The Insect's Grace
A normal day for one person could be the worst day imaginable for another. The man knew this fact down to his very bones.
"Fuuuuck... Those damn bastards won't pay what they owe, and somehow it's my fault..."
Loan sharking was a high-yield business, but the risks were just as steep. People thought it was easy money since you could charge thirty percent interest, but the ones actually handing out the loans suffered plenty for it. Bad debtors. The industry was crawling with them—guys the collectors called irregulars, or just shameless fucking pricks.
The people who borrowed from loan sharks were naturally those who couldn't get money from banks, or those who'd already borrowed to the limit but still needed more. People with nowhere left to fall. Of course some repaid faithfully, but the business was also flooded with those who figured their lives were already ruined and decided to take it out on everyone else. Some really did mutilate themselves. Others fled the country. Plenty went into hiding after taking the quick cash.
And among them, the absolute worst were the ones who acted like they had iron plates welded over their faces. They knew that if they died, the debt would vanish into thin air and the lender would never recover the principal, so they had the gall to spout nonsense like "You need to treat me well so I'll feel like paying you back." What made it even more infuriating was that, from a loan shark's perspective, they weren't entirely wrong. If it looked like someone truly couldn't pay, you might sell the debt off somewhere, but these bastards had the means and eventually did pay. Which only made their shameless attitude that much more rage-inducing. You wanted to tear them apart, but they always read the room perfectly right before you snapped. They were masters of push-and-pull that made you wonder if they'd honed those skills in some legendary romance back in the day.
"Use that push-and-pull shit on the girls you're fucking, not on a loan collector, you pieces of shit!"
The man kept spitting curses under his breath as he headed into the gloomy back alley.
"Fuuuuck. What a shitty workplace. Why the hell don't these gangster bastards allow smoking..."
It wasn't like he was doing anything that needed to be hidden from prying eyes. He just didn't want to smoke inside the building, so he dragged himself to this damp, cockroach-infested alley that reeked of mold and garbage.
"They've got plenty of money. Would it kill them to build one lousy smoking room? Sons of bitches..."
It was a nightmarish collaboration between a loan company that didn't give a damn about employee welfare and an office completely devoid of smokers. But what could he do? The big brothers upstairs didn't smoke, and the great boss who signed his paycheck had zero interest in spending money on something as trivial as staff comfort.
The man sighed and shuffled forward in his slippers. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
"Goddammit, only one left..."
He let out another sigh. Still, one was better than nothing. He'd love to chain-smoke like usual, but he'd have to make do with this single stick.
Cigarettes have gotten so expensive lately. Everything's a struggle.
With each inhale, he felt his exhausted body settle into a familiar calm. I wish some money would just fall into my lap. Lottery... Nah, fuck the lottery. Anything that brings in cash would be fine.
But if money came that easily, he wouldn't be scraping by like this.
What a pathetic fucking life.
M-saeng. M-fucking life. Life loser. Dropout. Failure.
With every deep drag, he watched the cigarette grow shorter and felt it was the perfect mirror of his own existence. A life that produced nothing and only consumed. A life where no matter how hard you struggled or cursed at the heavens, sunlight never seemed to reach you. Coins, sports betting, lottery tickets—nothing worked. The money from his paycheck vanished in an instant on drinks with the hyungs and maintaining face in front of the dongsaengs. Every time he looked at his emptying bank account, anxiety gnawed at him, causing every get-rich-quick scheme to slip through his fingers.
He didn't even dream of hitting the lottery jackpot. He'd be over the moon with second place and was fully prepared to celebrate all day, but he'd never even won fourth prize. The "experts" on the internet always led him wrong on toto bets. Sometimes he got so angry he wanted to curse the players online, but he held back in case they sued him. Coins would climb steadily until the exact moment he bought in, then plummet. When he thought about trying stocks, the unfamiliar terms and jargon made his head spin until the idea died completely.
Yes. The man was simply one of the countless people in a society obsessed with sudden windfalls. The only thing that set him apart was that he worked in the loan business, even if he was just a lowly grunt.
