I Became the Admin

"Sorry, but you'll have to look somewhere else today."

The Labor Office Director shot a glance at my right leg.

"That site's all hauling materials up stairs. It'd be too much for you."

"I can do it."

"You collapsed halfway up last time, didn't you?"

I shut my mouth.

He wasn't wrong. At that last job, I'd sat down hard on the stairs with a bag of cement still on my shoulder. If the guy behind me hadn't caught me, I might have rolled all the way back down.

The Director closed his ledger.

"I'll give you a call if something sit-down comes in."

Jobs like that rarely made it as far as a day-labor office.

I knew it. So did he.

"……I'd appreciate that."

Even so, I bowed my head and walked out.

The dawn air seeped through my trousers. With every step, the sole of my right shoe scraped against the pavement.

The leg was injured in the army.

I'd tumbled down a slope during training. At first they called it a bruise. It'll be fine in a few days, they said. Everyone's got one thing or another hurting, they said.

So I endured it.

Every limp drew looks, and I hated the thought of the others carrying my share too.

Then the feeling drained out of my toes entirely.

Only then was I rushed to a proper hospital for surgery. Even after the operation, the leg never came back. Walk too long or lift something heavy and the pain would sprint from my thigh down to my knee; on the worst days, the strength would simply cut out.

I was discharged on medical leave less than a year after enlisting.

Sometimes I thought about it.

What if I'd insisted one more time that it hurt back then?

Call me a malingerer, a shirker—whatever they'd have said, I should have just lain down and refused to move.

But thinking about it never made the leg any better.

And there was no home to go back to.

When I was young, my mother walked out saying she was going to live with another man. After that, my father drank, and every night he came home drunk, he beat me.

Every time he looked at my face, it was the same words.

"You look just like that bitch."

When the smell of liquor reached my face, I'd duck my head out of pure reflex.

As a kid, I actually believed I was being punished for something I'd done wrong.

For bombing a test. For not doing the dishes. For slamming the door too loud.

But acing the tests, doing the dishes, closing doors gently—none of it changed anything.

My father just needed someone to hit.

And there was no one in the house but me.

The day I turned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of age, I left. I took out loans, worked part-time jobs, and barely managed to finish a two-year vocational college. Once I graduated I'd need a real job, so I figured I'd get the army out of the way first.

At least there, they'd feed me and put a roof over my head.

That was how I went in—and came out with even my body, the one thing I had that was worth anything, broken.

In the morning I made the rounds of other labor offices. In the afternoon I tried a few shops with help-wanted signs in the window.

The restaurant said I'd be on my feet all day. The warehouse asked if I could lift heavy things. The convenience store said even the overnight shift was already taken.

By the time I got back to my semi-basement room, the sun was going down.

I collapsed onto the floor the moment my shoes came off. I hadn't earned a single won, but my leg ached like I'd been working it all day.

There was a text on my phone.

I opened my banking app.

Balance: 83,420 won.

I reopened it. Same number.

"I know. It's not gonna change."

I set the phone down and kneaded my leg. I wrote and deleted a reply to the landlord a dozen times. I didn't know when I could pay any more than he did.

The job apps had nothing left but postings I'd already seen.

After scrolling for a long while, I opened the gallery app instead.

Here, nobody knew or cared whether I limped.

When someone posted garbage, I laughed; when someone talked nonsense, I cursed them out along with everyone else. wedged in among strangers with no faces and no names, I at least felt less like I was rotting alone in this room.

But that day, of all days, the feed was full of people bragging about money.

Any other day, I'd have dropped a comment calling fake and scrolled past.

Today I couldn't even be bothered to do that.

Some people had parents who bought them houses, while I paid monthly rent to live somewhere my parents and I didn't have to see each other.

And I couldn't even pay that rent.

Was I not trying hard enough?

The thought flickered for a moment before my leg—aching since that morning—made me drop it.

I didn't want to try harder today.

I pressed the "New Post" button.

The title was the whole post.

I hit submit, refreshed, and the comments rolled in almost immediately.

"Fuck, that one actually stings."

Snorting, I scrolled further down—then my finger froze.

At the very bottom was a single comment with no username and no IP address.

There were buttons inside the comment.

I figured it was just an image and tapped it—and the border dipped slightly under my finger. It was a real button.

"Did this feature exist before?"

It could have been an event or an ad. Either way, one more tap and a window demanding personal info or an app install would probably pop up.

I could close it then.

I pressed [Accept].

The screen went black.

The smile drained from my face as I read down the screen.

I hadn't written anything but a title.

I never said my leg was bad. I never said I was behind on rent. That dealing with people face-to-face wore me out—something I'd never even put into words, anywhere.

Yet there on the screen floated, one by one, everything I'd wanted from this single day.

