Because I Could
Just as expected.
I poured every ounce of strength into my legs.
"Kyaaak!!"
The instant the high school girls screamed, time suddenly slowed, and my body shot toward them in a blur.
"Kyaaaak!"
The two girls curled in on themselves, ducking low—just as the mug slammed into my back.
Thud!
Splash—
Crash!
Time snapped back to normal. The mug bounced off me, shattered on the ground, and coffee soaked straight through my clothes, dripping steadily.
The girls, still hunched and screaming, slowly straightened up with puzzled looks when nothing hit them.
"Ah..."
"You two, get out of here quick."
I waved them off as they stood there flustered. No need for kids to get mixed up in something like this.
"Ah, yes. Th-thank you!"
"Thank you!"
The two high school girls bowed over and over and hurried away.
I slowly turned my gaze to the middle-aged man standing on the terrace, his face a picture of panic.
"Ah... a-are you okay!? Oh no..."
The waitress standing nearby rushed over in a fluster, pulling a cloth from her apron and trying to dab at my clothes.
Hmm?
Looking closer, she seemed ready to burst into tears at any second, her hands trembling violently. She was so tense her whole body had locked up.
One wrong move and she could walk away with lasting trauma—mental or physical.
Just how badly has she been humiliated already?
I pulled out my phone, slid free the credit card tucked behind it, and held it out.
"I'm fine. Just go back inside and bring me a very! hot americano."
"What? But..."
"I'm really fine."
I gave her a gentle smile.
"Ah, understood. I'll bring it right away. And the restroom is inside on the left..."
"Quickly."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Once she disappeared inside, I climbed onto the terrace with a blank expression and walked straight up to the middle-aged man still standing there awkwardly.
He showed not a shred of remorse. His face remained twisted as he jabbed a finger at me.
"Who the hell do you think you are, sticking your nose in? Huh? Look, my hand just slipped and I dropped the cup. Why'd you go diving in there? Huh? I didn't do a damn thing wrong. You're the one who jumped in. You get that, right?"
Veins bulging on his face, bloodshot eyes, breath reeking of cigarettes from who knows how many packs.
Talking wouldn't work with this one.
I first glanced at the cigarette still clenched in his hand, then pointed at the no-smoking sign posted on the terrace.
"Put that out first. This is a no-smoking area. Can't you see the sign?"
"The hell are you on about? Who the fuck are you?"
Yeah. Completely unreachable.
"Smoking in a designated non-smoking general restaurant can get you a hundred-thousand-won fine. Or should I just call the police? Plenty of witnesses around."
"Son of a..."
Only then did the man realize people were staring. He flicked the cigarette onto the terrace floor and ground it out under his heel.
Utterly classless.
"Anyway, spilling the coffee was an accident. Not my fault."
"Ah, right. Of course. Still, you'll pay for the broken mug."
I answered flatly.
"Tch! I'll do it when I leave!"
He barked it out, then sat down looking awkward and shot me a sidelong glance—the kind that said, Why are you still here?
Right then the waitress returned carrying a mug of coffee.
"Here... the americano you ordered..."
"Ah, thanks."
I gave her a brief nod, took the mug, and without missing a beat poured the entire contents over the man's shoulder.
Splash!
"Aaaargh! Ah! Hot!"
"Ah! Whoops. My hand slipped."
The man scrambled across the terrace, stripping off his clothes as fast as he could.
I put on a half-hearted show of surprise, but of course he wasn't buying it.
"You fucking bastard! You did that on purpose! You son of a bitch!"
Shirtless, he lunged at me and grabbed my collar with both hands.
"No, really—my hand just slipped."
I stayed calm while checking him over. One shoulder was already turning an angry red. Without quick first aid he was going to be in real pain from the burn. But he was far too worked up to notice.
"You fucking bastard, keep ignoring me and I'll—aaargh!"
I seized the wrist holding my collar and twisted. His arm flipped the wrong way with pathetic ease. I'd hit the exact pressure point, so he couldn't even put up a fight.
"Uuuuuaaagh! Let go! You crazy bastard! Let go!"
"Is that a pig being slaughtered I hear? Or just a dog barking?"
Crunch!
"Aaaargh!"
I twisted harder. A little more and it would dislocate. Push further and it might break.
Right on that razor edge.
The pain was already maxed out.
"Uuuugh! Please... uugh!"
He finally broke, drool stringing from his mouth and fat tears rolling down his face.
"Coming to your senses now? Ready to admit what you did wrong?"
"Uugh!... I will. I will! I'm sorry. So just let go already."
He had switched to polite speech without even realizing it.
"Apologize to the waitress and clean this place up properly. And pay for the mug you broke. Understood?"
"Yes. I understand. I get it."
The moment I released him he collapsed onto the terrace like a sack of wet cement. He stared up at me in a daze, then finally pulled himself together enough to straighten the table. After settling the payment he asked for a rag to wipe the floor.