The hyungs always seem to get good information and keep their bellies nicely greased. When will I ever hear anything like that...
He flicked the burned-out butt onto the ground and stood up. He stopped by the nearby convenience store to buy another pack, intending to head straight back.
"Do you de-sire suc-cess?"
He flinched. If that voice hadn't come from behind him, he would have continued on without a second thought. The man spun around, startled by the voice that sounded like it rose from a pit leading straight to hell.
"Uwaaak! Fuck!"
The moment he turned, he nearly fainted from shock and fell flat on his ass. What stood behind him was no human. It was a grotesque figure that defied any such description.
A hunchback clad head to toe in black armor, as if preparing for war. His back was bent so severely it evoked a camel's hump, and that glossy black protrusion somehow reminded him of a disgusting egg sac. The exposed hands were mottled with sickly white and gray, like a mannequin suffering from some terminal disease. The torn rags draped across his body created the uncanny impression that a monster was merely pretending to be human.
But the most terrifying part was the face. The black mask, reminiscent of a revolting insect, truly looked like it belonged to a giant bug. If the creature hadn't spoken, the man would have been certain a real monster had appeared before him.
"Khh-hhh, success. You... want to succeed. Isn't that right?"
The figure made strange wheezing sounds, like someone wearing a gas mask. His speech was broken and halting, as if breathing itself was difficult, and the mask made his voice echo in an unnatural way. It sounded less like a person speaking and more like a machine imitating one.
Yet perhaps because of that very grotesqueness, the man sensed that the being before him was no ordinary existence. A demon. Or something very much like one.
"I want... No. I do want it."
Tap. Tap.
The figure approached the dazed man. Despite his hunched, bulky frame, his footsteps were impossibly light.
Fuck. He really does move like a bug.
The way he walked reminded the man of an insect silently crawling across the floor. The moment that image formed in his mind, every hair on his body stood on end and goosebumps raced across his arms.
"You are a fortunate soul."
The figure studied the man's face, which was twisted with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
"Great sorcery. Your luck and... khh-hhh. Your desire caught my eye. Yes. Indeed..."
As he spoke, the figure grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and ripped it out by the roots.
Rip!
"Uwaaak! What the hell are you doing?!"
Tears sprang to the man's eyes from the sudden pain. He glared at the figure, but the horrifying mask and eerie aura quickly overwhelmed him, forcing his gaze back down.
"You are lucky. And... and. Hrr... Khh-hhh. You will become even luckier."
Whoosh.
A small flame flickered to life in the figure's pitch-black palm. It danced in the air before consuming the clump of hair. The disgusting stench of burning protein filled the alley as the dyed strands turned to ash.
The figure dipped a finger into the ashes and jabbed it into the man's abdomen.
"Ugh!"
A single black dot appeared on his skin, as if being tattooed there. It tried to spread like ink, forming an uneven circle before slowly fading away, evaporating from his flesh entirely.
"Wh-what is this?"
Sorcery. Real sorcery.
The man realized the being before him was a shaman. Among those with abilities, they were considered eccentrics, yet they were valued precisely for that rarity. Instinctively—not through reason—he understood that he had just received the luck he had always desperately craved. This encounter was a turning point that would completely transform his life. His entire attitude shifted to one of utmost respect.
"You said my luck would improve. Is this... the sorcery that makes luck better?"
The figure laughed at the man's face, now filled with expectation rather than fear.
"Khh-hhh. Seeing is believing. Best that you experience it for yourself."
That glossy insect-like face. Eyes like glass beads. The plaster-white skin visible through the gaps in the mask.
"Hehehe, thank you!"
Yet now that appearance no longer frightened him. The man grinned from ear to ear and bowed repeatedly. Watching him, the figure spoke once more.
"Feel the power of the great sorcery. I will remain in this area for some time. If you need more luck, come find me."
Though next time, a small price will be required—
With those words, the figure vanished into the depths of the back alley.