Chapter 217
Chapter 217
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 217
Chapter Title: 94. Influencer (3)
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A.I. image generation tools, when handled right, could produce women so breathtakingly beautiful they were nearly indistinguishable from real photos.
But this wasn't really my skill—it was the product of desire.
A.I. tools excel at creating handsome men and beautiful women, but they struggle with ordinary folks or the ugly ones.
The power of these tools comes from learning vast big data, and people overwhelmingly want to generate the gorgeous ones, not the average or unattractive.
So even if you just generate a random man or woman, the A.I. defaults to society's objective ideals of male and female beauty.
The problem is that these default hotties carry that unmistakable A.I. stench.
A.I. isn't omnipotent; there are flaws it hasn't overcome.
Like rendering six fingers sometimes, or having someone eat noodle dishes with their hands instead of chopsticks.
My plan was to use this A.I. image tool to craft the perfect romantic partner for Park Gyu—a woman straight out of my ideals.
To do that, I was gauging the audience's tastes by revealing my handcrafted A.I. images one by one, straight from the heart.
...
I remember the first ones got some friendly comments.
But as data collection ramped up, the replies turned brutal.
...
"......"
Bark all you want.
I won't be swayed.
The essence is hot girls.
Just nail the female characters.
Yeah, I spammed a bit unbefitting a named user, but once I get the data, I'm done.
Figure out the faces the board users love most, tag 'em, and wrap up my romance arc.
Now, base my perfect adventure tale on this, sprinkle in some spice.
Oh, and I'm going bold too.
Bed scenes.
Just like Pygmalion from Greek myth, pouring my soul into sculpting the ideal woman— that's when my fierce rival Dolsingman dropped his next installment.
Checking a competitor's post mid-work is unwise, but curiosity made me pause my A.I. sculpting and click his new thread.
*
Last time, Dolsingman wrapped up reminiscing about his childhood.
Now he dives back into the past.
"It was a strange relationship. We'd fight and bicker just looking at each other, but when she wasn't around, I'd feel this emptiness. On Saturdays after school, I'd feel miffed; Sundays I'd think of her nonstop. Come Monday, back to the same old annoying squabbles...... Now I know what that feeling was.
"I liked her. My desk mate felt the same, more or less. We were always bickering, but she never once asked to switch seats or showed real disgust. She proved it when some other boy messed around—she showed me that face she could make."
Time flowed on, separating and blurring everything.
The rosy-cheeked boy became a middle-aged divorcee.
He explained why he was sharing his past.
"Turns out shared empathy runs deeper than I thought."
The tale returns to the unique bunker.
Dolsingman spots a woman around his age in the same bunker and takes a strong interest.
He tells the janitor—the only outsider he meets.
"Seems like there's a woman around my age living here."
Talking about other residents is taboo, but two years into bunker ops...
In a normal group bunker, the janitor would've betrayed residents multiple times by now.
Even firm convictions can shift.
The janitor he approached—always in a gas mask—radiated unyielding strength, like solid rock.
She and her brother had found the bunker (scavenger or raider? Unspecified) and swiftly killed and buried them in a pit. She'd fended off lurking Mutations too.
When Dolsingman spoke to her, he caught a whiff of human feces from her.
He vaguely guessed why.
"The old lady the janitor cares for showed dementia from the start. Two years post-war, it could've worsened."
Dolsingman voiced his curiosity to the janitor.
Her gas-masked face stared straight at him.
She asked,
"Isn't the no-interest-in-other-residents rule one you agreed to—and wanted—upon moving in?"
To her sharp question, Dolsingman gave an awkward smile.
"Ah, living alone gets so boring, and she seems around my age. Ah, is she here with a husband maybe?"
Dolsingman handed over a prepped bribe: a 1kg gold bar.
Post-war, precious metals are trash to some, but humans are primordially drawn to gold and gems since barbaric times.
Plus, they still trade at high value in places.
The janitor stared silently, then took it.
"She's single. Alone. Can't say more."
Hearing that, Dolsingman felt like jumping sideways, clapping his feet like the hero from his favorite musical "Singin' in the Rain."
From then, all his focus turned to the cafeteria.
He lingered till the last possible moment, showed up at the same times.
