The Election

The moment word reached me that Pyeon Seongyeop had collapsed, I decided to suspend my campaign.

No official announcement had come out yet.

I froze for a moment, feigning shock, then took a deep breath and picked up the microphone.

"Citizens of Maesan. Only moments ago, I received devastating news: Pyeon Seongyeop of the Together Democratic Party, the man who had been competing with me over Maesan's future... collapsed on site and was rushed to the hospital as an emergency case. Even now, I can hardly believe it."

I let just the right amount of turmoil show. Overreacting would only make it look rehearsed.

"Everyone, regardless of this election, regardless of winning or losing, nothing matters more than a person's life and safety. ...Effective immediately, I am suspending every campaign event on my schedule. And—"

"Sounds like a brain hemorrhage. Like he's completely gone?"

"Sir, back there? Please, some restraint."

"..."

"And to the citizens gathered here with me now, I ask your generous understanding of this suspension, and that you join me, with one heart, in praying for Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop to regain consciousness and make a full recovery. I earnestly ask this of you."

With a rival candidate's life hanging by a thread, I could hardly go around playing campaign jingles.

A human life outranks any campaign.

Setting political gain aside, I hoped Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop would get back on his feet.

Handled this way, I figured I could at least dodge the worst of the abuse. Looking pleased while your rival fought for his life... it wouldn't have been against the law, of course, but there'd have been no escaping being stuffed and mounted for posterity as a fucking bastard with no character.

I closed with a formal bow.

Microphone in one hand, I bent at the waist with scrupulous care.

"All right, everyone, let's pull out."

I ordered my fellow campaigners to disperse.

A few stood blinking and belatedly tried to trail after me; I turned them away with courtesy.

As for the local council hopefuls, they tried every angle to get a word with me. I declined that too.

I had a fair guess why they were suddenly latching onto the man whose odds of winning had just gone vertical.

I don't have the slack to look after them too.

Pyeon Seongyeop's condition came before everything else.

A presumptive winner might vanish on the eve of the final vote.

Keeping the news on was enough to stay current.

Stature and name recognition had nothing to do with it; an event this unprecedented dragged everyone standing nearby into the frame.

Naturally, I was one of the people that attention landed on.

The incoming calls came so hard my phone was cooking in my hand, so I shut it off altogether.

Until the results were in, the best move was to do nothing and watch.

For now, like it was somebody else's funeral.

Under the downpour of coverage, the hours slid by fast.

Segments of the Democratic leadership and Gyeonggi provincial ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠party officials scrambled to the hospital as the news broke.

The Maesan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠City Election Commission went into emergency standby.

Then, a little past midnight, the headline dropped.

The death was now official.

He'd probably actually died an hour or two earlier? The Democratic Party must have had a very busy couple of hours in between.

The anchor running the local election special report delivered the news with a grave expression.

Pyeon Seongyeop, who by every reasonable projection was about to become mayor of Maesan, was dead.

I got on the phone with the party, aligned on the bare minimum, and released a statement of condolence.

Then I went to bed and shut my eyes.

I slept about three hours and woke up feeling uncannily calm.

Because events had unfolded exactly as I intended? No.

"How the hell would anyone engineer that?"

Even I hadn't truly known he would die.

If anything, his circumstances made death the harder outcome. The man was never more than arm's length from a crowd of dozens, and the district had a perfectly good hospital.

I'd figured that even a stroke wouldn't kill him before the golden window closed.

Had Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop cursed my name in his last conscious second? Naturally. He would have.

All the same, the respects had to be paid.

I put on the black suit and even pinned on the condolence ribbon.

None of it was premeditated. Eat from politics long enough and you learn these things are surprisingly standard kit.

Dressed in full formality, I made for the campaign office.

Reporters were already swarming the office on the third floor of a tired old commercial building in the older part of downtown.

"There's a reaction saying your warning to Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop was effectively a premonition of his sudden death... Did you know about his health problems in advance!?"

"In some corners of the Together Democratic Party's base, they're claiming your debate attacks and your social media posts dealt the deceased fatal stress, and they're pushing a 'political murder' frame. How do you respond to that?"