Sure, you could say it was just handing money and a house to some guy who wanted an easy life. Coincidence, call it a coincidence and move on.

But then why did it specifically say physical labor?

My hand tightened around the phone. It didn't feel like someone had read my post. It felt like someone had peered straight into this room.

I hit the back button. No response.

The home button did nothing either.

"What the—"

As I held down the power button, the last line surfaced.

Thud.

My heart slammed once, hard.

At the same moment, something came flooding into my mind. Unreadable characters and incomprehensible screens burst open in layer after layer behind my eyelids.

"Ugh……!"

The phone slid out of my hand.

I tried to pull myself up, but my arms wouldn't obey. I rolled off the edge of the bed and cracked my shoulder against the floor.

The pain registered for only an instant.

My cheek met the cold floor.

In the moment before consciousness cut out, I heard a single voice.

Anyone overhearing that would think my life was over.

That was my last thought.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the linoleum floor.

"……Ah."

I was alive.

My neck was stiff, my right leg still hurt, and my mouth tasted like I'd been chewing paper all night.

Gray morning light came through the window.

I picked up the phone lying beside me. 6:12 a.m. Thanks to the charger, the battery was fine.

On the lock screen hung an unfamiliar notification.

Last night came back to me.

First, I powered the phone off and on again.

The notification didn't budge.

Feeling vaguely ill, I tapped the gallery app.

Familiar design. The search bar up top was there, and so was the absurdly oversized ad slot.

Only the list was different.

No Game Gallery. No Web Novel Gallery. Every gallery I'd bookmarked had vanished wholesale, and country names filled the space where they'd been.

I tapped the South Korea Gallery.

Every refresh brought a fresh flood of posts.

I wasn't the only one freaking out.

I tapped the post at the very top.

I laughed out loud, half in disbelief.

Ask one question about a game quest, and end up signing a lifetime service contract with the Republic of Korea.

I was about to head back to the list when I noticed something beside my nickname at the top of the screen—a little yellow badge.

Anonymous [Admin]

Underneath it, a row of small buttons.

"……Admin?"

The gallery's overseer.

The one who deletes posts, blocks the troublemakers, and takes the blame first when everything goes to hell.

I wished for an easy life, and they handed me an armband.

"This job is normally unpaid, you know."

Something had gone very wrong in the translation.

I hopped over to the United States Gallery. Even through the barely readable English, a few profanities jumped out at me.

My nickname had a [Admin] badge there too.

Same in the Japan Gallery. Same in the UK Gallery.

I scrolled the list up and down, over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and over.

All of them were mine.

Or rather, that was how they were being displayed.

Maybe the server was glitching and showing the admin screen to whoever happened to open it. Maybe I'd stumbled into a very convincing fake app.

Nothing explained last night's headache, either—but that still didn't mean I could believe I'd become the head admin of every gallery on the planet by pressing a single button.

I opened the management menu.

Delete posts. Ban users. Post notices.

I almost tested whether the permissions were real, then pulled my hand back. There was no reason to delete some innocent stranger's post.

Scrolling further, beneath the familiar admin functions I found one item I'd never seen before.

Gallery Points

When I tapped it, a number appeared.

As I finished reading, the last digit changed.

6,187.

6,193.

"What's coming in, exactly?"

Below the number was a Shop button.

I pressed it, and a product list unfolded to fill the entire screen.

Food, household goods, appliances, furniture……

Just skimming the categories took a while. Rice and bottled water scrolled past alongside things whose names I'd never heard, some of them priced with so many digits I couldn't even count the zeros.

I scrolled back to the top.

One photo of food was pinned there.

Growl.

My stomach growled before I'd even finished reading the description.

A single triangle of gimbap at lunch yesterday had been my last meal. I'd skipped dinner entirely, lying down with my aching leg.

The drumstick in the photo looked almost obscenely delicious.

Was it a game item? A coupon?

I could afford it with the points I had.

I hit Purchase.

No address form appeared.

Thump.

"YAAAH!"

A box dropped right in front of my knees.

I scrambled backward and cracked the back of my head on the bed frame. White sparks burst across my vision for a second.

But the box did not disappear.

It was a cream-colored box with a golden rooster painted on the lid. Where nothing had been a moment ago, a box large enough to need both hands now sat on my floor.

The door was locked.

The window was shut.

"……What the hell is this."

I prodded the lid with a fingertip.

Warm.

Saliva pooled in my mouth at the smell leaking through the paper seams—the scent of crust fried in hot oil, and behind it, a savory glaze and garlic.

The admin screen I could still write off as a glitch.

Not this.

There was chicken in my room.

I should have been scared. I should have called the police, gone to a hospital, or at least asked someone whether they could see this thing too.

