Ace
Hyun-soo reached the logistics center a little past nine. With ten o'clock nearly upon them, the place was already winding itself up under the fluorescent lights. The whir of conveyor belts, the reverse-warning beeps of forklifts, the dull thud of boxes hitting the floor—all of it seemed to bleed together before he even stepped inside. Outside the makeshift office by the iron entrance gate, Manager Park stood waiting with a clipboard in hand.
Safety helmet cocked at an angle, fluorescent vest thrown over his shoulders, Manager Park spotted Hyun-soo coming and slapped the clipboard against his thigh.
"Hey, Hyun-soo. You actually showed. Honestly, I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance you wouldn't."
"I said I was coming. Of course I came."
"Kid… so you made up your mind, huh?"
Manager Park looked him over from toe to crown, checked the safety boots, and gave a short nod.
"New boots. ID."
He took Hyun-soo's ID and muttered as he wrote down the name and number.
"You're on B-line starting today. Ten at night to six in the morning. You get a thirty-minute break sometime in the early hours—other than that, there's no downtime. Bathroom runs only when the line stops, and make them fast."
"Got it."
Manager Park tucked the pen behind his ear and looked Hyun-soo straight in the eye.
"I remember last time. You were doing fine, then you just stopped showing up. You pull that again and I won't call you back—I'll be too annoyed. Clear?"
"Clear."
Manager Park turned toward B-line and waved him along.
"Follow me. Tonight it's small-box sorting. Stuff coming off the conveyor goes onto pallets by region. Anything over fifteen kilos, two people lift it—no exceptions. You play hero alone, blow out your back, and workers' comp won't cover it. That's on you."
"I'll look after my own body."
"Good answer."
Manager Park stopped in front of B-line, pointed at the four or five workers already gearing up, and raised his voice.
"Yellow vest over there—that's Crew Chief Lee Tae-ho. Anything you don't know, ask him. Don't come to me."
"Yes, sir."
Manager Park handed Hyun-soo a fluorescent vest and a safety helmet, then added one last thing.
"Gloves are in that box over there. Wear cotton ones. Bare hands and you'll shred your palms."
"I've got gloves."
"Yeah?"
Hyun-soo pulled them out and showed him.
"Came prepared."
Manager Park clapped him once on the shoulder, turned away, and said in a low voice,
"You're good at this, aren't you? Do it right and steady. Do that, and I'll let the silent disappearing act from last time slide."
With that, Manager Park stepped back, and Hyun-soo went over to the man he'd called the crew chief. Lee Tae-ho looked to be in his early fifties—stocky build, thick neck, calluses packed thick along the knuckles visible between his cotton gloves. When Hyun-soo approached and greeted him, Tae-ho only turned his head a fraction, eyes still on the conveyor belt.
"Hyun-soo? Manager Park told me. You've done this before, he said."
"A bit, yeah."
Tae-ho snagged a descending box with a gloved hand, set it on a pallet, and jerked his chin toward the spot beside him.
"Time's up. Stand there. Region codes are printed on the stickers. 01 goes on the left pallet, 02 on the right, 03 and up get stacked separately in the back. Simple. But speed is everything."
"Don't worry. When I do something, I do it properly."
"Mouth works fine, at least."
Tae-ho gave a short snort of a laugh. The conveyor belt was starting to move in earnest. Boxes began rolling at steady intervals, and Tae-ho snatched one with one hand to check the sticker while shoving the next along with the other. Once Hyun-soo took his place, Tae-ho turned his head for the first time and looked at his hands.
"Gloves on? Good. The first two hours are the worst. Support the box from underneath so you don't crank your wrists. Grab from the top and the tape rips—whole box drops."
"Don't worry about me!"
Leaving the bold declaration behind him, Tae-ho demonstrated, cupping the bottom of a box with both hands and setting it cleanly on the pallet. The motion was as natural as water flowing downhill.
And with that, Hyun-soo got to work in earnest.
An hour in, just as a dull ache was starting to climb through Hyun-soo's forearms, Tae-ho—who had been working beside him in silence—spoke up.
"Pace yourself. You go full throttle on day one, you'll collapse at four in the morning. I did the same thing at the start."
Tae-ho wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and gave a dry little laugh.
"The ones who last win around here. Not the ones who are fast."
"Oh—that's actually a good line."
"Is it?"
Tae-ho barked a rough laugh and kept moving boxes with practiced ease. Past midnight, the volume on B-line surged. The conveyor kicked up a gear and the gaps between boxes shrank. Tae-ho shoved a large box toward Hyun-soo and barked a short order.
"This one's over fifteen! Together."
