The Eve of the Storm
'Calm before the storm. "That senior keeps butting in while I'm trying to write." Of course, I had no right to comment on Han Yuhyeon's behavior. Nor did I want to. After all, my connection with Kang Ajin was nothing more than an anonymous reader-author relationship online. I wasn't particularly close to her in real life either, so I couldn't exactly step in and interfere. 'Just don't delay the serialization. Please.' I clicked my tongue in annoyance and glanced back at my phone. The notification I'd checked moments ago now showed a +1. I tapped it without much thought, and the screen that unfolded brought a smile to my face. 'Whoa.'
A reply from Ajin had appeared under my comment on the serialization post. A long one, too—nearly two thousand characters. A lump formed in my throat, and my vision blurred. '···.'
There was nothing particularly special about how I'd started deep-sea exploration. I'd simply begun searching for interesting novels because I had nothing else to read. But at some point, watching the small-time authors grow one by one, I started finding joy beyond the stories themselves. "Small-time authors···." They lit up like they'd won the world over the smallest donations, reacting with over-the-top cuteness to comments saying their work was fun. Seeing them grow into something bigger than a major corporation filled me with an indescribable sense of happiness. I no longer looked only at the joys and sorrows within the novels. Forming a personal connection with the authors, communicating with them, and helping them grow—that had become my purpose in deep-sea exploration. And every time something like this happened, that purpose came rushing back. 'This is why I raise small-time authors.'
I stared at the back of Ajin's head. That ordinary-looking head suddenly seemed so endearing—maybe I'd been blinded by bias. Yeah, she'd written a two-thousand-character reply. I couldn't just sit still. I'd have to send her a few tens of thousands of won in support once I got home. Satisfied with the thought, I was about to put my phone away when—
"Hey. Give me your phone."
"?"
Someone spoke from behind me. Turning around, I saw two unfamiliar female seniors staring at me. For some reason, their gazes weren't exactly friendly. They were glaring at me with fierce hostility. Then came voices as sharp as their stares.
"I said hand over your phone."
"Huh? Why all of a sudden?"
"Haah. It's not sudden. We've been watching you for a while. We just want to check something, so hand it over."
At first, I thought there might be some misunderstanding—like they'd accused me of stealing their phones or something trivial. But what they wanted wasn't their phones. It was mine. I had no idea why they wanted it, but the atmosphere suggested it was anything but light or friendly. Keeping my surprise hidden, I asked, "Why my phone? What do you need it for?"
"···We just have something to check. Hand it over for a second."
"So tell me the reason. You think I'd just hand it over if you demand it without explanation?"
Maybe it was frustration, but my voice had grown rough without me realizing it. My words made their expressions turn even colder. One of them twisted her lips into a mocking smirk and spat out with a hollow laugh, "You've been acting real suspicious lately. Did you just take a picture of her?"
"···What?"
"I asked if you took a picture of Ajin. You've been staring at her this whole time. It was so obvious."
Ajin’s photo being taken. The words brought back that post I'd seen on Ede not long ago. [Apparently, photos of our students have been posted on some shady harmful site. Everyone, be careful with hidden cameras.]
"···."
"Don't you think it's obvious? You're the one who uploaded Ajin's photo to that damn site today. And you took her hidden camera shot too."
The senior with the sharp, slanted eyes pointed at the other one. Apparently, she was also a victim of the recent hidden camera incident. But more importantly—
"Ajin's photo was uploaded···?"
"Haah. You're so frustrating."
"Stop pretending you don't know. Just bring your phone. Don't drag this out."
"···If you're going to ask, do it properly."
"Bullshit. You think we're in a position to ask nicely? This isn't a request—it's an order. Hand it over."
"Don't order me around."
The slanted-eyed senior took a step closer. Without stopping, she reached out to snatch my phone. Naturally, I swatted her hand away.
"Ah, shit. Hey. Hand it over."
"···."
"I'm just gonna check the gallery and give it back. You're making yourself look even more suspicious by acting like this, you know?"
If they'd asked nicely, I might've lent it for a moment. But when they accused me of being a criminal and demanded it like an order, who in their right mind would hand it over?
"Seriously, fuck. Hey."
"Don't touch me."
"Hand it over, you criminal bastard."
"I told you clearly not to touch me."
Realizing she was losing the physical struggle, she switched to threats. "Then should I call everyone over and make this public? Think you can handle that?"