But my stomach growled again.

I opened the box.

Steam rose in thin curls off the golden-brown crust, oil glistening faintly along every ridge of the batter. Tucked neatly to one side were pickled radish, a salt packet, and wet wipes—and beneath them, two clear plastic gloves.

"They even threw in gloves."

Funny how thorough the thoughtfulness was in exactly the wrong places.

I pulled one glove over each hand. Warmth bled through the crinkling plastic. I picked up the drumstick sitting on top.

The heat hit my fingertips.

Hoo. Hoo.

Two breaths, then my front teeth touched down.

Crack.

The thin shell shattered with a crisp snap, and scalding juices flooded my tongue.

"Mmph……!"

I opened my mouth to let the heat out—without putting the piece down.

As I chewed through the salty crust, a nutty oiliness spread out, and then the moist meat came apart in tender strands. The outside was unmistakably crisp, yet the inner flesh only got softer the more I chewed. One small twist of the bone and every last shred of meat clinging to it fell away at once.

Before I'd even swallowed what was in my mouth, I was staring down at the drumstick again.

"Wow."

That was all I had.

Every chicken I'd ever eaten flashed through my mind—scraping together discount coupons, padding my order to hit the minimum, going in and out of the checkout screen three times because the delivery fee stung.

It beat every single one of them.

The second piece was the wing.

I picked the skin out from between the bones and ate that too. Oil shone slick on the glove. I bit into a piece of pickled radish, and its cold, tangy brine swept my palate clean—the very next piece was calling to me.

Even the breast wasn't dry. When I saw the juices pooled in the bite I'd torn out, a hollow laugh escaped me.

Somehow that seemed even more impossible than a box appearing out of thin air.

The first few bites went down in a daze.

Once the hunger faded, I slowed down, savoring. Swallowing felt like a waste.

Sitting on the floor eating chicken, I didn't think about next week's rent even once.

Only after scraping the box down to the last shred of meat did my hands finally stop.

Nothing was left but bones.

I'd never finished a whole chicken by myself before. Today I couldn't even say when I'd gotten through it.

Looking down at the bone-riddled box, I opened my mouth without really meaning to.

"……Thank you for the meal."

Saying it out loud made me feel a little sheepish.

There was no one there to hear it.

I still had no idea who had given me this, or why it was happening to me at all. I'd paid points for it, so strictly speaking it wasn't even a freebie.

And yet, strangely, it felt like someone had gone out of their way to put a meal in front of me.

Every place I'd gone yesterday, the first question out of their mouths had been can you handle it? Could I stand for hours? Could I lift heavy things? I kept saying I was fine, but there was no hiding the leg.

This box hadn't asked anything.

It had simply set a hot meal in front of me, and I ate until I was full.

Too absorbed in eating to notice, I realized now that my stomach was warm. I looked down at the empty box again, for no particular reason.

Whoever it was—thank you.

I peeled the gloves off inside out and dropped them into the box, wiped my hands and mouth with the wet wipe, and picked up my phone.

Ten minutes ago, I'd wanted to know what this thing was.

Now I wanted to know how to eat again.

It was growing.

I'd spent five thousand on the chicken, and it had piled back up while I was eating.

I tapped the small question mark beside the points.

Short explanation.

I went back to the South Korea Gallery. Posts were still coming in fast. Between demands to restore the vanished galleries, someone had asked what to eat for breakfast.

When one user recommended gukbap—hot soup with rice—another picked a fight over who eats soup at this hour, and underneath that, an argument broke out over whether gukbap had a time limit in the first place.

The gallery had lost its old home, but its users never failed to find something to fight about.

Even as comments piled onto that thread, the points kept creeping upward.

It wasn't one point per post. It didn't match the comment count exactly either. I'd need to watch longer to learn how much each kind of activity paid.

But one thing was clear.

When those idiots start shouting, my meals appear.

And the shop wasn't just chicken. There was rice, water, daily necessities.

I hadn't figured out how to pay the rent yet.

But at the very least, I wasn't going to starve.

I slid the empty chicken box aside and sat up straighter.

One post on the screen caught my eye.

Below it were more posts hunting for the gallery's old regulars, and in the comments people were talking about regrouping on other sites.

My finger stopped.

What if everyone left?

I turned my head and looked at the chicken bones.

Then back at the screen.

A flood of posts wasn't automatically good news. Right now people were shouting because the gallery had changed overnight. If the complainers got tired and slipped away one by one, that number could stop climbing for good.

I had to give people a reason to stay and keep talking.

A place where questions got answers, where even the most pointless posts drew laughter—and where you came back the next day anyway.

If it were a gallery like that, I'd have been in and out of it every single day myself.

I gripped the phone tighter.

I knew exactly what I had to do.