I'll Be a Salary Thief

I lay in bed, staring blankly up at the gallery window.

And there it was, in no uncertain terms.

Posting, commenting — all of it, shut down cold.

Eight years of gallery-posting, and I had never been banned once.

"What human tell did I even slip? That's a ban?!"

I flipped onto my stomach and hammered the mattress with both fists, just to get it out of my system. The mattress swallowed every punch with a plush, unshaking softness…

Ah, I'm screwed. I have to go into another anomaly.

And it wasn't even a three-day suspension. Fourteen days.

From my very first day on the gallery, I'd been thoroughly flagged by Juttak. What did I even do wrong? This was some next-level targeting.

Seething with the injustice of it, I scrolled back through my own comments.

…

Okay. I had been showing off. A little. A lot.

Think positive.

I just couldn't write posts or comments. Lurking still worked, didn't it?

I'd been about to ask what that red cellophane I'd picked up in the corridor even was. That part was a shame.

I pulled the red cellophane from my pocket, set it on the nightstand, and transferred the silver badge onto my pajamas.

Right — they said there was a pre-orientation manual.

The thought surfaced, and I opened my inbox. The orientation mail had been shoved to the bottom, buried under a pile of ads.

So that was why I'd missed it.

I opened the attached file. The PDF was stuffed with flowery company copy, a list of things to bring to orientation, a map to the office — the usual. Good thing they'd also texted me about OT. I would have missed my first day and blown the whole opportunity.

Or… was that why I almost died?

And underneath, the precautions.

Why did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even the company disclaimers read like creepypasta?

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window.

Should I just run?

And then what? Crawl back to that dank little semi-basement studio and watch my bank balance hit zero? I'd rather die. Even if I was going to rot in a room browsing galleries, the whole point was to do it as a loaded unemployed guy. That was the dream.

Five million won a pop, plus a luxury company apartment.

And I had a real ability. Sure, I'd caught a fourteen-day ban, but that was a problem I could solve somehow. I'd already proven I could farm easy wins off Aberrations, hadn't I?

If I became a named user on the Anomaly Gallery, the odds of cheesing them would only go up.

Might as well, seeing as I'm already in this deep. Cherry-pick only the safe anomalies and play salary thief.

Wipe the slate clean on this bottom-rung NEET life, and reverse my fortune as a mega-corp slacker.

Maybe the tension had finally bled out of me. The moment I pulled up the blanket, my consciousness went dim.

Which is why I never knew.

A faint crack—

The surface of the badge on my chest flushed red-hot, then, with a tiny spark, a hairline fracture split across it.

A dazzling Monday morning!

I walked toward Arcana headquarters wearing the face of a man who had slept like a king. A top-of-the-line mattress, a breakfast that looked ridiculously expensive, even a room-cleaning service. A thrill ran through my whole body.

Farewell to waking up on yellow linoleum in a semi-basement studio!

I stretched, then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lunged for an elevator that was just about to close. Yoo Han-ah was already inside.

"Oh, Han-ah. You're in early."

"Ah… hello…"

Yoo Han-ah, already in the elevator. Yesterday had clearly taken a lot out of her. Heavy dark circles the makeup couldn't hide, a smile on her mouth that did absolutely nothing to make her look okay.

Did she not sleep at all?

A yawn slipped out of her unbidden; she clapped a palm over her mouth and flushed.

"…Did you sleep well, Yul?"

"Ah — I had a few nightmares myself. Haha."

I probably looked like I'd slept just fine, honestly.

"We're on the same floor, huh. Let's do our best together."

I changed the subject at speed.

"Yes…"

Yoo Han-ah dropped her gaze. Then, as if something had snagged her attention, she pointed at me.

"Um… I think there's a crack in your badge?"

She was right. A hairline fracture ran straight through the center of the badge.

Had I banged it on something tossing around in bed last night? So much for an F-rank supply item. Broken in a single day.

"Eh, probably nothing."

I was in the middle of brushing it off when a chime sounded.

The elevator doors opened, and the fifteenth floor spread out in front of us.

I'd expected something like a bunker, given that this was the field division where people rolled the dice with their lives. Instead it was a mega-corp office, no more and no less. Expensive-looking monitors and towers sat at every desk, and the desks themselves looked like they cost a fortune. And those chairs — were those Herman Millers? I'd heard a single one ran well over two million won.

