The Scheme

Early voting had drawn to a close.

For once, we'd beaten the national average. Turnout in the new city center had been overwhelming in particular—nearly twenty-nine percent, practically scraping the ceiling.

The stock assumption was that young voters in newly built districts leaned Democratic. But that, too, was a story a few years past its expiration date. The generations propping up the Together Democratic Party these days were no longer people in their twenties and thirties.

"Candidate? The sampling results from the twelve early voting stations just came in."

The detailed numbers were encouraging, too. Proof of that stood right in front of me: an analyst from the party's situation-assessment office—the same office that had spent this whole campaign pretending I didn't exist.

Not that he was any true expert. If I'd never left to run for office and had simply stayed on at party headquarters, I'd be filling a role much like his by now.

Still, the upper echelons taking an interest in my election could only be a good sign.

"We ran the early-voting exit simulations with weights applied by age bracket and by district."

"Yes. Just the results, please."

"Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop of the Together Democratic Party at 48.3 percent, and you at 43.2."

A five-point gap.

I couldn't take it as gospel—it was an exit estimate we'd run ourselves, after all. But the gap had narrowed; that much was true. It just wasn't yet a margin that promised victory.

"Such a pity. If only we'd had even one more week—"

"Another week and my funding runs dry first."

"Ha, ha."

"I mean it."

Not that it's anything to boast about, but I was broke. The balance remaining in the official account registered with the Election Commission came to exactly 1.82 million won.

"A campaign banner tore yesterday, and we couldn't afford to hang a new one, so we left it up ripped. It would cost 800,000 won to replace."

"You can't scrape together a mere 800,000?"

"The party hasn't given us a single won. The money has well and truly dried up."

"Ahem."

"Under the banner of youth-recommendation subsidies or competitive-district support funds, it would have been entirely possible to funnel me help through perfectly legal channels… but the party simply looked the other way, didn't it. I'm not here to cast blame after the fact. I'm merely reporting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that our finances are in dire straits."

In the final stretch, padding the books with inflated invoices or backdoor cash to multiply the ad volume was an option. Not exactly lawful, but plenty of people played it that way.

Because a little more spending might just win the thing. Because pinching pennies like a coward over a few million won right now, only to lose, was the kind of regret that never washed out. Or maybe just for the pure spectacle of burning bright.

People swallowed whole by an election commit madness like this for all sorts of reasons. And more than a few burned through their fortunes and came to ruin. Politics really did earn its reputation as the royal road to family disgrace and bankruptcy.

"But I have no intention of increasing spending."

"If… if you say so, Candidate."

The reaction around me was mostly regret. The expressions were darkest on the men and women running for city and provincial council seats. My final sprint was what would lift their own vote shares by even a tenth of a point, so of course they wore that look.

And yet—perhaps because every one of them had a track record of turning me away—all they did was leave a few kind words behind as they passed. You fought well enough. Do your utmost, within what your circumstances allow…

"Don't misunderstand. I haven't given up."

Naturally, I had no intention of settling for a valiant, well-fought defeat. After Min Dajeong's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠visit, I had come up with a play. One that didn't particularly devour money or time.

It just wasn't what anyone would call a normal method, that was all.

To start, I scrawled out a few lines. An open letter, addressed to my rival—Pyeon Seongyeop of the Democrats.

An exposé of his private life? A last-ditch challenge to a final, winner-take-all debate? Nothing of the sort. In form, it came closer to earnest counsel.

Under the guise of concern, I had raised the matter of Pyeon Seongyeop's health.

Played wrong, this was a self-checkmate—the kind of blunder that silently drains away the votes of middle-aged and elderly voters. It's a fact most people never learn: fumble a health issue the wrong way, and the backlash hits like a headwind.

But I had seen Pyeon Seongyeop in the flesh, and I remembered what I'd seen. The severe belly fat. The flushed face. The twisted pronunciation. The staggering, arm-flailing gait…

Anyone who'd spent any time in the working world couldn't fail to read what all of it meant.

"Um, Candidate Seojun?"

"Just a well-meant recommendation."

"You know how this works. Mention it too specifically and it will come back to bite you later."

"Yes. I'm well aware."

I let my campaign staff's concerns wash over me and kept writing.

