The Professor's Collapse
Global (21). Sensing something was up, I contacted him right away.
"How are you, Director?" —GB (38.5)
"Fine. I heard you'd be in touch around today, and here you are." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
"Yes. It was an interesting week—fun at times, frustrating at others when I lost." —GB (38.5)
"Glad to hear it." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
"You mentioned you had something to discuss about Miju." —GB (38.5)
"Ah... well, it's like this." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
Fortunately, it wasn't anything catastrophic. The factory in Jeongeup had produced a prototype and begun exporting. True to the "speed is everything" ethos, setup, production, and export had all moved at lightning pace.
"Doesn't seem like a major issue." —GB (38.5)
"The thing is... the professor collapsed." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
That was serious.
"Is Miju all right?" —GB (38.5)
"From what I've been told, she seems physically fine, but she's struggling emotionally. She hasn't left the lab." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
She hadn't been responding to messages lately, either.
"Understood. I'll meet her when I return to Korea." —GB (38.5)
"That would be good. The reason I contacted you is..." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
I'd assumed it was just an update on Miju's daily life, but he continued. From what he explained, it required my decision. It concerned the share acquisition. The agreement between the professor and us had drawn attention now that he was incapacitated—particularly from his family members, who were eyeing the assets.
"Didn't you say he was single last time?" —GB (38.5)
"Yes. The problem is his siblings." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
I sighed. With no direct heirs to inherit, the siblings were causing chaos.
"The issue is that the professor wanted to establish a scholarship foundation, place the shares in trust, and support his students." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
"Then we should do exactly that. Is there a problem?" —GB (38.5)
"Accountant Kim has already set things up so we can handle the share restructuring with our approval." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
"Or they could sell them to us." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
They'd clearly prepared some leverage. Wanting to honor the professor's wishes, I told him to proceed accordingly.
"Yes. Handle it without issues." —GB (38.5)
"Understood." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
Since we were already talking after so long, I made small talk, asking how he was doing. I also brought up Team Leader Lee. He'd mentioned she was pregnant and had wanted to see her, but her wife had gone to Manila for the birth.
"Yes. I haven't done much as her brother, but this time I bought her a house. First time I've really acted like one." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
Generous of him. I asked about Director Jo, Section Chief Yeoni, and Section Chief Eun-seong—how things were going at the welfare center. There was good news and bad. Director Jo was enjoying retirement, having stepped back almost entirely now that the IT and internal affairs teams were running smoothly. Hamo-hamo himself was complaining that he was overwhelmed handling the practical work since Yeoni was struggling.
"Yeoni hasn't been well. I don't think she can handle the workload." —Hamo-hamo (37.1)
The events in Busan suddenly came to mind.
"Yes. Please take good care of her." —GB (38.5)
Before I knew it, the weekend was over and I was back to being a trainee. The next three days were similar to the first week, except the difficulty had doubled. There were ambushes that hadn't existed before, and the distances were 1.5 times longer. The shooting targets weren't stationary anymore—they moved—and we had to do close-quarters shooting as well. Unlike the first week, after a week of physical exertion, our recovery was noticeably slower. As a result, the trainees spoke less and less, their eyes growing deeper and more distant. At some point, I found myself able to forget about organizational matters and even Gonzales. Team Leader Lee had been right—when you push your body hard enough, thoughts disappear.
I'd been looking forward to the theoretical training on day four when we were suddenly ordered to assemble with full individual gear. The training content had changed. It was a jungle survival program—survival and concealment training. We learned how to set traps, and we hunted. Water was the most critical resource, they told us. Either purify it with purification capsules or at least boil it over a fire. By the second week, one or two trainees were dropping out due to injuries. One guy had insisted he wouldn't leave because he needed the money, but something about it felt poignant. Two instructors rushed him, and he had no choice but to be dragged away. Our squad was reduced to three. We received one new member from the Soho squad—Michael had injured his ankle and couldn't move. Squad training would proceed without the Soho squad member, they said. It was a penalty. If a squad reached four members, they'd be eliminated. The Soho squad had lost members one after another, starting with their squad leader. Fortunately, we had one or two more people than the other squads, giving us an advantage. Numerical superiority was apparently decisive. From what I could tell, we were in first place.
