Married Woman Full Course (1)
0. "You seem like a different person when you're drunk."
I always heard something like that after a night of drinking. No one ever specified exactly how I changed. They just said I seemed like someone else entirely.
"Is it that bad? Like, am I a nuisance or something?"
"Nah, not to that extent. Just... you seem like a whole different guy."
A bit of booze, and suddenly the film's cut—my blackout constitution. So whenever I worried I'd caused some trouble and asked around, they'd all say the same thing. You seem different. But not enough to be a real bother.
There was a time when hearing that got on my nerves, and blacking out wasn't exactly a fun experience, so I tried to hold back. But with my job, skipping drinks entirely was impossible. Not touching even a single glass? Forget it.
Eventually, I'd end up drinking anyway, and the next day, I'd hear it again without fail. You turn into a different person when you drink. A totally different guy. God, it was exhausting.
But now? I just roll with it. Thanks to those blackouts, I ended up with this opportunity.
That day was no different. Friday evening, right before the weekend. I was getting ready to head out when I heard the team leader yelling from across the office about grabbing a drink.
I glanced around—everyone else was making excuses. "Got a date with my girlfriend," "My wife's waiting at home," that sort of thing. They were bailing one by one.
The team leader, shot down repeatedly, finally waddled over to me as his last hope.
"Lee, you can make it, right?"
Our company wasn't super strict, but it wasn't some ancient sweatshop either. A decent excuse usually got you out scot-free. But those pitiful eyes locked on me... A lonely middle-aged guy in a pathetic slump, staring with desperate longing.
Hard to say no to his face. So I told him, "Sure thing. Just gotta wrap up here and I'll join you."
"Ha, knew I could count on you, Lee. I know a great spot for gopchang..."
And so began our two-man booze fest. At first, he rambled about how this place's intestines were different from everywhere else, but after a few shots, he launched into his usual sob story.
"It's not that I hate going home..."
"But when I get there, it feels like I don't even have a place anymore..."
The kind of tedious crap that drags down a drinking session. Staying quiet made the mood too heavy, but I wasn't great at smooth-talking sober. How many times had I sworn off drinking? Whatever. I just sat there, staring at my full shot glass, listening.
The team leader eyed me with disappointment, then slyly pushed. "Lee, didn't you say you quit drinking?"
"Nah, not quit. But whenever I do, the film cuts out... You know how it is, right? I go down fast."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Seen it plenty of times."
He nodded like he got it, but his gaze lingered on my untouched soju. "Still, your drunk self isn't a nuisance or anything. C'mon, just one shot? One. That won't black you out. Right?"
How many times had I fallen for this pattern? I'd vowed not to this time, but in the end, his nagging won. One shot down the hatch. More chit-chat. Another glass slyly refilled. One more to wet my dry throat mid-convo. Rinse and repeat.
Friday night played out just like always. And Saturday morning hit me the same way.
1. "...What time is it?"
My body ached, throat parched as hell. I cracked my eyes open, dragged my groggy ass up, and checked my phone.
8:55 a.m. Normally up at 7 for work, so I'd slept about two extra hours. Still, every muscle screamed fatigue.
Blackout again, huh.
I sighed, clutching my pounding head as I got up. Come to think of it, no memory of last night's drinks. I remembered the first shot fine, but then the glasses multiplied, and poof—gone.
Checked my phone again. A few messages from the team leader in the middle of the night.
Guilty for pushing drinks on the guy who said no? The dude who usually banmalled me was using formal speech for once.
And at 2 a.m.? "Ugh, no wonder I'm wiped."
I shot back a reply and flopped onto the bed. He'd probably stumbled home to his place near the office to send those. Meaning we'd been drinking till nearly 2.
Hanging with a blackout drunk till dawn? No wonder his family ignored him.
"..."
Lying there, I felt like I was missing out on something. The plight of the office drone? Weekends off, but lounging felt like a loss.
After some internal debate, I hauled myself up. Nothing specific in mind—just couldn't stand wasting time flat on my back.
Figured I'd at least check in on my mobile game. Fired up the phone, and there it was—something weird.
"What the hell?"
I swore I'd seen it earlier, but half-asleep, I'd glossed over. "Some app?"
Normal apps have tiny icons, but this one hogged half the screen. Drunk me must've messed with settings. Tried resizing it.
"...Won't shrink?"
No matter how many times, this mystery app squatted on my home screen, unyielding. Worse, it popped a weird warning.
"What is this crap?"
No clue why I'd installed it. Tried deleting—same warning, no dice. Hackware? Searched the name: just some pop star's song, nothing on the app.
Quick dilemma. Launch it or leave it? Risky, might be malware. But thinking it over, drunk me had probably already run it.
Better to check what it was than stew over an undeletable ghost. Short debate later, I tapped it.
A crude MC OP logo flashed, then text scrolled.
Welcome to MC OP.
Use points to enjoy MC OP to your heart's content.
Current grade for Lee Ji-hoon: Regular Member
Current points: 536 points
Quick Use
Calls the nearest registered woman in MC OP.
"What...?"
Welcoming me to MC OP? No idea what it stood for. Real name instead of ID? Weird. 536 points—plenty or peanuts? No clue where they came from.
But my eyes snagged on the bottom.
Quick Use: Calls the nearest registered woman in MC OP.
"Won't charge me if I tap, right...?"
Shady as hell, but I'd come this far. If a payment popped, back out fast. Tapped Quick Use—
"What the...?"
A screen I couldn't even describe. MC OP? Overpowered protagonist? Jeez, drunk me had downloaded some meme trash.
"What a ridiculous role-play gimmick."
Scrolling through, the absurdity piled up. Daily Wife Play, Daily Mother-Son Play, Daily Affair Play. And Full Course.
Just reading it had me snorting. Prices next to them? Laughable. No illegal brothel takes phone payments, so pure scam bait.
"C'mon, at least make it believable to hook anyone."
Whoever coded this was targeting idiots. Too dumb to scare me—now I was curious what dumb message it dropped next.
One more tap to see the end: Reserve now? Y.
ETA: 20 minutes
"Man, what an idiot I am..."
No payment prompt. No virus ransom. Just "your woman is coming" and done.
Too straightforward. Obvious prank app. Shook it off, powered down the phone, and prepped to head out.
Broke as a company drone, but I could swing a simple bite. Gukbap at this hour, probably.
2. Weekend alleyways. This quiet villa hood full of solo renters had no early risers on weekends—dead silent, quieter than usual.
Only a couple folks out: a suit heading to weekend overtime (face twisted in world-hating misery—priceless), and one beaming woman, like she'd won the lottery.
Everyone's got their routines, I thought, passing them by.
Then the smiling woman called out. "Oppa!"
Just me, the salaryman, and her around. Sudden voice by my side—thought she knew me, but nope, total stranger.
Classic new-town mom vibe: long dress hugging a body she'd clearly maintained. Instagram selfie? Thousands of thirsty dudes in seconds. Sultry face, no connection to me.
Musta miscalled. Kept walking to spare us both the awkwardness.
But—
"Oppa~?"
"..."
"What, ignoring me on purpose?"
"........."
This stranger dogged me relentlessly. No choice—brace for cringe and tell her she'd got the wrong guy. But she beat me to it.
"Oppa, it's me, Mi-hye. You forgetting your wife's face?"
"Mi-hye...?"
That name from earlier flashed back. No way. Turned to her—she grinned wide.
"Oh, you don't like 'oppa'? Hate to break it to you, but then..." Her tone soft as a real wife's. "How about 'honey'?"
Something had definitely gone down.