Daldongne (1)
The middle-aged man crossed his arms and studied the young man through the one-way mirror.
'You said one time would be enough, did you?'
He replayed the story he'd heard from the man who had introduced the young soldier to him: an extraordinary memory, impossible concentration, and the ability to perfectly imitate anything after seeing it just once. Barely a few months after enlisting, he had mastered every skill the military taught; given sufficient materials, they said, he could probably learn languages just as completely.
So he had requested materials from the CIA and put the young man to the test. His unit had run joint operations with the Agency plenty of times, so securing their cooperation had been easy.
"And the results?"
"...A perfect score, sir."
"Well."
The middle-aged man lowered his arms and stepped closer to the mirror.
"Eight languages, learned in just two weeks..."
And that included every regional dialect, all the current slang and abbreviations, memorized down to the last detail.
Two weeks was generous, too—subtract the hours spent sleeping and eating, and the real number was even smaller. Given more materials, there was surely no end to what that small head of his could hold.
(Is the test over?)
The young man turned his head toward the mirror and spoke quietly. He couldn't actually see the man on the other side, but his abilities were so exceptional that the man half-believed their eyes had met.
"What a talent to covet."
"A pity we can't have him, then."
No wonder his service term felt so short—he'd been thrown into operation after operation, piling up commendations and promotions. Someone had recognized what he was and wrung every drop of use out of him. But from now on, this soldier was theirs.
"He'll have plenty of opportunities."
The man from the CIA watched the young man's back as he left the testing room, a look of lingering regret on his face. A faint smile touched the corner of the middle-aged man's mouth.
"Phil. The bastard just sent us a monster."
He dropped the file on the young man onto his desk like it was nothing more than scrap paper.
Jay Jenkins, born October 4, 1991. Enlisted 2007. The pages listed every skill he had acquired, every operation he had served on, every commendation earned, every medal awarded.
And on the very last line was written: United States Joint Special Operations Command — 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment — Delta.
"...Excuse me, are you—"
"Huh? No way."
Yoon Jay tugged the brim of his ball cap down low. I guess I can never come here again. Just as he began slipping toward the exit, someone who had recognized him came hurrying over.
"Um... I'm a fan."
"Ah, thank you."
"Could I maybe get a photo with you...?"
He'd heard from Han Jin-woo that he shouldn't give in to each and every request like this... but he couldn't bring himself to refuse.
He pulled down his mask and bent at the waist to bring himself level with the fan. On the phone screen, Yoon Jay's face broke into a pleasant smile.
Wrapped up head to toe, and people still pick me out.
As a child, he'd never had the chance to feel any of this firsthand. And how many fans could a kid have, anyway? Best case, people would send him encouraging looks—grow up well, just like you are now—but the devoted core fans that Yoon Do-jun and Yoon Do-hwa kept talking about were never going to materialize.
Now was a different story. Pass him on the street and stares and murmurs trailed after him. These days even actors communicated with fans through fan apps like idols did, and posts kept appearing saying Yoon Jay should get one too.
"Could I take just one picture as well?"
"I've watched Along Along five times!"
After he granted one fan's request, the people who had been watching from the sidelines swarmed in all at once. Yoon Jay masked his discomfort and did his best to accommodate as many of them as he could.
What saved him was Han Jin-woo, who had been observing the situation from outside.
"I'm so sorry, everyone—he has somewhere to be."
"Aw..."
They were disappointed, and truthfully so was Yoon Jay. But he gave a deep bow—please look forward to my next project—and got into the car.
"I knew this would happen."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. This is what managers are for."
Han Jin-woo glanced back at the spot where Yoon Jay had been standing. It was a street near the trendy bakery making the rounds on social media—naturally a place where people in their twenties and thirties clustered.
He had come from a place with an entirely different culture, which meant he wanted to understand how people in Korea lived now. Left alone, Jay would simply turn his head in small, measured increments, his body utterly motionless—which Han Jin-woo, watching over him from beside, found a little unnerving.
It's all for the role, but still...
Once word spread that Yoon Jay was frequently spotted downtown, his fans went so far as to create and share dedicated "Yoon Jay sighting spots."