"It must be awfully hard to keep your face in order right now."

"With Candidate Pyeon's ballots voided in full, analysts are calling your election effectively 100 percent certain! How does that leave you feeling?"

"Do you expect damage to the legitimacy of your win?"

The questions came down like hail, without granting me a second to answer.

Flashes popped in sequence down the pitch-dark, narrow corridor, and I nearly took a smartphone to the face from the scrum pushing forward.

I'd never drawn this kind of attention in my life, but this was no time to fumble.

I gave the press corps a slow once-over, then opened my mouth with grief written across my face.

"Today I have nothing to offer beyond mourning the deceased. To the bereaved family reeling from shock and sorrow, to the officials of the Together Democratic Party, and to the many citizens of Maesan who supported him, I bow my head and offer my deepest condolences."

Mourning. Condolence. Comfort. Grief. Remembrance.

Whatever the reporters asked, I answered on rails.

As befitted the man who profited from his rival's tragedy.

"With restraint, I will await the will of the citizens."

For now, humility was the answer.

The vote would go ahead as scheduled.

Besides me and Candidate Pyeon, there was still one invisible independent in the race.

In return, an urgent notice went up in every polling place across Maesan City.

And then the final vote began.

8 a.m. Cumulative turnout: 4.8 percent.

The gentleman who had rammed the Maesan mayoral candidacy down my throat turned up near my place.

A sitting People's Choice member of the National Assembly, formerly secretary of the Public Official Election Commission.

"Candidate Min, or should I say Mayor Min now? Congratulations in adva—"

"Representative."

"Hm?"

"Forgive me, but this is a tragic day. My opponent lost his life mid-campaign. Does this look to you, Representative, like an occasion for celebration? Surely not. Politics may be a war zone, but there are lines that have to be held."

So please, go home. I'm asking you nicely.

Wearing sorrow like a mask, I chased him off.

His plan was too legible: sit beside me when the exit polls aired and sell his face to the cameras.

I couldn't allow a freeloader at my table.

Let a man share the meal and you'll be stammering your way into acknowledging his stake before you know it. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It was the most rudimentary defensive play.

11 a.m. Cumulative turnout: 16.2 percent.

A call came from my uncle, my father's elder brother, who had lived out of contact for some twelve years. I didn't answer.

Then I crossed paths with the other candidate out on the pavement, urging voters to the booths.

"I know the terrible news weighs on your hearts, but the election must go on! Whatever you do, do not throw your votes away!"

It was the old gentleman running as an independent.

A Democratic-aligned independent who'd done a single term on the city council somewhere around 2006.

His face was radiant.

On paper he was good for maybe 1.2 percent of the vote, but he'd clearly scented his shot at having his campaign costs reimbursed, and that explained the sunshine. I congratulated him silently and moved along.

2 p.m. With early voting folded in, cumulative turnout: 34.5 percent.

My personal phone rang with a persistence that had teeth.

Unknown number. I answered, and my mother's voice came through.

The instant I heard "Seojun," I cut the call and blocked the number.

5 p.m. Cumulative turnout: 49.7 percent.

"Candidate Min Seojun? Time to start getting ready."

"Yes."

"Oh, by the way, we ran the simulation and the results were—"

"That's enough. We're this far along; what do we need a simulation for?"

The exit poll announcement was closing in.

The watch party, of course, was at my shabby little campaign office.

They said more than two hundred bodies were crammed into the cramped space.

"Oh, Candidate Min Seojun!"

"Remember me? From the driving academy, back in the day."

"I can't see, move! Move it!!"

I threaded slowly through the crush of people backed up into the corridor.

By the time I sat down in the seat set at the center of the office, it was 5:59 p.m.

Moments later, the exit poll results for the nationwide local elections began to drop.

Metropolitan mayors and governors, the National Assembly by-elections running alongside, and the heads of the basic municipalities.

With the host's cue, vivid red figures flashed onto the screen.

And then the mark: ELECTED.

"People's Choice candidate Min Seojun, 81.4 percent! That's 'Elected'!"

A victory sealed before a single ballot box was even opened.

From that moment, I was the mayor-elect of Maesan City.