Ordinary PC Bang Part-Timer
Twenty-three years old. The age where an average guy would be grinding through one of three paths: military service, a job, or school. Me? I never really clicked with studying back in elementary, middle, or high school, so I skipped college altogether. After graduating high school, I did my mandatory service and then... well, under the excuse of "job hunting," I basically turned into a full-time NEET at home.
But my folks wouldn't tolerate a freeloader leeching off them, so they kicked me out to fend for myself. Now here I am, a proper PC bang part-timer. Back when I was sneaking in hobbies at home while dodging side-eye, it felt awkward as hell. These days, though? All things considered, it's pretty nice. Sure, they cut off my allowance, so every bit of fun I squeeze out has to come from my own pocket—not ideal—but still.
"Jjaegaechi's up!"
Desperate for quick cash and something low-stress for my fried nerves, I shopped around in my head and landed on PC bang work. Perfect fit. And right on cue, the old haunt I'd frequented since I was a kid was hiring. Fate, I tell ya. I'd built up a rapport with the owner over the years, so no waiting around—he hired me on the spot.
Give me props for my people skills, at least.
But the job that looked like a cakewalk from my freeloading days turned out way tougher than expected. I'd been coming here since middle school, so I never noticed how much it'd changed. All I remembered was the old part-timers gaming on the side while working. These days? You hardly see that anymore.
Sure, this place is one of those where the owner dumps everything on the part-timers and holes up somewhere bingeing games or YouTube—global video site, you know the one. But even here, us grunts don't get a second to play while on the clock.
Just finished whipping up a jjaegaechi order, in fact. And that's where the real trouble kicks in.
Once that mouthwatering smell starts wafting, it's game over—food defense mode activates for us part-timers. Anyone who's been to a modern PC bang knows the drill: they sling everything under the sun. Fried rice, pork cutlets—stuff we never saw when I was a kid. Mostly frozen, easy-prep crap, yeah, but for a guy like me who hates dishes so much he only does delivery at home? Pure agony.
At least this place isn't too bad. I've seen YouTube vids of PC bangs with restaurant-level kitchens. Those poor bastards must be dying. Me? I'm chilling. I'm chilling, I repeat like a mantra to hypnotize myself through the shift.
And there's the boss's order (he's pushing 30 years older but insists on "hyung"). "Argh, just go out and grab something!" I scream internally, but my fingers tap out a chipper, loyal [Sure thing!].
Then it's a frenzy: boss's jjaegaechi, plus a barrage from other customers. Chop chop, done and dusted.
"Man, Gyeong-guk's jjaegaechi hits different."
I'm elbow-deep in dishes after clearing the backlog when the boss hollers that from the counter. Just following the handover from the other part-timer—nothing special. So it's basically small talk, like "Hey" or "Eaten yet?" Or maybe his roundabout way of saying sorry for piling on the work when he's swamped. Bet he'd say the exact same to anyone, just swap the name.
Whatever. I flash the boss—moneybags supreme—a cheeky grin. "Hyung, mind if I snag something too?"
"Go for it. You must be starving."
They say I've got a handsome face around elders, even if girls never bite. Works like a charm, though—no one's ever turned down this mug with a smile. Buttering up the boss like that? Free store grub.
Other part-timers gripe he's a total cheapskate... Can't say there's zero truth, but hey, everyone's got their ways, right?
Today's loot: instant burger (kinda like convenience store ones, minus the pickle) and zero-sugar cola. Would've killed for pork cutlet, fried rice, or ramen like jjaegaechi, but me? The dish-hating slob? Extra cleanup? Nah. It's decent, fills the tank, zero hassle—can't beat that.
Munching away when another order pings. Word is, PC bangs rake in more from food than hourly fees these days. Checks out. Usage rates barely budge year over year anyway.
"Hey."
"Oh, you're here? Hyung?"
Ten PM. My relief's clocking in. Figured he'd show at least ten minutes early for handover. But this guy's on-time is a miracle—usually five or ten late. No apologies, ever. Dude asked my age on day one, heard I'm younger, switched straight to casual. Total dick move.
Looks a bit thuggish but handsome enough. Taller than my 170cm ass by at least 10cm. Kinda pisses me off now that I think about it.
"Gyeong-ho, right?"
"Yeah."
This fine establishment's building owner—and the boss's son. Hmm. Dad's a stingy but decent soul. Where'd he spawn this punk?
"Gyeong-guk, before you bounce, swing by that new PC bang on your way and check it out?"
"Huh? Again? Their rates are higher—no need, right?"
"Just in case. They might've tweaked 'em. Feeling the customer dip lately..."
About a month back, the neighborhood's lone PC bang became two. One's us, obviously. The other's this massive newbie that just revamped big-time. Easily two, three times our size. No wonder it's the boss's headache.
Me? I'd pick shiny new rigs and comfy vibes over our decade-old dump any day. Plus, their menu's stacked—real tasty stuff. From a worker's POV, though? This spot's comfier. Pay's probably similar...
Anyway, that place eased our insane grind a bit. We were slammed to hell before—begging for extra hands. Still wish sometimes, but post-opening, it's mellowing out.
"..."
Glancing around... yeah, empty seats popping up. Was full house a few months back; now it's spotty.
"Anyway, poke around there and report back before heading home?"
"Sure thing."
"Thanks, man."
"No biggie."
And it ain't. Just peek on the way home, snap a Talk note. Mildly annoying, that's all.
"Pfft, 'thanks' for that?"
But hearing it from this punk makes me wanna fake the report just to spite him. "Hey asshole, learn some gratitude. It's your old man's gig too."
Boss, fighting! Leaving the grumbling thug to dad's nagging, I step out into the cool evening city air and head for the new spot.
Seen it enough lately that the sign feels familiar. AK PC Bang. Gun vibes or whatever. Past the entrance, down to the basement—bam, a world apart from my dump. Spotless.
"Whoa."
Last visit for the boss was a week ago? Place has ballooned since. No surprise he's sweating. Sneaking peeks, I spot familiar faces from our shop. Pretending to hunt a seat, I scope prices—no changes.
Crammed house tugs at my sympathy; counter staff must be swamped. I tsk inwardly, eyes drifting there.
"What the...?"
Three stunners in maid outfits—like straight from a maid cafe—plus a guy handsomer than our thug, all at the counter. Not just standing; eyeing the phone rigs on the stands. Streaming, maybe?
"Whoa, fancy meeting you here?"
That mix of surprise and familiarity hits my ears. I turn—it's my buddy of years, the star of the one stream I actually watch.