Okay, they really don't cheap out on the benefits.

The two of us were still hovering awkwardly at the elevator when a man with permed hair shot up from his chair across the floor, waving like he was glad to see us, and came over.

"Oh, hey. 27th batch, right?"

We greeted him stiffly, postures locked.

"Right, sit, sit. The empty desks are yours."

He gave my shoulder a couple of pats and pointed to the seat beside his own. Yoo Han-ah was naturally assigned the corner desk by the window.

My senior propped his chin on the far side of my partition, an easy smile on his face.

"Hey. I'm your mentor. Cha Seung-jun. Just call me Senior — keep it casual."

Assistant Manager Cha Seung-jun pointed back and forth between himself and me.

"Jeon Yul. I look forward to working with you."

"Right, Yul-ah. You've had it rough, huh. Just how much debt are you in, that you'd come all the way out here to grind yourself down?"

The way he tossed out a sensitive question without a shred of hesitation gave me the distinct feeling I'd been paired with the wrong person.

"Haha, well… yeah. So you're here because of debt too, Senior?"

"Nah. I'm gunning for an internal transfer."

He grinned and dropped his voice.

"You know how it is — Planning, Support, those teams have insane spec cutoffs. But here? Apply and it's a free pass. So I grabbed the name-brand first. Keep my head down for a year, wait for transfer season, launder the resume. Clean, right?"

What is he, the kind of sly undergrad who enrolls in an unpopular major with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a low cutoff just to transfer later?

Then again, honest people like this were easier to deal with.

He pulled a clunky terminal and a holster from his drawer and tossed them onto my desk.

"Here. Think of this as your lifeline. Lose it and it comes out of your paycheck, so don't."

"What is it?"

"Device for extracting energy once you're inside an anomaly."

"Why didn't they give us these at OT yesterday, then?"

He snorted.

"Because they're expensive."

"Sorry?"

"You saw it yesterday, right? Word's already out. The guy who went into the tunnel and came out a blood pancake. You hand expensive gear to people like that and they lose it, and from the company's side, recovering it's a hassle and a huge loss. And that tunnel's survival rate is actually pretty high, so it doesn't yield that much energy anyway."

He glanced at his watch, then suddenly straightened up.

"Alright, small talk's over. Newbie — there's something we have to risk our lives for every Monday morning."

He woke the computer at my desk and typed an address into the search bar.

"Jeon… Yul. And… give me your employee ID."

I handed him my card. He typed in the code printed on the back. The moment the login went through, a familiar-looking screen unfolded in front of me — a row of tabs along the top.

"Change the password yourself later. Now hit course registration."

"…Course registration?"

"Ah, my bad. Work application."

Work applications opened every Monday at 10 a.m. sharp. Every employee had to reserve the anomaly they wanted, first-come, first-served.

"No, I said it that way so you'd get it. It's closer to ticketing, honestly."

No, no. Anyone with eyes could see they'd copy-pasted a university course-registration site.

"Our company aims for a flat structure, so… all work assignments are first-come, first-served."

This was a worse system than a no-name SME. What kind of company handed out jobs by who clicked first?

"Anyway, newbie — you know Naverism, right? The server-time site."

The one that told you the server clock, yeah.

"Go there. Paste in the company URL. You want to click at 59 minutes, 59 seconds, 900 milliseconds. That's the sweet spot."

With that, he pointed out which anomalies were the cushy ones, then went back to his own seat.

I hurried over to Naverism ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and pasted in the company system address. Under the server clock, a stream of live comments unspooled in real time.

Was this for real? It was no different from university.

Stay calm. A little over two minutes until course registration.

If Senior was right, the F-rank I needed to snag — the course, I mean the anomaly — was Late Night 24-Hour Convenience Store.

He'd said it was the safest anomaly there was. You wouldn't die. You wouldn't even get hurt. The slots even looked wide open. A forty-person cap? Yeah, I could work with that.

The milliseconds ticked wildly upward. The moment of truth drew in.

—ACHOO!

My nose itched with sudden, violent intensity, and a sneeze tore out of me. I wiped it fast and looked back at the monitor.

The server clock already read 10:00 on the dot.

Crap — click, click now—!

I stabbed the button. The screen hiccuped, then a popup bloomed across it.

You've got to be kidding me…