[Night Convenience Store 1]
The power of a demon hunter seemed to be growing stronger by the day. My base stamina had improved dramatically—to the point where 100kg dumbbells at the gym felt ridiculously light. Now, if I threw a full-power punch, it could punch a hole straight through a wall.
"Not a demon hunter for nothing," I muttered.
Being able to wield flames at will was an insane ability too. My fire resistance was ramping up as well.
"Heh."
Today's biggest haul was Ownerhaus. He'd tipped me off on the gate's location, so I planned to check it out. But like hell was I rushing in blindly like some Ownerhaus idiot. I'd run thorough tests and gather intel first.
I'd gone on a shopping spree at the department store too. Picked up battery-powered cameras and USB drives. Unlimited black card perks, baby.
Stuffed the fridge full of gourmet eats and premium ingredients. Filled the wine cooler with expensive Cabernet Sauvignon, now sipping it elegantly from a wine glass, swirling it just right. In a way, this was paradise for me right now. I didn't want to lose this sweet life.
What’s my real desire, anyway?
Han Areum's desires, Hamster's, Kim Myeon-hyeong and Secretary Jin Sun-mi's, Gu Mirae's... even Suryeon's. Watching everyone else's cravings made me reflect on my own. Beyond revenge, what I'd craved most facing death was surprisingly simple: delicious food.
I had pride in my cooking skills, honed at a Michelin two-star spot. But diabetes in my twenties changed everything. One bite of my own cooking spiked my blood sugar so hard I nearly had a heart attack. That's why I quit the culinary life.
So yeah, tasty food became my ultimate desire. Prohibition breeds craving. Obvious. America's Prohibition era birthed bootlegging. Christianity took root under persecution because of bans.
My second desire... sex. My wife mocked my performance, and I'd suffered erectile dysfunction. No clue why it started—doctors couldn't figure it. But now? I was totally different. Rock-hard 19cm monster and endless stamina. Felt like it was always mine.
The human brain is that simple.
...The forbidden becomes the greatest desire.
The brain-hacking methods I'd confirmed on the shells came down to two: priming effects fused with the Proust phenomenon via stimulus-response, exploding dopamine release. Or conformity via defense mechanisms and mirror neurons, skyrocketing oxytocin.
That's why I was sure I could control shells at will. Leverage my neuroscience knowledge, and this place becomes my heaven.
Half success so far, though. Hamster still couldn't talk properly, and Gu Mirae turned into someone else after work. Needed more tests on shells. How far could I push them with their desires?
Time: 11:45 PM. After midnight, no customers hit the convenience store. Fog rolls in, spawning filthy, deadly monsters. Shells knew and stayed inside.
I headed there for alone time with Hamster. Drop the shutter, run tests.
Convinced Gu Mirae's dopamine chat normalized her briefly by fulfilling her desire. Wonder if sustained dopamine blasts could fix her permanently. And how demons possess—curious as hell.
"Hamster loves cooking, right? Grab some tools."
Recalled our chat: "I'm super into fine dining! You're amazing. Worked at Veris? That's a Michelin two-star!"
"I was the main chef there."
"No way! Wow!!!"
She digs fine dining, so cooking while probing other desires? Perfect. Packed Italian pasta, sauce, truffle oil, burrata, frying pan—just in case. Ready to mesmerize shells with my skills.
Hadn't had late-night snacks in ages; feet felt light heading there.
Sure enough, Hamster alone at the register, hat pulled low. What’s she doing?
Ding-a-ling.
Door opens; she stands, body swaying. Red eyes, drool wiped from her mouth. Passed out face-down.
Poor Hamster, guarding this place 24/7, no shifts. Farmers and factory workers clock out; not her.
Checked watch: 11:55 PM. Fog incoming; drop shutter soon, seal the store.
She spots me, flashes a bright Joker smile. Different from her customer ones.
Then—ding-a-ling. In struts the ass-crack miniskirt girl from the 8th floor, Adidas track pants? No, classic white Adidas jersey over that buttock-baring skirt. The delinquent.
Weird. Shells don't roam past 11.
She heads straight to beer cooler, browsing casually. Stands on tiptoes for top shelf, skirt flipping up to flash ass cheek.
Hurry up and pick one... why deliberate so long?
Fog finally creeps in. Midnight. Gate opens.
Fog hits, anxiety floods Hamster's eyes. Ass-crack skirt steps back too. Confirmed: shells recoil from fog.
Hamster nearly got hit by that milky-pussy monster last night.
Before more fog, rrrrumble—shutter down.
Hamster clueless about the shutter. One unpredicted variable: ass-crack skirt trapped too. Ruins my solo Hamster experiment till dawn.
