The Third Life Begins Again - 5

Until I stepped into the changing room, the other female part-timers hadn't spared me a glance. The moment we started changing, though, their eyes kept sliding over for a look—only for those stares to vanish again the second we walked back outside.

Once the supervisor confirmed everyone had gathered, he herded the part-timers toward the buffet floor, where another man walked us through the rotation system. Then he went down the line one by one, spelling out exactly what each of us ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be doing.

After that, lunchtime drew near and customers began filling the empty seats; the busier the floor got, the harder we worked.

I tore back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, clearing plates, wiping the water from dishes that had just come out of the washer, and setting them out again. After hours of frantic motion, break time finally arrived—but my stamina was shot, so I simply sat in a chair without moving.

I wasn't sweating, and it wasn't as if my muscles ached. Still, matching that relentless pace had left me mentally drained. The smells rising off the food and the sight of customers eating nearby left me feeling oddly hungry. It had been nearly a month since I'd eaten or drunk a single thing.

People usually figure you can last three ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠days without water. By that measure, a simple calculation put me at roughly ten times the limit. Without food, survival is generally pegged at three weeks. My body should have been wasting away the whole time, yet it looked exactly the same as when I'd started. Continuing the experiment no longer meant anything. Food cost money, though, so until now I'd bought nothing but the bare essentials.

"We start again in an hour. Anyone who wants to eat, grab a plate and help yourselves."

One by one the part-timers went to pick up plates.

I piled mine high with everything I wanted. A part-timer who'd been glancing at me all through the break came up behind me with a plate of his own.

"You're really good at this. Must have done a lot of it before."

I turned my head. He was looking straight at me.

"A little."

"Your hands were moving so fast I could barely see them. I figured you were a pro."

"Ah. Yeah..."

I didn't feel like dealing with him.

At some point the part-timer who'd spoken up stopped trying, and I was able to eat in peace. What I discovered while eating was that I didn't feel full, either. I'd put away enough food to leave an ordinary person stuffed, yet there was no heaviness in my stomach—only the sense that a light hunger had been quieted with a snack.

I could still taste everything, though, so I couldn't decide whether the lack of satiety was a blessing or a curse.

When I stroked my belly, it did seem a little rounded, if only slightly.

Once the staff meal ended, early-dinner customers started filing in and the place got busy all over again. I worked like mad once more; only after the last guests left did things finally quiet down. We finished the kitchen cleanup and tidied the dining-room floor before the day was truly over.

"Good work, everyone."

The manager came around with white envelopes and handed one to each of us. I took mine as well.

"They say you work hard. If you want to come again, just text me."

"Yes. Thank you."

I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have to think it over. The job was hard, no question—but I'd put out the immediate fire, so I wanted to see whether something better was out there first.

Memories of my previous life as a perpetual assistant manager, forever catering to the team leader's moods, were still vivid. Even though the other part-timers looked about the same age as my current face, they felt like kids to me. The way they goofed around while working grated on me a little because of that.

Lying in bed, I habitually logged into a job-posting site under my previous life's ID. The urge to switch jobs had turned into a nightly ritual of scrolling the listings right before sleep, and the habit still surfaced from time to time. Now, though, I needed part-time gigs rather than full-time positions—and I had to use this life's ID, not the old one.

I stayed in bed, scrolling diligently through my phone for listings that matched my conditions. Two days passed with nothing, and with no other work in sight I went back to the buffet.

For several months I kept going to the buffet as if it were a regular job. Before long the supervisor took my presence for granted and expected advance notice whenever I wanted a day off. Today I simply wanted to rest, so I spent the hours at home on my phone.

It was my own place, somewhere I could be comfortable, so I was in my succubus form, wearing nothing but an oversized boxy T-shirt and panties. With no need to eat or use the bathroom, I spent the entire day lying in bed glued to the screen. Around the time lunch hour had passed, a knock at the door made me set the phone down.

Wondering if it was my door being knocked on, I pressed my ear to the front entrance.

— Knock knock —

It was mine.

"Who is it?"

"Just a second."

Come to think of it, this place was still going through auction. I quickly hid my succubus traits, slipped on the bra hanging from the chair back, and pulled on the sweatpants draped over the desk.

When I opened the door, a middle-aged man with a friendly smile stood there. The moment our eyes met, his widened slightly. For the briefest instant his gaze dropped to my chest before returning to my face.

"You're quite the beauty. Are your parents home?"

"No. I live alone."

"Then... what's your relationship to Ms. Lee Seung-ah?"