They took it from both sides and lifted it onto the upper tier of the pallet. Tae-ho thumped Hyun-soo's shoulder with a gloved hand.
"Good. You've got the feel. Keep doing it like that."
It was too blunt to really count as praise, but the small smile at the corner of Tae-ho's mouth said he was satisfied.
After one in the morning, B-line found its rhythm. From across the conveyor, Tae-ho glanced a few times at the way Hyun-soo's hands moved, then jerked his chin at the worker beside him and muttered low,
"Kid's actually done this. Look how fast he reads the stickers. Line isn't backing up—not bad for a first night."
The other worker flicked a look toward Hyun-soo and nodded.
"Talked a big game, but he's got the skills."
"Tell me about it."
After that, Tae-ho stopped giving Hyun-soo separate instructions. It was a silent signal that he could be trusted.
At two in the morning, the break siren wailed through the whole center. Tae-ho peeled off his gloves and came over.
"If you've got food, eat it now. Thirty minutes goes fast."
Tae-ho dropped heavily onto a metal chair in the makeshift break room and punched the button on the vending machine for coffee. The moment Hyun-soo opened his lunch bag, Tae-ho's nose twitched.
"Hey—you pack that at home? Smells insane."
"It'll taste good, right?"
"Damn."
Tae-ho slurped his machine coffee and eyed Hyun-soo's bento box.
"Whoa. Spicy pork and rolled omelet? Not bad at all."
Tae-ho grinned slyly and shrugged one shoulder.
"I'm jealous, seriously. All I've got is a convenience-store triangle kimbap."
And so Hyun-soo ate the delicious bento box Jung Na-yeon had packed for him, every bite pure bliss.
Once the break ended and they were back on the line, it was the stretch when a body usually started to feel truly heavy—but Hyun-soo's grip on the boxes never slipped. Tae-ho helped him with a large box and tossed out a remark.
"Most guys' eyes glaze over around three on the first night. You're still sharp."
"This much is nothing."
"Figured you were all talk. Watching you tonight, though—you're solid."
It was half past five. The volume thinned and the line slowed. When the six o'clock end-of-shift siren sounded, Tae-ho pulled off his safety helmet, scratched his head, and planted himself in front of Hyun-soo.
"Hey, Hyun-soo. I'll be straight with you. Manager Park said you were someone who could actually do the job. Looking at tonight—he wasn't wrong."
Tae-ho stuck out a thick hand.
"Come back tonight. At this pace, you're B-line material."
"I was planning on it anyway."
Hyun-soo answered with a broad grin.
Over by the makeshift office, Manager Park—tidying the attendance log—looked at Hyun-soo and gave a single, wordless nod. That brief dip of the head held two words in it: You're in.
A little later.
Manager Park spread the attendance book on the steel desk in the makeshift office and stamped beside Hyun-soo's name.
"Hyun-soo, come here. Let's talk daily pay."
Manager Park pulled a sheet of A4 from the drawer and laid it on the desk.
"Daily rate is a hundred eighty thousand won. Once attendance is confirmed each day, it hits the registered account by three the next afternoon. No weekend premium, but holidays are time-and-a-half if you come in. Write your account number here."
"I was planning to take weekends off."
"That so? Fine."
Manager Park held out a pen and tapped the blank line at the bottom of the form with a finger. Hyun-soo wrote down the account number and handed it back. Manager Park slid his glasses down his nose and checked the digits one by one.
"KakaoBank? Got it. Check tomorrow afternoon. If it's not there, call me."
"Understood."
Manager Park clipped the form to his board and stuck the pen behind his ear.
"One more thing. If you're sick, give me at least four hours' notice. Text or call, either's fine."
"Yes, sir."
Manager Park closed the attendance book and looked up at Hyun-soo's face.
"Lee Tae-ho said you were all right today. That man compliments people once or twice a year, tops."
Manager Park leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
"But don't get cocky just because day one went well. Day three, end of the first week—that's the wall. If the body doesn't adapt, that's where everyone washes out."
He tapped the desk twice with a finger and dropped his voice.
"I said I'd recognize you if you lasted a month, right? That still stands."
Manager Park stood, opened the office door, and pointed outside.
"Go. Sleep hard. See you tonight."
"Yes, sir. Good work."
Outside the office, the cold air of six in the morning cut straight through his sweat-damp work clothes. Under the parking-lot streetlamps of the logistics center, people heading home drifted off in twos and threes, and at the far edge of the sky the thin indigo was already bleeding into gray. Hyun-soo pulled his smartphone from his pocket. A text from Jung Na-yeon lit the screen.
Reading her message, Hyun-soo left the center with a smile at the corner of his mouth.