Eyed her: short miniskirt flashing ass, white Adidas jersey hugging slim shoulders. 163cm tops. Decent height. Jersey hides curves, but I knew those tits were plentiful underneath.
[0, 0, 0]
Drop the delinquent slut stereotype. Face wasn't knockout pretty—typical rebel: sharp eyes, high straight nose bridge, lip piercing. Chin-length bob suited small faces only. Slender, deer-like long neck elevated her average look. Now dazed and innocent, but frown lines between brows said she scowled often.
Hmm... testing on you wouldn't suck.
What if I reveal I'm human? Rage? Attack? Possession attempt? No witnessed aggression yet; wanted specifics. Cops possess survivors usually, but fog means no cops now.
Plenty of time. Unpack their desires one by one.
Shutter down, anxiety vanishes from Hamster and ass-crack skirt. No fog visible, they're chill. She resumes beer hunt; Hamster yawns cutely, stands. Dark circles to her chin—clearly not sleeping or going home. Same outfit as yesterday, my crusted cum stiff on her miniskirt.
Ass-crack skirt buys beer, squid snacks. Joker-smiles with Hamster, pays. But shutter's down—no exit. She freezes, brain-fried.
Shells lag on surprises. Can't replace humans. Routine-only weakness exposed.
I grab supplies too. Felt like beer anyway.
Shutter blocks outside view. Weeeeng—flea-fly's here too. Damn pest everywhere.
Set burrata on long table. Bought extra; two burners now.
Taste/smell hits amygdala and hippocampus direct. Fabric softener hacked Hamster's brain... so food smells/tastes tied to limbic memories? Prime candidate, especially familiar pasta for 20-something girls.
Boil water with bottled; pasta on, meanwhile slice garlic/peperoncino thin into frying pan. Low heat in olive oil till translucent—store fills with aroma. Shutter seals it in, no vent.
Hamster's nose twitches wildly. How's that? Killer scent, right?
Blue flame flickers, garlic rising—two drops truffle oil. Slow-fry chopped green onion; sweetness and oil seep out. Garlic, onion, truffle meld into umami depth.
Drain al dente pasta into hot pan. Sizzle—aromatic oil coats strands. Grind pepper, snow Parmesan. Finish with truffle drop.
Simple, quick perfection. Fork-twirl shines with onion oil.
Hamster and ass-crack skirt stare at my pasta. Good I stocked up—imported Italian fresh sheets, pro-level satisfaction.
Aluminum plates and wooden sticks ain't ideal plating, but three servings done quick.
Table set. Grab dazed Hamster's hand, lead to seat. Joker smile, she follows naturally. Tested on Gu Mirae—motion control works.
Seat her, Joker back, chopsticks in hand. Same for ass-crack skirt.
20s girls lose it for this. Hand 'em sticks; they tentatively dig in.
Hamster's brows shoot up after first bite—shocked by flavor. Knew she loved this stuff. Shock fades; she scarfs.
Ass-crack starts slow, then speeds up, hooked.
I sit opposite, savoring truffle umami pasta. Mine's the best, as always.
Hunger's primal. This hit like a bomb for them. Limbic systems firing? Movements feel more natural—imagination?
Pop—crack a beer, toast ass-crack. She pops hers, crosses legs casually. Glimpse white panties at crotch. Eyes drawn to long legs—firm thighs fully exposed, ankles slim.
Oh? Skinny ankles? +10 points.
Ass-crack grew on me. Fierce brows aside, perky nose, balanced small face. Eyes only flaw—fixable with canthoplasty. Easy these days over double-eyelid.
Light clink on her can. Pasta-beer combo supreme. She might dimly recall.
Gulp down beer—bitter, crisp chill. Perfect.
She sips too. Hand Hamster another can. 20s girls can't resist pasta-beer.
Predictable; she drinks. We three toast naturally, chug away. Casual dinner vibe.
Salaryman boozing with girls pre-apocalypse? Felt bittersweet, irreplaceable.
Wish their faces showed more emotion. Happy smiles at my cooking? Lips smack contentedly anyway. Chef joy: them devouring it.
Bonus: demons. Satisfy demon palates? Boosts my confidence.
They Joker-smile at me, polish plates lightning-fast. Empty dishes, eyeing me—want more.
Fry remaining squid snacks in pasta oil. Butter finish: buttered squid. Nutty depth; their throats bob.
Plate on empties. Endless snacks, endless beer. Ass-crack flushes red, eyes glazing. Strong-looking ones weakest to booze. Tsk tsk.
Then—her glazed eyes widen, pupils cloud. Something wriggles in her nostril.
What?