A name I'd seen often enough on demand notices and the like. My mother's name.

"She's my mother. The address is just registered here. I don't know where she actually lives."

"I see... Here, take this."

He held out a gift box of fruit drinks he'd been carrying.

"I've stopped by several times. You must have been very busy."

"Ah... yes."

"May I come in for a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moment?"

"Go ahead."

I'd cleaned as best I could, but the place had been filthy before, so the stains on the linoleum and wallpaper wouldn't come out. There was no sofa or dining table for guests, so we sat at the folding table I used for meals. He looked carefully around the room until he settled, then broached the subject cautiously.

"I was wondering if you have any plans for moving out."

Now that he mentioned it, I'd never checked the auction on the court website. I didn't even know when the winning bid had been placed.

"I don't have any moving plans yet."

He pulled out a pre-printed auction notice and pointed to a date with his finger.

"Once I pay the full amount on this day, I'll be the owner."

In my previous life I'd worked in a field that neighbored this one, so I knew a fair bit about auctions. I could read the notice, too. That was why I asked back.

"Will you be living here yourself, sir?"

If he intended to live here, I'd have to vacate.

"No. I bought it to rent out."

If he planned to rent it, I could stay on as a tenant and there'd be room to negotiate. He could simply collect rent from the previous occupant. The problem was the room's terrible condition—that meant he wouldn't get much rent.

"I'll need to remodel first. So... student? The student will have to vacate the place."

"Yes."

"That's why I wanted to ask when you're moving and coordinate the date so I can plan a full interior redo."

"..."

"If you're pressed for time, I can give you more."

"..."

Usually a successful bidder offered tenants something under the name of "moving expenses" as a form of support. The way this man carefully avoided that topic suggested he saw me as someone who didn't know the world and planned to simply kick me out.

And for situations like this, I had a useful skill. The skill called Charm clouded the other person's reason.

Holding the thought of devouring him, I put strength into my eyes and stared at the man. When our gazes locked, his expression softened slightly and his focus seemed to drift in a strange way.

"Sir. I don't have enough money to move."

"...Even so, you'll have to vacate."

It seemed to be working well.

"I don't have money."

"Uh... then borrow from someone around you. If you don't leave, I'll have no choice but to get you out through a lawsuit."

He was more stubborn than expected.

"I'm looking for a room myself, but without money for moving, I can't do anything."

"Then I'll give you until the end of the month. If you're out by then, that should be fine, right?"

He'd planned to collect rent anyway, and if he could get me out by month's end without paying moving expenses, he stood to gain far more. Even the highest rent couldn't exceed moving costs, and the payment due date was the thirteenth—so it wasn't even a full month.

This guy was really stubborn.

"Mister. Just give me the moving money."

Moving expenses weren't a tenant's absolute right. But if a tenant dug in and refused to leave, a lawsuit ate up a lot of time and money. So the practical approach was to hand over a little cash labeled as moving expenses and get them out.

I'd stopped consciously maintaining the Charm skill, and at some point the man had returned to his original expression.

"A student moving—why should I pay for it?"

"Mister. How many times have you done auctions?"

At the sudden question his brows knit.

"Countless times."

"Then you've paid moving expenses plenty of times. Why are you acting like this?"

"No. A student moving..."

I cut him off. He already knew, after all.

"An eviction lawsuit and forced execution take at least five months. Longer ones go over a year."

"..."

"If I keep swapping occupants to harass you, you'll need a provisional injunction against transfer of possession too. That application alone takes at least a month. Plus the forced-execution costs."

I gauged the room size with my fingers.

"This is roughly seven or eight pyeong. Usually you figure a hundred thousand won per pyeong. But the space is small, so the truck call-out fee will be higher. Execution costs, labor, storage—add it all up and forced execution alone will run a bit over three million."

"..."

"Are you going to use a lawyer?"

I wasn't waiting for an answer.

"If you use a lawyer, add plus alpha."

I snapped the words at him, and the man fell silent. Only after a long while did he carefully speak.

"...How much were you thinking for moving expenses?"

"As long as it's not a ridiculous amount, I'll move. You name a figure first."

"How about 1.5 million?"

Not a bad sum. The pyeongage wasn't large—it was tiny, really—so that amount was actually generous.

"Fine. But I'm only taking what I need and throwing the rest out, so you'll handle the large-waste disposal."

The large waste was just the fridge, desk, storage cabinets and the like. Sticker fees wouldn't be burdensome. I simply couldn't move them myself.

"If that's all... good."

"Could I have a business card? I'll text you once I've moved."