Subjects Secured

Mentally staring blankly at the text floating in the air, Cheolyoung Lee's ears caught the frantic voices of his wife Jinhee Yoo and daughter Nara Lee.

"Honey, can you see this text too? What the hell does this mean...?"

"Daddy, there's weird text floating in front of my eyes. I'm scared."

It wasn't a hallucination. An overwhelming sense of harsh reality crushed Cheolyoung from head to toe. Instinctual alarm bells rang in his brain. Reacting carelessly to that bizarre sentence felt like it could trigger something irreversible.

"Nara, don't do anything—just stay still! You too, honey!"

At Cheolyoung's shout, his wife and daughter flinched and froze. The sentence's intent was clear: if they didn't join as subjects, they'd be eliminated immediately—a blatant death threat. But he had no idea what becoming a "subject" truly entailed. Wary of some grotesque contract binding their souls, Cheolyoung hesitated.

Then, a new sentence etched itself into the air.

There was no time to hesitate. No matter how creepy it was to become an unknown "subject," it had to be better than whatever "elimination process" was coming right now. He needed to put out the immediate fire first.

"Jinhee! Nara! Hurry and hit AGREE!"

At his urgent cry, Jinhee clung to her daughter. "Nara, quick! Tap the text in front of you!"

"Mommy... I'm so scared."

She was only nine. The day's events alone were enough to scar her for life—traumas piling up one after another. Her immature young soul, gripped by terror, couldn't even twitch a finger.

"Nara, please! Listen to Daddy! Hurry!"

Jinhee's voice cracked into a scream, trembling uncontrollably. But oblivious to her parents' burning anxiety, the little girl just shed tears without choosing.

Cheolyoung sensed it instinctively. 'This is the end.'

He wanted to tap it for her, but he couldn't even guess where the text visible only to her was floating. The system was ruthlessly forcing individual choices.

The countdown raced toward zero. In the end, neither Cheolyoung nor Jinhee could choose. In a situation where they might shove their precious daughter into hell, they couldn't just save themselves.

Cheolyoung locked eyes with his wife in despair. Her pupils convulsed in terror. He was probably wearing the same expression. Steel ing his resolve to protect his family to the last, he whispered softly to her.

"It's... okay."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

At those words, Jinhee burst into the tears she'd been holding back, pulling her daughter tightly into her arms. The small body in her embrace trembled like an aspen leaf. Pressing her lips to the child's ear, Jinhee murmured like a spell.

"It's okay... it's okay, baby..."

Then, an unexpected twist occurred. A new sentence materialized in the air.

Cheolyoung's eyes snapped wide—eyes that had braced for death. Turning, he saw his wife had spotted the new text too.

"Nara, it's okay! Trust Daddy and tap the AGREE part on that text in front of you. Just do that!"

Under Jinhee's warm gaze, Nara seemed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a bit reassured and nodded. She tentatively reached out, pointing at a spot in the air.

"Mommy... I tapped it. Is it okay now?"

"Good girl, our daughter. You did great."

The moment their daughter responded, Cheolyoung and Jinhee frantically tapped AGREE.

Moments later, the text faded away like a mirage. The three stared into space, souls drained. They couldn't tell if it was a dream or reality. But one thing was certain: the whole family had survived. And an intense fear toward the one calling themselves the "Lord of the World," who orchestrated all this.

'What a sick, twisted hobby...'

Rage boiled toward that being who didn't hide their sadistic, perverted nature—but an even greater terror gripped Cheolyoung's heart.

************

"Oh yeah! It's done."

I grinned in satisfaction at the notification on my monitor. Truth be told, I'd been quietly worried my writing skills might be too lacking for the residents to understand properly. What if someone with low comprehension accidentally hit REFUSE? Of course, if anyone died, it wouldn't be my fault. I'd based the notice on facts as much as possible, so if someone rebelliously refused and hastened their death, that was on them. But still, it would've left a bad taste if it happened.

But it was all unfounded worry. My concise, clear prose had secured full agreement in record time. And now, all their electricity, water, and maintenance fees would flow straight ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into my account. With gas too, this apocalypse flick had basically upgraded to a healing story overnight. I didn't know the exact Korean rates, but even combined, it wouldn't be a fortune. But hey, passive income rolling in monthly just for sitting here? Jackpot.

Above all, knowing I'd made the masses happy filled me with pride. Finding joy in these little things? Clearly, I'm a super altruistic person. My ex-girlfriend, former coworkers, and old acquaintances who called me a capital-T T for trash were dead wrong—they misjudged me big time.

"My writing's way better than I thought, huh?"

How else could I get full consensus so fast? I was basking in delight when new sentences popped up in the air.

"...Is this about me?"

I should be thrilled about the cash, but the misunderstanding-packed words throughout soured my mood. Sadistic pervert? The subjects hate and fear me? Was my writing that realistic? Where the hell was the fear and sadism in my text?

"Damn, gotta tone it down to more businesslike next time."

Or wait—was this the system's bullshit? No other explanation for this reaction. Come to think of it, did I really need to shell out 10 million to that rude-ass system for answers?

"I can just chat the PC system directly. No reason to ask you, right?"

I muttered snarkily at the air. As if waiting, the system responded.

"Well, look at you reacting right away. Real impressive."

Sarcasm aside, it wasn't entirely wrong. The system had only ever told the truth so far. Sure, it conveniently omitted half the details—that was its fatal flaw.

Just to check, I typed on the keyboard.

I waited ages with no response on the monitor. 'Guess not,' I thought—then a belated reply appeared.

"As expected..."

This confirmed the offline system's truthfulness. The PC's Gate management interface looked pretty complex and tedious at a glance. How nice it'd be to get tips from some veteran who'd started early.

"Oh, right..."

I remembered the mail in the community section. I'd brushed it off since there was no internet, but there was one mail in the "Multidimensional Inbox." And the group message targets were "all lifeforms in the Gate."

"This could be pretty useful if I play it right."

If I could broadcast my will to every being in the Gate like I did with the residents, it'd make for a way more comfy, safe life. I typed to test.

"Nice."

A sleazy smile crept across my lips. I fired off the next question.

"This is it!!"

I don't know what monsters are lurking in this vast Gate. But if I can make them too terrified to even approach me? Endless potential.

A bit disappointing, but beggars can't be choosers. If I can make them fear my will, no one'll dare come near this building. My lips curled up involuntarily. 'Do I even need the managers then?' Eh, if not, I can always use 'em for chores.

I was about to type my message into the chat when a scream that could shred eardrums erupted in the room.

"Gahhh!!"

Gold Sun woke up screaming with a dramatic thrash. Back from death's door, trauma must've burrowed deep into his subconscious. I got it logically, but it killed my buzz anyway.

"...That fucker's so damn noisy."

The curse slipped out instinctively. Any memory of him being my lifesaver had long since rocketed to Andromeda.