The weekend arrived, but I couldn't contact Korea. I slept the entire day. My body needed it, but Camilio had warned me—next week would be even harder. The following week was individual survival training. We were told we'd have to survive for five days with only light supplies. They gave each of us a backpack containing a machete, radio, flashlight, purification capsules, and so on. They also handed out a palm-sized token—if we survived five days while holding onto it, that was it. Then came the chilling part: we'd get bonus points for bringing back more tokens. In an emergency, we could contact them via radio and they'd come find us.
I'd thought it would be like my time in Cancun—living alone, eating when hungry, sleeping when tired. I expected it to be manageable, but the ambushes kept coming. There were plenty of trainees obsessed with being top performers. And the mosquitoes—why were there so many? We'd been taught how to repel them by making smoke, but I was afraid the smoke would attract attackers, so I got bitten anyway. It wasn't for nothing that they'd given me vaccines before training. I hadn't realized the tropical disease prevention shots would come in handy like this.
I spent my time hiding and avoiding fights. During the day, there was at least some noise, but once the sun began to set, the silence became overwhelming. With my senses focused on hearing and smell, even the smallest sounds made me react sharply. The other trainees didn't move at night either. It made sense—if you wanted to move, you needed light, and carrying a flashlight would give you away immediately.
I lasted one day, focused only on the people around me. But on the second day, it became impossible. I needed water. I needed food. I opened the trap I'd set and went out to find a water pool. Given the high rainfall in the area, there were puddles everywhere—though they were filled with what looked like larvae. I scooped water into a wooden bowl I'd made from the trap, filtered out the floating debris, and brought it back. I didn't think I'd been spotted, but my body felt drained, probably from the tension. I took out a purification capsule from my bag, purified the water, and drank it in portions. Dealing with waste was also exhausting. Then an idea struck me—what if I left the designated area entirely? The other trainees wouldn't be able to follow.
At dawn, as the sky began to lighten, I shouldered my pack and moved without worrying about noise. If they wanted to catch me, let them try. I sensed movement in response, but I ignored it and kept going. Had I walked for an hour or two? Suddenly, the radio in my pack crackled.
"GB, you're outside the operational area. Any further advance will be considered as withdrawal."
"I repeat: you're outside the operational area. Any further advance will be considered as withdrawal."
I turned back. They could've warned me earlier. Now everyone knew where I was. I switched back to concealment mode and looked for a new trap site. Since they'd already seen the path I'd taken, returning would be like announcing, "Come catch me." That afternoon, I saw something strange—a trainee moving completely out in the open. He shouted, challenging me to fight. Then he was hit by a rubber bullet. The instructors must have been nearby. One of the trainees who saw him fall approached, took only his token, and disappeared again. Ten minutes later, two instructors came and carried the fallen trainee away.
That day, unable to bear the hunger, I ate one of the insects I'd spotted earlier. I didn't even cook it—just ate it raw. The bursting texture was oddly satisfying. After two days without food, it was edible. The old saying was true—hunger is the best seasoning. While my eyes scanned the surroundings, my hands worked on making a bowl. If I didn't do something, time wouldn't pass and my thoughts would spiral. "Do something," they'd said. If you searched carefully around the training ground, there was plenty of trash. This place had been touched by human hands, after all. There was vinyl, plastic containers... Why bother making bowls when plastic containers were available? Because they were detergent containers. Washing them would require large amounts of water, and there was no guarantee they'd be clean. I gave up. It would be a waste to endure this long only to get eliminated from ingesting detergent.
On the fourth day, I had to rub my eyes. Because I saw people who were supposed to be in Korea. Team Leader Kim and Team Leader Hwang. Behind them were about ten others—some familiar faces, some I'd never seen before. Then they began searching. They were professionals, after all. Everyone would get caught. I'd set up my trap at a relatively high elevation so I could see below. One trainee in the lowlands ahead was caught—he struggled briefly before being subdued. He hadn't even known they were there. Team Leader Hwang had approached and poked at him with what looked like a stick. That day, without water or anything in my mouth, I felt lightheaded. The insect I'd eaten yesterday now looked like a chocolate bar.