Even on his first day off in ages, this is how far he goes for his acting...
In Daldongne, the drama he was about to start filming, the name of his character was Kim Sanghyeon.
A spoiled rich kid and petty delinquent—but not a violent one, and not the tattoo-covered thug or crypto-gambler people loved to sneer at. He was simply someone who'd been born to the right parents, grew up wanting for nothing, and had never needed to grow up at all. A carefree, thoughtless character.
"So, hyung. You finally have some time off—aren't you seeing your friends?"
"Friends... I don't really have many."
Yoon Jay was the type to neither chase people away nor hold on to those who left, but lately he'd been feeling a little hollow. He couldn't walk down a street without being recognized, so he'd just stayed home—and the walls had started to close in.
The twins were buried in their tour, the Wings Company bodyguards had Yoon Jay to thank for a flood of new work and no spare time to meet up, and Director Lee Young-chang was busy, he'd heard, developing his next project.
"Ah."
Han Jin-woo, who had found the oddly stilted phrasing a little strange, winced in hindsight.
Every so often he forgot this man had lived in America until recently. He had none of the speech patterns or habits typical of someone raised abroad for years—Yoon Jay seemed like he'd grown up in Korea his whole life. Han Jin-woo stole a glance at him through the rearview mirror.
"How's Kwon Min-jae doing? I hear you two text a lot these days."
Even though they'd only crossed paths briefly for that special cameo appearance, Yoon Jay had grown close to Kwon Min-jae fast. He'd even been invited into a group chat for all the actors born in '91, laying the groundwork for everyone to get together someday.
He'd know better than I would, wouldn't he?
What advice on acting could a relative newcomer possibly offer someone who'd been working steadily for over twenty years? The humility of the man was remarkable.
"He's busy, you know."
"Ah, right, of course. Still, once this project wraps, you'll be heading home."
Yoon Jay nodded. He had told his parents only that he'd started new work in Korea—he hadn't mentioned that he was acting.
I should tell them soon. The old habit of flitting from one career to the next and then another was over for good now.
"Then how about dinner with me tonight?"
"Really? You don't mind?"
"What's there to mind?"
"I read somewhere that hanging out with coworkers just tires you out."
"Is that all I am to you, hyung? A coworker?"
The brief day of rest behind him, Yoon Jay went straight to the set of Daldongne.
Kim Sanghyeon made his first appearance in Daldongne surrounded by a crowd at a nightclub.
"Hey, Sanghyeon. Yumi says she's around here—should we call her over?"
"Her? Pass. That face has had money rubbed all over it."
"That's the point, man. Where are you gonna find anything natural these days?"
He loved his booze, his women, and his nightlife; people never stopped circling him. Every entitled word out of his mouth laid bare just how deep his bad manners ran.
"Tsk tsk. Getting trashed again, I see."
"Heh heh."
He'd stumbled in late from drinking and slept straight through to noon, and now he flashed his father—who hadn't even bothered going to the office and sat reading the paper instead—a playfully wheedling smile.
Raised as the beloved youngest, utterly without sense, he was also remarkably quick with his little schemes. He knew full well that this smile would make his father cave—and he used that knowledge without a shred of shame.
His father heaved a long sigh and handed him something.
"Read this."
"A public service assignment? That's the... alternative service thing. Dad! I thought you were getting me out of this!"
"You little rascal. You think exemptions grow on trees?"
"They do, though! You did it for my brother, so why not me!"
Kim Sanghyeon stamped his feet and shook himself, whining like a five-year-old. His tantrum was so polished it looked practiced—which, of course, it was.
"There's been too much talk of draft dodging scandals lately. Just go and get it over with."
"Ugh! Come on! You promised your son wouldn't have to suffer! You said it was a hundred percent guaranteed!"
"Enough! Go before I cut off all your credit cards!"
In the end, he was defeated by money. He knew perfectly well that without his father's cash, he was nothing. And so he arrived in Uiseon City—the fictional city at the heart of Daldongne's world.
"Ugh, I paid a fortune for premium tires on this thing."
