Call from Japan and the Street Guardian
My heart, which had frozen at the words "a call from Japan", suddenly skipped irregularly. I gripped the wheelchair rims and rolled into the building. No elevator. Ah, damn this 1970s hellhole.
"Wait there."
A man hurried down from the second-floor hallway, reeking of stale cigarette smoke. Only now mentioning it, but this middle-aged guy was the president of the outsourcing company, Kim Sang-taek.
"Shunsuke said to switch to Kyogo. You Kyogo?"
"...Yes."
"Yeah, who else around here draws sitting in a wheelchair—a high school kid like you?"
The boss grunted as he hoisted me off the wheelchair and onto his back, bounding up the stairs in one go.
"Aigoo, gonna drive me nuts. Better not suck at drawing."
His legs trembled, but he plopped me gently into an office chair and handed me the receiver.
"Moshi moshi. Keihō desu."
(Hello. It's Kyogo.)
Static-laced silence from the receiver. Then a familiar voice hit my eardrum.
"Mr. Kyogo?"
It was Shunsuke.
"Yeah. But why the 'mister'?"
A short laugh from the other end.
"Because this is official business. How's the drawing going?"
"You'll be shocked when you see it."
"Your skills improved even more there?"
"You think that was the end of it? So, what's up?"
A brief silence, then Shunsuke's voice dropped a notch.
"To be honest, the Tatsumino president is opposing it. 'Why drag talent from Korean subcontractors all the way to Japan when we can just use them there?' That's the gist."
I listened without a word. I'd expected hurdles, but hearing it for real soured my mood.
"Still, the animation team—especially the animation director—is all in. They're clamoring to bring you now. Keep the pressure on, and the president can't ignore it forever."
"And if not?"
A sharp intake of breath over the line.
"If not... for now, keep working at the Korean subcontractor. I'll find a way. Dispatching as a technician from a Korean firm has better visa odds than a direct one."
I didn't know the details, but I got it. Easier to approve sending me as dispatched labor from a Korean company than straight-up importing me.
"Got it."
"Told the Shinwon Production boss the situation too. Asked him to hold onto you till we get you to Japan."
"Shinwon Production?"
"You don't even know where you are? This office you're in right now."
"Oh."
I turned to the entrance—there it was, a small sign: Shinwon Production.
"Anyway, what'll you do?"
I glanced out the window. Summer sun glared off the bricks.
"Got nothing else."
Shunsuke chuckled in relief.
"Good. Glad to hear it. I'll call again."
"Yeah. Thanks."
Click. Call ended.
I set down the receiver. The boss, fiddling with his cigarette beside me, smirked.
"Damn, kid, your Japanese is no joke. Studied abroad or what? Nah, you'd be too fancy for scrap paper gigs."
"Just picked it up somehow."
"And drawing too, huh?"
"Even better at that."
The boss snorted.
"Cocky punk."
He thought a moment, then stuck out his hand.
"Lemme see then. Shunsuke, that picky bastard, raved about you."
Instead of answering, I pulled out a few completed key animation sheets from my bag—finished that morning.
The boss flipped casually at first. One sheet. Two. His hand stopped.
He rifled front to back fast. Motions connected. Frames synced perfectly.
Muttering around his unlit cigarette: "Ha... the kid's a goddamn genius."
He fumbled in his pocket, lit up. Deep drag, long exhale.
"Why didn't you tell me you were this good?"
"You never asked. Didn't even know this was a key animation shop."
He nodded, like fair enough.
"Hey, wanna part-time?"
"Pay?"
He grinned wide.
"Don't even ask what the job is."
He held up five fingers.
Next day. Math class.
"Five hundred won a sheet? Insane!"
"Includes corrections. In-between animation is fifty won."
I kept drawing lines on fresh key animation paper—no more backsides like before.
"J-just key animation, right? Five hundred's ten sheets for five thousand won, man!"
"Not that simple."
"Holy crap!"
Seung-gyu scribbled numbers in his notebook.
"Ten sheets, five grand. Twenty, ten grand. A month... jackpot, man!"
"Like they'll keep giving that much."
Distracted by him, my pencil wobbled once. I tsked, erased, redrew. Now the shoulder joint flowed naturally.
"So how many today?"
"Five key animation, twenty in-between."
"That's... twenty-five hundred plus a grand? Three thousand five hundred? A month, over a hundred thou!"
"Told you, not that simple."
As we whispered and bickered—
Thwack. Something flew. Chalk.
White dust scattered over my paper.
"What're you two, lovebirds shitting love notes? Whispering like that!"
Even in this era, the math teacher's weird-ass insults were unchanged. His eyes sharpened. Giggles leaked from around the room.
Seung-gyu ducked quick.
"Nothin'."
I quietly flipped my paper, brushed off the dust.
Then. Eyes on me.
Across the classroom. A big, broad-shouldered guy glaring, arms crossed. Thick brows, fierce face. No one from my past life.
"Seung-gyu."
"Aw man, gonna get yelled at again?"
"Who's that?"
Seung-gyu glanced, scowled.
"Ah, lackey for those delinquents from before."
