I'll Do It, Manager
Dozens of people sat clustered together in matching campaign jumpers. Arrayed around them, a dozen or so network cameras and reporters were trained on the seated crowd. And facing them all was a massive monitor.
I stood a few meters off, outside the cameras' frame, arms crossed, watching everyone.
When the countdown on the monitor finally ticked down to a single digit, everyone swallowed hard in unison, as if they'd rehearsed it. I was no exception.
No matter how many times I do this, I never get used to it.
This time was especially nerve-wracking. More so than even my first campaign — back when I'd joined Representative Choi Giseok after he'd been ousted and was living in the political wilderness.
The numbers vanished as if shoving my brief thoughts aside, and the election broadcast host's vigorous voice rang out.
On the network feed filling the massive monitor, people in green threw their arms in the air and roared. By contrast, those in yellow froze solid.
Not a landslide. A total defeat.
The party I belong to — the party of Representative Choi Giseok, whom I serve — is the Pyeongjin Party. These were only the networks' exit poll results, of course, but they tend to be accurate.
That's not quite right either.
Not "tend to." They almost never get it wrong. In election broadcasts, the exit polls are the stage on which a network proves its competence. No matter how much people trash the networks these days, a broadcast station is still a broadcast station. So the exit polls were as good as the results. The seat counts might shift some, but the outcome of a total defeat would not.
And yet... that's exactly why this is good news.
A party's poor showing ordinarily translates directly into our own — but that isn't always how it works. Politics isn't two-dimensional.
"Mm..."
Someone's premature groan served as a cue, and the feed on the massive monitor switched to our campaign headquarters. A split screen. Whether because this was the highest-profile district in the country, they cut to us with no time to prepare.
Yes!
I quietly clenched both fists, and in the same instant everyone in our camp burst into applause.
"Congratulations, Representative!"
"Waaaah!"
"Congratulations on your election!"
"You did it!"
Amid the congratulations flying from every direction, the man of the hour, Representative Choi Giseok, looked around.
There he goes again.
Obviously. He was looking for me. I tell him not to, and he still does it every single time.
"It's just the exit polls. Don't go making a fuss."
Even dishing out humility he didn't mean — he'd really become a politician, I guess. A projected vote share of 59.1 percent. That was not a number that got overturned. Just in case, I quickly checked the other networks' exit polls on my phone. Same results.
From a three-term National Assembly member to a four-term one all but certain to seize the party leadership as well — and I was calling him a full-fledged politician. The thought was so absurdly funny that one corner of my mouth crept up.
Uh-oh.
Our eyes met. Even through the barrage of congratulations, the old man had found me at last, and now he was beaming from ear to ear. I hardened my expression again and sent him a look: eyes front. Representative Choi Giseok gave a slight nod.
If you get it, then act like it. Stop trying to look after me.
That old man... well. He was still in his prime, really, to be calling him an old man. But to me, he would always be the old man. When it was just the two of us, I used to call him ajusshi too, but I don't use that anymore. In politics, the words you use become your attitude.
Even as an aide, I too had entered the world of politics. Even things said in private had a way of leaking, so I corrected it. My attitude would come off as arrogance to some people. And to others, it would become a weapon they could use to look down on the old man. The old man himself, the one it actually concerned, seemed quietly disappointed about it.
Ajusshi. Congratulations.
I mouthed the words at the old man, who was still looking at me. He seemed to catch the shape of my lips, because Representative Choi Giseok mouthed something back, just as small.
Thank you, Jaewook.
Let's leave it at that. The rest — It's all thanks to you — would just give me goosebumps.
That... was helpfully pointed out by the person standing next to me. That's not right either. Plenty of things aren't right today. It's a ghost. Not a person.
I shot the Ghost a look at his follow-up, and he smiled... like a decent human being. And then he offered congratulations once more — this time, to me.
Meaning: keep your promise. The Ghost's face was full of expectation. And full of worry, too — worry over whether I'd actually keep my word. I looked at the back of Representative Choi Giseok's head one last time, then answered the Ghost under my breath.
The instant the words left my mouth, the Ghost cried out in a voice thick with emotion.
"You're already dead."
He bellowed it at the top of his lungs, but it didn't matter. This ghost was visible only to my eyes, and audible only to my ears.