Intent: Let the mystery woman know he existed.
A lonely guy your age is here.
But signaling that wasn't easy.
Our board just needs write-and-post, but real human communication isn't that simple.
Unlike online, reality has constraints—especially in Dolsingman's bunker.
Three months into his efforts to appeal to her...
He spotted a woman vanishing down the hall, leaving a book on the table.
Title: Stendhal's The Red and the Black.
Dolsingman broke bunker rules and snatched it.
In his private bunker, he flipped pages relentlessly.
Pre-war, time was scarcest; post-apocalypse, time is something to kill.
Facing unfamiliar depictions, eras, names, concepts, he barely reached the end.
"Honestly, no fun. Like swallowing bitter medicine. But I powered through. Gotta recite it if we ever meet, right?"
In that group bunker, outings were strictly timetabled.
Under watch by armed gas-masked man and woman, Dolsingman strolled the permitted, unkempt garden, recharging on fresh air and openness.
A flower caught his eye.
To him—whose only interest was moneymaking—flowers were cheap, dated bouquet fillers.
Carefully, he plucked it with both hands, cradled it back.
Next morning, he returned the book—and placed the still-fresh flower beside it.
A day passed.
Dolsingman, aged, tasted long-lost emotional turmoil: anxiety, impatience, excitement, flutters.
He headed to the cafeteria amid it all.
"Think graduating high school was the last time I felt that pure joy."
The book was gone.
With the flower.
And another book sat atop its spot.
Thus, in a place for solitude-seekers prepping life's end, a bizarre courtship began.
No meetings, talks, encounters.
Just books left on the crude metal table, vanishing, reappearing with flowers, repeat.
Dolsingman, sans his twenties' vigor, felt no old impatience.
His bitter failure taught caution, perhaps.
Then seasons changed—a grave issue.
Cold came; flowers vanished.
Her books kept coming, but flowers bend to nature's whims.
In the killer cold's prelude that claimed masses, blooms withered and fell.
Dolsingman requested a janitor meet.
"Sorry, but one request."
He wanted to meet the book-and-flower woman.
Time for direct talk, he thought.
But the janitor stiffened.
Gas mask hid her face, but he was sure.
"You clients set the rules. They can't break. What if she doesn't want to meet, but I tell you to via me? Wouldn't you protest with the contract?"
Dolsingman dropped it.
She had superior logic and rationale.
Regretfully, back to his bunker.
Instead, he faced the mirror.
So much older.
Obvious: thinning hair, sallow skin.
Once, young women called him youthful, gasped at his age.
No more.
Time, apocalypse solitude, depression advanced his face's clock.
But Dolsingman smiled.
No need to fake youth now.
Similar age.
Probably same classroom or nearby, same blackboard, subjects.
Above all, shared space, swapped countless books and flowers.
He stands before her bunker door.
Steel, like his.
Should he knock?
Or turn back?
In silence stretching eternally, he heard it.
Laughter from beyond.
Distinctly male.
Faint hope it was just manly laughter shattered with her faint giggle.
In that moment, Dolsingman felt nothing, he says.
Like his numb pinky for ages, emotions dulled, unresponsive.
"......Even after, books appeared sporadically. But I stopped touching them. Not disappointment—other reason. No fun. Old novels, different eras, sensibilities. Obvious. Forced it before. Like I said, ordeal. Ordeal."
With clean surrender, Dolsingman's life reset to basics.
Back to solitary, undisturbed quiet, slow corrosion.
Books on the table stopped post-brutal cold.
Spring brought new love.
He glimpsed the janitor's bare face.
Not stunning, but young, healthy, charming.
Crucially, unbound by VIP bunker rules.
Now he's aggressively pursuing her.
"Root for me. Used my spare time for this!"
End: His beaming photo.
Balding, dark-skinned, patchy hair, sickly—yet radiant smile.
Seeing it, I messaged Defender.
He knows a medic.
Defender replied quick.
Too obvious a script.
Good janitors upholding duty, but time changes hearts; they bare teeth at dependents.
Arsenic's mild, maybe—but I don't want more board friends dying.
Not even rivals fighting for influencer spot.
So I messaged my competitor—not that tough.