"Lackey?"
"They roll together, cause trouble. Ignore 'em."
I nodded, but the unease lingered. No proof, but he'd started glaring after overhearing the money talk.
Couldn't stop drawing over a bad vibe. Shook it off, hand moving.
Scratch. On the key animation, the clown-motif tall character's fist came alive.
After school. Self-study starting, I shouldered my bag, wheeled out.
Passed the field, into the alley—gravel crunched loud under wheels.
Then.
"Hey."
Quick footsteps behind. Wheelchair jolted to a halt.
Turned: the three delinquents from class and the big lackey, gripping my chair. Skipped study to tail me.
One smirked, arms crossed.
"This punk really makes three grand a day?"
"Yeah, I heard."
Lackey grinned.
"Says so... uh, name again?"
"Kyung-ho. Park Kyung-ho."
"Right, Kyung-ho."
I said nothing.
"Kyung-ho, lend some cash."
"Don't have any."
"Bullshit."
The big guy yanked the handle. I lurched forward, barely caught myself.
"Heard you earned today."
"No pay till first gig's delivered."
"Lying punk."
Thud. Fist to gut.
One held the chair steady from behind. Lackey stomped the footrest.
"Forgot I lent you money?"
Lie. Never happened.
Thud. Cheek this time.
Ears rang. Less fear, more rage boiling.
"Park Kyung-ho, you borrowed ten thousand from me."
No memory of it.
"Gonna say you forgot?"
"Forgetting doesn't erase debt, punk."
Big guy reared back again.
That instant.
"Hey."
Booming, bold voice. All heads turned.
Bobbed hair, tall frame. Jung-hye, sleeves rolled, blocking the alley mouth.
Aigoo, funeral bells today.
"What're you doing here."
"Oh, you again?"
One delinquent snorted.
"His girlfriend or what?"
Jung-hye strode forward.
"Let go."
"What?"
"Let. Go."
Delinquent raised a hand at her—her kick flashed like lightning.
Thud. Straight to the shin, buckled clean.
"Argh!"
She dropped low, elbow to gut. Dull thump.
The one holding the chair charged, fist clenched.
"You crazy bitch—"
Fist incoming—she spun. Before it landed, rotation-powered kick to gut. Clean roundhouse.
You've guessed by now, but Jung-hye was a taekwondo champ till middle school. Multiple national medals, legit pro.
"Don't know Choi Jung-hye of taekwondo?"
"Fucking bitch!!"
Thud. Last big one barreled wild—she sidestepped, precise face kick. Blink-fast.
Lackey flinched off the footrest, backed up. His jaw quivered.
"Y-you little... "
"Little what."
Jung-hye's eyes flashed cold.
"Little what, asshole."
Step forward. He instinctively retreated.
"C-can you just beat people... "
"What'd you just do."
Lackey shut up, no comeback.
Big guy still down. Shin-grabber rolled groaning, teeth gritted. Gut-punched one wheezed.
Jung-hye eyed the lackey.
"Ten thousand, right? Proof?"
"W-well..."
"Contract or something?"
"...No."
"So words make debt?"
She raised her fist—he flinched, turned.
Pathetic. She sighed.
"Hey."
Nudged the downed guy with her toe.
"Get up. Unless you want more."
Shin guy staggered up, grinding teeth. Gut guy wobbled to feet.
Big one still out cold.
Jung-hye said, "Touch him again, next stop's hospital."
"......"
"And."
Eyes pinned the lackey.
"Money talk? To me. Don't touch the hurt kid."
He gulped.
"L-let's go."
They hauled the big guy out. Footsteps faded. Quiet.
Jung-hye exhaled slow, looked down.
"You okay?"
I swallowed blood.
"Fine."
"Liar."
She reached, checked my cheek lightly.
"Aigoo, only your face was decent."
"Hands are fine. So okay."
Her eyes flicked to my hands.
"...Yeah. Good."
Silence.
I asked, "Your self-study?"
She shrugged.
"Early out at lunch for house stuff."
"But?"
"But what?"
She sniffed, rubbed her nose with index finger.
"No biggie. Wrong rice at the shop, helped dad return it."
Corner shop by school, "Choi's Rice Mill"—her dad's place. Sacks piled out front.
"Moved rice sacks?"
"Yeah. Supplier uncle sent wrong batch today, dad struggling alone, so I pitched in."
She shook her wrists.
"Strong stuff."
"Pro till middle school—gotta be."
"True."
She smirked.
"Anyway, got something for you while hauling sacks."
"Me?"
"Yep."
She rummaged her uniform pocket, pulled a small paper bag. Crumpled brown.
"Uncle went to Japan, brought stationery for his girl, but..."
Plopped it on my lap.
"Don't need it."
I opened it. A branded holder pencil—not mechanical with thin leads, but thick graphite ones—and a tube of refills. Japanese on the pack.
"...This."
She shrugged.
"Heard you always gripe about pencils, timed it for your exit."
"Coulda given tomorrow."
"Thought I'd push your chair."
Then saw this mess.
I took out the holder pencil, gripped it. Chest warmed.
"Jung-hye."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."