The Reporter at the Door
"Let me in!" I hung up on him right then and there, figuring I couldn't take any more of it. Texts from the editor started flooding in soon after, but I ignored them all. Maybe following his advice would've been the easy way out. But hadn't I already ditched the easy path to end up here? I couldn't back down on my principles now. They weren't that flimsy.
But contrary to what I'd thought, things only got worse. By evening, articles had popped up across multiple news outlets, and they'd even pinned down the exact neighborhood I lived in. They hadn't nailed the precise house address—thank god—but just having the area exposed was stressful enough.
Still, let's think this through. Nothing had really changed in the end. I wasn't going out for a while anyway. As long as I didn't look at the internet, all their noise didn't matter. My contract with the publisher wasn't severed, so I wasn't starving, and the backlash would blow over soon enough. I just had to stop obsessing over it.
And that's pretty much how it played out. That evening, I got texts from Jae-a and Ha-neul checking if I was okay. I told Jae-a to quit worrying and focus on his writing, then vented at Ha-neul that this was all her fault. She apologized in a total panic, so with a sigh, I just said fine, whatever.
I shut off the internet entirely and got through the days like that. More stressful than the online crap, though, was wearing the underwear I'd bought last time—specifically, the bra. I should've just stuck with the junior bra, I kept thinking.
The weekend passed without incident. I still couldn't muster the will to write, so I dove into the stack of novels I'd hoarded before, killing time that way.
Then, the following Tuesday—my first tutoring session with Jae-a since turning into this. He gaped at me through the webcam, too stunned to even greet me properly.
"What?"
"Is that... really you, hyung?"
"Who else would it be?"
"No way, you don't look like Seol-guk-hyung at all. I knew you'd changed, and I'd seen your face and height in the articles, but honestly, I couldn't believe it until I saw you with my own eyes."
"Tell me about it. I still don't believe it every time I look in the mirror."
"You've... changed a ton, for real."
Jae-a's face showed zero attempt at hiding his shock. His brutally honest expression pissed me off. Kid's a kid, what can you do.
The session went smoothly enough. I'd planned to cover the webnovels he wanted to write, but my knowledge there was pretty shallow. Naturally, it veered toward literary fiction—pure lit and engaged literature.
"What're your plans for college?"
It was a necessary question. Whether he'd go into the Creative Writing Department mattered a lot.
"You won't tell my dad, right?"
"Am I crazy?"
My relationship with Professor Seo wasn't bad, but it wasn't especially close either. I was publicly acknowledged as his prized student, and I'd learned a ton from him, but he was eccentric, not the type to get sentimental. So we kept things at a standard mentor-protégé level. Close enough that he'd set up that interview for me, but detached enough that he hadn't even called to check in after this happened to me.
Anyway, Jae-a's request not to tell his dad gave away what was coming.
"I'm not going to college."
"Do what you want."
I shrugged off his declaration. He looked flustered.
"You're not gonna try to talk me out of it?"
"It's your life. Why should I? Besides, a high schooler who's already made three million won off his writing— if he says no college, then no college. You gonna force him?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
He seemed awkward, like maybe I was the first to say something like that.
"Guess I'll have to teach you the basics of the Creative Writing curriculum, then."
"Anything special?"
"Read a ton, write a ton, think a ton, revise a ton, live a ton."
"Anyone can say that."
"That's the basics. Sure, I could cram in 'write it like this' or 'think like that' factory-style, but it'd never become your writing. Hone your skills all you want—if you don't have your own voice, it's meaningless. Whatever it is, write it first, then revise."
Of course, Jae-a couldn't whip up a finished short story in that short time. I looked over what was basically a plot outline and gave my take.
"Not bad."
"That's not a compliment, is it?"
"Look at you, already a pro Creative Writing student. Must be all that webnovel grinding—it's got solid hook-driven pacing, but the theme's too vanilla. And in art, vanilla's a sin."
"Is it...?"
"Plus, it's all jumbled. From this, I can't tell if you wanna do pure lit, engaged lit, or genre stuff in between for the literary world. Webnovels just need to satisfy readers, but what we're aiming for now has to mean something."
Jae-a bristled a bit at that.
"Webnovels aren't just about satisfying readers. They have their own philosophy and get real acclaim."
"Like 'What the hell's that voice...?'?"
He shut up at my one line. For reference, that's the reaction to the protagonist turning on the mic for the first time in his internet broadcast novel. He never answered my jab for the rest of the session. Probably hasn't fully picked his path yet.
I critiqued and revised what he'd written so far, but told him to think more about whether to stick with it or start fresh.
Session over, night had fallen. I pulled my hat low and stepped out the front door. They said to avoid going out, but some problems don't solve themselves indoors. Trash wasn't a huge issue before, but with all the instant ramen and deliveries, it was piling up.
The bins were right downstairs. No one around at this hour, and I was the only resident in the building, so no chance of getting spotted. I dumped the old bags in seconds and hurried back inside.
Once home, the tension drained, and I slumped a bit. Reporters probably wouldn't be prowling this late, but the worry lingered.
Trouble hit the next day, just past lunchtime. I'd ordered donburi from my usual Japanese place like always, and when the bell rang, I checked the intercom. No one there. Relieved, I opened up and grabbed the food. No hat on.
I ate about half, then lazed around watching YouTube on my phone. I'd gotten seriously lazy these past few days. Unless I was reading novels, it was YouTube all day.
Then the bell rang again. No one was supposed to come...
Who the hell? Peering at the intercom, there stood a young woman. I didn't open the door or say a word. Something felt off, ominous.
And that suspicion hit the mark. She knocked hard and called out.
"Writer-nim? This is Seol-guk's place, right? From TTBS. Mind a quick interview?!"
Chills ran down my spine. A reporter. Had to be. How the fuck did she find my house?
She alternated between knocking and ringing, yelling for me, and nausea surged up. Ignore her. She'll give up eventually. She couldn't force her way in, and if she tried, I'd just call the cops.
But her next words forced my hand.
"Writer-nim! I've got a photo of you here. A really clear one—looks like it even caught your unit number..."
Blatant blackmail, intent crystal clear. When the hell did she take that? Seeing the photo she shoved at the camera, it was from earlier when I'd grabbed the donburi. She'd been staking out the place.
Ignore her, and the pic leaks. Way sharper than the last ones. That I could handle. But my home address spreading? No way.
I flashed back to that other author who'd stirred controversy and ended up with reporters and cyber mob at their door. Couldn't let that happen.
Cursing under my breath, I opened the door. There stood the grinning reporter.
I gritted my teeth and spat, "...Come in."
"Thank you!"