overlooking the ocean.
"My wife told me I was crazy. A nutjob. That I was wasting my days fretting over a war that'd never happen."
Their breakup didn't involve the stereotypes of divorce—no shouting matches or thrown objects.
A bit of insult and distance, and the marriage crumbled swiftly.
Now single again, Divorced Man had no one to tiptoe around.
Perhaps rebounding from losing the wife he'd loved, he boldly shifted from passive to active doomsayer.
And it was clear he truly had serious money.
Unlike my headfirst dive into building from scratch, he looked into a trendy Western "VIP communal bunker service."
Thanks to Cold War experience, the West had long advanced in bunker tech.
Setting aside nations like Switzerland that could shelter their entire population, North America—where money solved everything—had offered bunker services for the ultra-rich decades ago.
They'd convert sturdy abandoned nuclear missile silos into communal bunkers with pools, theaters, restaurants, gyms, and ballrooms, then sell spots to tycoons who could afford it.
I knew about these services too.
I could've joined if I'd liquidated everything.
These businesses were basically insurance with minimal risk—fattening the operators more than anything—so the entry price wasn't astronomically high for the elite.
But I ruled them out for a few reasons.
One was the inherent danger of communal living, which I'd hammered home repeatedly. The other was the operators turning rogue.
If the staff handling food, security, and daily needs flipped—or the company did—what then?
If the guards decided to seize the bunker, there'd be no stopping them.
It's the absurd tragedy of paying top dollar for a miserable death.
Korea apparently had something similar.
Even I, a grizzled doomsayer, hadn't known.
"Heard about the VIP bunker service at a social gathering. I showed interest, and someone recommended it. It was for a tiny elite circle, connections only. The security appealed to me, and their unique policies sealed it—I signed without questions."
The next screen, with heavy sci-fi BGM, depicted a vast, secretive underground facility in a remote Korean mountain.
Divorced Man described it thus:
"A relic of the military dictatorship—Cold War era. Not luxurious like the American ones; it's just a concrete slab. HVAC isn't VIP caliber, no amenities either. But the manager's trustworthy, and their strict no-contact policy won me over."
The bunker had eight contract holders, eight teams.
Four never made it.
A classic pitfall of communal bunkers: hard to access when it counts.
With only four teams inside, there was a very special rule.
Take breakfast, for example.
Meals were in the communal cafeteria, provided by the manager.
Ordinary so far, but this bunker applied a rule that defined its entire character to that simple meal: the timetable.
The four teams had rights and duties to eat in the cafeteria at staggered times.
Breakfast schedule:
Team 1 / 6:30~6:40
Team 2 / 6:45~6:55
Team 3 / 7:00~7:10
Team 4 / 7:15~7:25
Each resident must use the cafeteria only in their slot and vacate promptly for the next.
Thus, living in the same bunker meant zero contact with others.
To enforce this, the operators designed independent paths from private bunkers—no shared corridors—ensuring no encounters whatsoever.
A literal perfect no-contact bunker service.
The antithesis of North America's social-heavy VIP bunkers. This one's signature feature.
The managers were always a lean, muscular woman in a gas mask and a burly man.
The man's background was unknown, but the woman was a famed special forces alum—key in convincing rich clients.
Siblings, they occupied three bunkers; the third housed their mother.
Wasteful space, perhaps, but it eased fears of betrayal.
"At first, I wondered why our paid staff took more space than us. But think about it—they hold the knife. Post-war, we'd rely solely on their goodwill. A bit of space? No big deal."
As Divorced Man said, it was a solid match: diligent, skilled, but cash-poor managers and rich but hands-off clients.
The managers fulfilled duties faithfully; clients got value for their pre-war payments.
But it wasn't normal by ordinary standards.
At least four residents, completely isolated, unaware of each other's faces or identities, living independently for over a year.
The discipline held thanks to strict oversight, but mostly the residents' mindset.
Craving proximity but shunning interaction.
A life familiar to those who'd thrived in pre-war intensity.
Living solo amid crowds of hundreds of thousands.
Solitude in the masses was their life's hue.
Divorced Man, scarred by divorce, found it suited him perfectly.
In this bizarre communal solitude, he glimpsed a woman by chance.
Entering the cafeteria via the PVC-paneled corridor—barely wide enough for one—he spotted her finishing up and heading to her path.
Long hair, long lashes.
Her eye crinkles spoke of years, but she must've been a beauty in youth.
He didn't mind.
He wasn't young either.
Probably around his age?
Back in his bunker, amid his few hobbies—the only "communication" he allowed—he checked the Viva! Apocalypse! Korean board, browsed posts, drew some energy.
After a quick scan, sunk in vague sentiment, he played a treasured 1972 North American jazz record on his player and pondered.
His ex was ten years younger.
Vibrant and beautiful.
He'd been drawn to her looks and youth, seeing such a wife as a trophy for a successful man.
The marriage ended in doom as he embraced doomsaying, but reflection suggested deeper issues.
She'd just found an excuse.
Mismatched vibes from the honeymoon.
Same sights, same topics—yet thoughts on parallel tracks. Felt it repeatedly.
Mutual, probably.
His unease mirrored hers; layers of difference led to parting.
In this numb epiphany, Divorced Man idly recalled his boyhood.
He, an all-boys middle and high school grad, had one phase with girls around.
Here, he boldly poses a question:
"Suddenly, my elementary school desk mate came to mind. Weird, right? At fifty, thinking of kid-me and her, barely adult-age to me now?"
Part 1 of Divorced Man's tale, "New Love," ends there.
I paused reading, muting the damn jazz-spewing speaker to zero.
"......"
Bad feeling.
I'm more experienced than most, sure, but my writing sucks compared to others. Fact.
Not entirely my fault.
School drilled us: stick to facts, no exaggeration, simple, concise, instantly clear to third parties.
Fine for result-oriented types like us, but useless now.
And this Divorced Man guy.
No comments, lame nickname—thought he was a joke. Nope.
Hiding this talent? Who knew.
My education's no slouch, but he knows how to tug heartstrings.
Divorce lessons?
Whatever, he learned something...
Park Gyu losing to a divorcee? Impossible.
I reviewed my visual novel draft.
The attached screen: a handsome hunk, face gleaming excessively, grinning with twin axes bared teeth.
Ming-style font caption below:
Note: The author preparing for battle.
Attached BGM: Strauss's Thus Spoke Zarathustra, the iconic opening of Part 1.
Heroic legend cue. First line in sans-serif:
SKELTON is one of Earth's most capable hunters, forged in battle and rigorously trained for operations.
Not bad.
Simple, with classic flair.
But against Divorced Man, it falls short.
Hate to admit, kinda childish.
Feels like a game intro.
"......Hm."
My veteran instincts warn: proceed, and defeat.
What now?
Dust off the scrapped romance arc?
With Lightning, that is.
Doubt it'd suffice alone.
Needs two, probably.
Matching Divorced Man means dual romances.
But fabricating one? Not my forte.
I'm no imagination wizard conjuring fake people.
Lost in creative quicksand, wasting time—
"Hm."
Divorced Man's "hit" post.
Not that hot, actually.
Barely scraping by.
Hit posts have tiers.
True bangers demand ups; then "honorary hits" barely hit the threshold.
His: 16 recs.
Just over the 15-rec "hit" line. Honorary.
Worse: comments.
Pathetic compared to recs.
Inertia ups, not real thrill.
Check comments.
Anon: Hm
Berkut_break: "Solitude in the crowd." Cliché discourse back then, but fresh now.
tntn_Orthopedics: Sounds like me.
Meh.
"......"
This... I can take him.