It closed on a warning: go to a hospital unless you want to drop dead in the middle of your campaign.

None of this was done out of genuine concern for candidate Pyeon Seongyeop. I simply knew he would chew up my warning and spit it out.

The election is right in front of him—there's no way he'd go to a hospital now, is there?

Pyeon Seongyeop was, by his own lights, a successful politician. Two terms on the city council. Two terms on the provincial council. And now, one step from the mayor's office. He was only sixty, besides.

In truth his body had been falling apart for years, but sixty was the perfect age for a man to reassure himself with, I'm still young. When his tongue tangled now and then, when strength wouldn't come into his hands, he'd no doubt let it slide as nothing.

And here he was, on the eve of an election. A stage on which even the soundest mind narrows its field of vision and runs toward one target only—victory. Which is to say, he wasn't in his right mind. What chance was there that he'd spare a thought for something like his health?

He'll take my earnest counsel as nothing but mudslinging, won't he?

For now, that was mere prediction. Before long, the Democratic supporters started posting comments.

Quick on the draw, I'll give them that.

With supporters like these, Pyeon would find it nearly impossible to go to a hospital. The moment he punched holes in his schedule and heeded my advice, he would be treated as a high-risk case—whether or not he was actually ill.

He'd sort it all out after the election. I'm still in my prime.I'm just a little run-down—let's get an IV drip. That happy little loop would no doubt be spinning in his head.

Before long, my hunch was proven correct. Pyeon Seongyeop posted a statement.

I am healthy—do not worry.

It was, in the end, Pyeon Seongyeop's declaration that he would never, under any circumstances, set foot in a hospital.

"Well, if he's healthy, that's a relief. I suppose I did it all for nothing."

"Candidate Seojun?"

"Let's just carry out our scheduled itinerary. We're already well behind on the day's plan."

It might still have ended as a wasted gesture. Pyeon might have quietly slipped off to a hospital without ever letting on that he'd heard me.

But I trusted him. I had met, face to face, the Pyeon Seongyeop who treated me like a stray dog and couldn't be bothered with basic courtesy. He was not a man who would give serious consideration to a warning from someone he'd written off.

"All right—let's give it our all again today."

And I threw myself into the campaign, smile in place.

At Osaek Market I ate mugwort hotteok—those griddled pancakes oozing sweet syrup—sat down with the merchants' association for a town-hall where I pledged to expand parking, and bought myself a cup of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chicken gangjeong, that glossy sweet-and-spicy fried chicken, on the way out.

That was my real meal. There was no other time to eat.

Nor did I forget to offer my hand to every single person I crossed paths with on the trail.

"Min Seojun, Number 2 on the ballot! I ask for your support!"

To the elderly gentleman who chewed me out—no matter how sore a deal you think you got, what business do you have stripping off your clothes at a debate!—I simply bowed my head and apologized. To the middle-aged man who swore a blue streak, pouring out how he'd grown up the unfavored child of his own parents, I answered with a silent, wry smile.

Roughly a thousand people had shaken my hand by the time we made the rounds. By the end of the day's schedule my legs throbbed and my hands had swollen up tight.

And then, in the evening, I crossed paths with candidate Pyeon Seongyeop.

"Pick Pyeon Sheongyeop for mayor!"

He was delivering his speech drenched in cold sweat, the words coming out slightly slurred.

He's in bad shape.

Had the health doubts I'd raised taken a toll on him? It would have been a lie to say his condition didn't trouble me at all. What if he really did collapse out there? It was even possible that Pyeon had originally intended to slip into a hospital for a checkup, and had put it off on purpose because of what I'd posted.

Maybe it was because he wasn't a Min—wasn't blood—that I found I couldn't look away entirely.

But then.

Candidate Pyeon flicked a glance my way and readjusted his grip on the microphone. And then, loud enough that he plainly meant for me to hear it, he started spouting something strange.

"Politics is! In the end, the work of caring for society—that vast family of ours! If a man cannot build trust and har— harmony, even within the smallest community, how is he to mediate the conflicts of countless citizens? A politician must kno— know how to win the hearts of those closest to him first!"

That son of a bitch. What the hell does he even know.

Just as I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought: all I needed to do was keep my eyes on winning the election.