"Go ahead."
"Hah! You wanna advertise yourself as a hidden camera criminal or something···"
"Ah, fuck!"
The loud curse slipped out before I knew it. The noisy classroom fell silent in an instant, and every gaze turned toward me. "So," they whispered among themselves, their voices barely audible. Despite the stares and murmurs, I kept my eyes fixed on the two women. Then a voice I could hardly believe was my own came out—rough and fierce. "Call them, then. You fucking bitches."
#
There's always a limit to a person's memory. You forget things you've heard, misremember events that happened. Especially old memories—they fade quickly and disappear beyond the horizon. But I remember. That day, I remember it clearly. It was over ten years ago, yet it's as vivid as if it happened yesterday. I was seven years old.
One day, while shopping at a large supermarket with my mother, I'd thrown a tantrum demanding a new robot toy. But her response was cold. If I didn't come right now, she'd leave me there. She even yelled that if I didn't want to be her son, I could keep whining about the robot. What choice did I have? At seven, I had no choice but to stop fussing and follow her. Of course, I grumbled the whole way about how pathetic it was that we were poor and couldn't afford it.
Two days later, a hundred thousand won had disappeared from my father's wallet. For some reason, I was immediately singled out as the suspect. My mother had decided from the start that I was the culprit and told my father about what had happened two days earlier. He didn't deny it and pinned the blame on me too. It was unfair. Even as my father shouted and raged, I cried and protested my innocence. But to them, my claims of injustice were nothing but obvious lies. In the end, I was beaten with a switch until my thighs were raw. I begged them to stop, saying it hurt, pleading for mercy, but each time, the blows only grew harder. Finally, unable to endure the pain, I confessed to stealing the hundred thousand won. It was a simple lie born from the thought that if I admitted it, they'd stop hitting me. But branded as the thief, I was punished by eating cold rice for a week. The occasional glares and beatings from my parents were the punishment reserved for a thief.
Then one day, I overheard my father on the phone with his friends saying something strange. Thanking them for buying drinks and saying next time they'd treat everyone big. My father looked puzzled. Then he remembered—he'd paid a hundred thousand won while drunk at that gathering. Afterward, my parents apologized and offered to buy me the robot I wanted, asking me to forgive them. But the wall around my heart had long since closed.
Anyway, I remember that day clearly. Even now, I can't forget it. I couldn't forget it even if I tried.
#
"Call them, you fucking bitches."
Being branded a criminal doesn't feel great. It's infuriating, and anger comes before the sense of injustice. "What's going on over there?" "Did he just swear? Looks like they're fighting." "The vibe is seriously intense. Are they really fighting? What the hell happened for them to start fighting all of a sudden?" Murmurs spread around us. Unlike me, the two seniors glanced around nervously, clearly aware of the attention. It was the complete opposite of their earlier bold attitude. "···Ah, shit." After a moment, they seemed to steel themselves and glared at me again without caring about the stares. We looked ready to lunge at each other any second, and the people around us weren't about to let that happen. "What's going on? What happened?" Han Yuhyeon approached from nearby and asked. More people gathered behind him, including Park Heena and Han Yeri. Han Yeri, in particular, looked at me with concern rather than confusion. "Jihyun, what's wrong? Why are you fighting with him?" "···I don't know. It's annoying." "And Choi Seokhun. Did you just swear at Jihyun? She's your senior. You're cursing at your senior? Is that how you talk?" Even at a time like this, the way he prioritized the girl made me let out a hollow laugh in disbelief. The laugh must've irritated him, because he growled lowly, "You laughing?" "Senior." "You crazy bastard, you should've apologized instead of acting up. Laughing like an idiot without reading the room—are you trying to make things worse?" "Back off, senior. I've still got business with these bitches." "···What?" A grinding sound came from Han Yuhyeon's mouth. His usual generous smile was long gone, replaced by a chillingly cold expression. He strode toward me. "You really want to die, don't you?" Grabbing me by the collar, he threatened, "From the looks of it, I can guess what happened. You took the hidden camera shots, didn't you? There's no other reason you'd act this cocky." "···." "Should I take it by force, or are you gonna hand it over nicely?" My mind went blank. So this guy had decided I was the culprit too. Annoyed, I reached out and grabbed his collar in return. "Then try taking it, you bastard. But you're gonna get hit a few times first."