I Want to Lend Money
"Hm?"
His triumphant entry lasted only a moment. As soon as he stepped into the first-floor lobby, an uncanny vibe hit him hard—one he hadn't noticed from outside. Through the glass doors, it had looked like a soothing, modern space dominated by whites. But inside? It was straight out of an old Hollywood flick about banks: polished marble floors that mirrored his face, soaring ceilings, chandeliers dangling overhead. A massive sculpture loomed in the lobby's center. If he had to sum up the first impression, it felt less like a bank and more like a temple or cathedral.
Actually, this is better.
It was an encouraging sight. A bank willing to splurge on interiors like this had to have deep pockets. A cash-strapped one wouldn't bother with lobby flair. At minimum, this place seemed more trustworthy than the banks he'd shopped around for loans. A joint this solid wouldn't prank him with a fake interview invite after passing the paperwork stage. No upside for them.
These days, entry-level bankers pulled 50 million gulden starting salary. Nail the interview by some stroke of luck, and he could kiss grinding poverty goodbye.
I have to land this, no matter what.
The interview was on the seventh floor. Steadying his nerves, he stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors closed, a banker hurried in.
"Sorry, customer. Soul Mortgage Loans have been banned since last century... I need to hop on this elevator now, so I'll call you back in a minute. Yes."
She hung up mid-mumble and locked eyes with him. Her canine teeth flashed in a grin—unnaturally long. What the...? Overgrown incisors?
Arriving on the seventh floor, he made a few vows before the interview: Keep his head up, no slouching. Voice steady, no shrinking. No stuttering.
"Come in."
Straightening his back, he strode in tall and opened the door.
"Hello, I'm Kim Jian—"
He froze the instant his eyes met the interviewers'.
"Have a seat."
He couldn't. Or rather, what the hell is this?
The scene before him was downright bewildering.
"...Yes, sir."
He barely squeaked out a reply, sank into the chair, and sized up the situation.
All but one interviewer weren't human. Even that one seemed off somehow.
Two were external hires to prevent nepotism: a sharp-faced elderly wolfman walking upright, and a pale woman with red eyes and long fangs. Seated next to the wolfman, she screamed vampire.
The HR dwarf was absurdly short. And the presumed ops guy? Human. Mid-30s bald East Asian dude glaring like he'd tasted shit. No warm fuzzies there. Even as a fellow human, he'd warned against expecting bonus points for Earth origins—guy looked like a total prick.
"......"
Already a mindfuck, and now the vampire was hovering midair from her chair. No visible wires. How to process this? He mulled it over, but instinct screamed one truth: This fantasy-movie nonsense wasn't a hidden camera prank or cosplay bash. It was real.
"Please introduce yourself."
"Ah... yes. I..."
But as the interview kicked off, muscle memory from three years as a perennial job-seeker and aspiring painter kicked in unbidden. His nerves screamed, though.
"It's fine, relax. Just answer as prepared, nice and easy."
"...Thank you."
Her voice was soft, tickling his ears. A deep breath cleared his head a bit.
"I was born and raised in Seoul—"
Tension easing, his tongue loosened up. He finished his rehearsed intro, and the panel fired questions like clockwork.
Starting with basics like if he knew anyone there. Then the vampire beauty—reeking of middle-school edgelord vibes—hit him with "your greatest despair."
The wolfman smiled kindly, bucking his fierce looks, and stuck to softball queries.
The buff HR dwarf, straining his tiny suit, asked how he took his protein.
"Protein, you mean?"
"Yeah. God's powder."
He could've sworn they chuckled at his answer, but it slipped his mind. Anyway, after that reflexive first reply, things flowed normally. The interviewers' freakish appearances aside, the convo was straight-up professional. Words poured out easy.
Maybe I'll crush this.
Not entirely smooth sailing, though. The lone human, that midlife prick, hammered him with prickly shit the whole time.
"So what makes you think you can hack it at a bank?"
"Anyone can do it, right?"
"You looked shaky coming in. That normal for you?"
Wouldn't you be?
Classic pressure tactics. He leaned into his humanities vibe for counters.
"Skills can be learned on the job. But the sensitivity and comms chops I've honed through my unique path? They'll be my edge here."
"Say a regular Joe's denied a loan because of government and bank policies on household debt, no special reason."
"Yes. That's me."
"But that experience lets me view lending from a customer's desperate perspective."
All smiles, of course. Half self-mocking, really—he barely grasped his own bullshit. Banks wanted useful hires, not customer-sympathizers. Would jaded pros greenlight some greenhorn spouting this crap?
As worry crept onto his face, they pivoted to his background.
"Kim Jian. You drew caricatures in Dimension 3-1?"
"Yes."
How'd they know? Dimension 3-1—his world, probably.
"We have spots for your talents. Why leave the department blank on your resume? Sounded like you want lending ops earlier."
"Ah, well..."
Sudden epiphany: Why was he bantering so casually with these non-humans? Cash incentive? Human-ish Q&A in a proper building? Nah.
They hadn't trashed his resume on sight. No "artists ditch people skills for canvases." No "artsy fartsy won't help us." Unlike Seoul corps dismissing his life in soundbites.
Instead, probing motives, departments, gym routines—real interest.
"Not lending? How about PR or marketing? We got artsy types there."
"Caricaturist? You'd chat customers easy. Small biz consulting could work."
Irony overload. The least human crew here scrutinized the resume him closer than any human ever had. Non-human looks, but treating him most humanely.
"I think I'm the profile Dimensional Credit Vault needs."
They needed him.
"One more check: Which department?"
By now, initial jitters were gone. Future unknown, but he'd show his full self here. Prove his value. Nail that, and he'd pass.
"Everyone's got a dream gig in banking, right?"
"A must-do task, huh."
Truth: No department picked. He'd half-doubted landing the gig coming in.
Then Friday flashed back: teller rejecting his emergency loan.
'Artists or full-time investors? We lump 'em as unemployed.'
'Sorry, try another bank...'
If approved, he'd have dodged crisis. Maybe rebooted as painter. His art might change the world, sell modestly, or fade—who knew? But a shot at fresh starts.
"......"
One thing clicked.
"It's special recruitment. We passed your papers expecting to hire, so spill without pressure."
Now he got it. What to do as banker. What he could do here. What he wanted.
"Yes."
Mind clear, he voiced it.
"I'll be straight, then."
He wanted it. For folks in his dire straits to dodge his fate.
So.
Meeting eight eyes, he spoke deliberately, word by word.
"I—"
To world-changers.
To those with arrogant dreams turning real, unlike his wall-smashed self.
And to every ordinary soul like him, facing despair yet grinding on.
"—want to lend money."
Offering a hand. That's what he craved.