When the waitress finished the bill and told him he could just leave, he shot me one last nervous look and fled like he was being chased.
I pretended not to notice. Keeping him around any longer would only make more work for her.
"Give me the rag. I spilled it, after all."
I held out my hand, but she shook her head with a soft smile.
"I'll take care of it. Thank you so much, sir. It was really hard earlier."
"You sure you're okay?"
"Yes, really. But because of me your clothes..."
She looked at the mess on my shirt again, fretting.
"Don't worry about it. I'll handle it myself. Keep up the good work."
"Ah! Wait a second! At least take this as thanks..."
"No, I'm fine~"
She held out a tumbler set, but I left the café without a second glance. I hadn't done it for gratitude or reward. Staying any longer would only put more pressure on her.
"Haa. What am I doing this time..."
I walked along the main street, looking down at my clothes. Coffee had soaked through everything. Showing up at a real estate office like this was out of the question.
"Well, better to dress up a bit more properly than go like this anyway."
Come to think of it, the casual suit I was wearing was ancient and looking pretty shabby. Bought it when I joined the company—seven years ago?
I'd made decent money in stocks. Maybe it was time for a proper suit.
And why had I gotten involved again, now that I wasn't even terminally ill anymore?
Maybe the reason was simple.
Why? Because I could stop it. Because I was able to.
That was all.
The next day.
Sunday.
I left the house that morning, dropped the clothes off at the cleaners, and headed for the nearby shopping district. If I was going to get a suit, I wanted one good enough to last.
A few blocks later I spotted a fairly stylish men's store. It looked geared toward a younger crowd.
Formed.
The interior wasn't ultra-luxury, but it was clean, and upbeat new-age music played from the entrance. The clothes themselves managed to look both trendy and quietly high-end.
"Welcome. Looking for a suit?"
A male clerk in his thirties greeted me smoothly.
"Yes. Need one for work. Ready-to-wear is fine."
"You've come to the right place. Quality here is solid, and the cuts are so good you barely need alterations. Slim fit, or something with a little more room?"
He eyed my frame as he asked. Just the right amount of eagerness—nothing pushy.
"Slim. But still comfortable to move in."
"Excellent choice. Shall we start with this line?"
He guided me naturally, skipping the fluff and getting straight to the point. Even while handing over pieces he kept the talk light.
I tried on several suits in the fitting room and settled on a gray one that felt right. It wasn't just the look.
Great drape, clean shoulder line, trousers falling without a single wrinkle. I can wear this straight off the rack.
I was unconsciously analyzing the balance of the measurements, the give of the fabric, even the tiny creases that formed when I moved—details most people would never notice.
"Perfect fit. Your proportions are really something. You work out, don't you?"
Half genuine compliment, half sales pitch.
"Yeah, I like this one too. Don't think I'll need any alterations."
"That's the good frame talking. Honestly jealous of the height."
Seeing how short he was, that part at least sounded sincere.
"You could walk out wearing it right now."
"I was planning to. Got somewhere to be."
"Oh, really? Perfect timing then! Haha!"
He smiled as he rang me up. I wordlessly handed over a card.
Seven hundred eighty thousand won.
Cheap next to true luxury brands, but the quality more than satisfied me.
He stayed courteous to the end, bagging the clothes I'd worn in and carefully offering a business card.
"If you ever need a jacket or coat, feel free to call anytime."
"I'll remember."
I left with the shopping bag in hand. This level felt right—no need to show off, no reason to feel small.
Only two real estate offices were open on a Sunday.
Luckily the one I'd already marked had its lights on.
I peeked inside. A fairly old man with most of his hair gone sat on a sofa watching TV. Slow day, apparently.
The office occupied the first floor of a clearly aging building. Faded flyers and handwritten price tags cluttered the walls.
I opened the door and stepped in.
"I'm looking for a place."
"Ah! Come in, come in. Have a seat over here."
The agent quickly switched off the TV and ushered me to the sofa.
"Coffee? Tea?"
"Already had some. I'm fine."
"Alright then. Any particular area in mind?"
He settled onto the opposite sofa and asked casually.
I sat and took a quiet look around. A big calendar on the wall had red sticky notes reading things like "Lots of redevelopment inquiries" and "Investment caution." The desk was buried under coffee cups and papers. The old air conditioner rattled, and the power cords under the desk were a tangled mess.
Old, but lived-in.
It looked shabby in places, yet that very shabbiness proved the office had survived in this neighborhood for a long time. More importantly, the owner clearly knew every corner of the district—and he didn't waste money dressing the place up.
That suggested his way of gathering and using information was traditional, maybe even self-centered.
I answered with a light smile.
"I'm thinking houses near The Hutton Apartments."
The moment I said it with a little grin, his expression shifted—just a fraction.
I didn't miss that reaction for a second.