Stepping out of a flashy sports car, he splashed through a puddle and his face twisted in disgust.
With a glossy cashmere coat draped over his shoulders, hair swept casually back, he slid his designer sunglasses down to hang from his collar and strode into city hall.
"Whoa, what the—"
"How much do you think that car cost?"
Eyes followed him everywhere. Kim Sanghyeon flashed an insolent little smirk.
This is how I make my first impression.
He'd deliberately brought an even more expensive car. He would make it abundantly clear he was a rich family's son, then fail at every single task they gave him. After that, no one would think of asking him to do anything. He'd just coast on easy street until his service period was up.
For a few days, everything unfolded exactly as Kim Sanghyeon intended—and then Kang Subin, the protagonist of Daldongne, returned from a field assignment and crossed paths with him.
"You say someone new started?"
"What a joke."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"Nobody fails at a task so thoroughly by accident. Look at him."
Following the pointing finger, they saw Kim Sanghyeon—who had spilled coffee all over a stack of documents—clutching the back of his own head and putting on a show of being flustered. But Kang Subin observed the performance with sharp eyes.
"...He's doing it on purpose, isn't he."
"Hmm? What was that?"
"Nothing. Was there something else you wanted to tell me?"
"That one—he's clearly from money. And not just ordinary money, either."
"Sorry?"
"Nothing. Our city hall does have a way of ending up as a place of exile for rich family's brats, doesn't it."
The public service worker before him had come from a fairly well-off family too. But at least that one had known his manners—he'd never pulled these sly, clumsy-slacker games. Kang Subin's opinion of Kim Sanghyeon was sinking by the minute.
"Plenty of people have driven foreign cars here."
"Not just any foreign car. I'm telling you, that one cost over four hundred million won."
Don't tell me that gaudy little sports car parked next to the official vehicle is his. Kang Subin frowned slightly.
Just that morning, she'd gone to visit a household behind on a mere 40,000 won in taxes. A fifty-something man living hand to mouth. He'd fallen off a scaffold at a construction site and hurt his leg, but missed his window for treatment and now limped permanently. She was on her way back from helping him with his disability assessment.
"It's not much, but you'll get a disability allowance, and I'll connect you with the welfare office—rice, kimchi, that sort of support will come through quickly."
"Bless you, miss, for looking out for a man like me."
There were people who trembled because they couldn't scrape together 40,000 won in taxes—and there were people who cruised around in 400-million-won cars like it was nothing.
"Can I take him around with me from now on?"
"Do. Better that way."
Get him out of my sight, the sooner the better. Manager Park waved a hand in dismissal. Kang Subin walked over to Kim Sanghyeon, who was wiping up the spilled coffee with all the grace of a fish flopping on land.
"What's your name?"
"Kim Sanghyeon."
"I'm Kang Subin, field officer. Just call me whatever's comfortable."
"Then can I call you noona?"
Contempt flickered across Kang Subin's face. Kim Sanghyeon simply smiled harder. There was never anyone my face didn't work on—but this one's going to be a tough nut.
"Call me Officer Kang."
"Ah. Yes, ma'am."
"You do know how to drive?"
"Yes."
Catching the car keys Kang Subin tossed him, Kim Sanghyeon grinned. Anywhere beat being cooped up in that stuffy office.
"I've set the navigation, so just follow it."
"Would it be all right to ask what this trip is for?"
"We're going to collect back taxes."
"Oh..."
Back taxes. The images came to him unbidden. Would they be raiding the mansion of some tycoon in a luxury penthouse, seizing his art collection, rifling through safes, forcing payment?
The fantasy didn't last long. Their route shrank into a narrow alley, the asphalt peeling away in patches, the car jolting and rattling beneath them.
"From here on we walk, so pull over there—right there."
"Got it."
Stepping out of the car, the scene that greeted them was exactly what people meant by a daldongne—a hillside jjokbang-chon of cramped, single-room shanties climbing the slope.
"Wow. This is..."
Filthy. Genuinely filthy. In that instant, Kim Sanghyeon's easy country-bumpkin act cracked against a slum he had never once seen in his life.