What Are You Doing, Oppa

What are you doing, Oppa.

A few seconds after I finished inside her, the fog began to thin.

Han So-yul opened her eyes beneath me. Into those unfocused eyes from a moment ago, something else returned.

Focus.

"…Huh?"

She looked slowly around her. Moldy walls. A ramen pot rolling on the floor. The fog that had once swallowed her to the ankles had settled below her knees.

Then she looked at herself. Her ruined dress. Me, still between her legs. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Still inside her, exactly as we were.

"…What did I just do."

Her voice shook. It was a different kind of tremor from the moans that had rocked her earlier. This was the trembling of someone whose sanity had come back.

The Window of Humanity. That was what the system called it. A brief interval in which a fallen woman recovered her mind just long enough to see exactly what she had done.

I didn't understand then why the dungeon left that window open. I learned later. It was necessary for the subjugation to become real.

"Lee Seo-jun."

Han So-yul shoved me away. There was no strength in her hands. But the will to push me off was unmistakable.

I pulled out. She dragged the hem of her dress down to cover her legs. Her hands were shaking hard.

"What… what did you do to me. Just now I… I just…"

She couldn't finish. The scene was too humiliating to put into her own words.

"You don't remember?"

"…I remember. I remember everything. That's why I'm going insane."

She covered her face with both hands.

"Why did I do that. Why would I… with someone like you… No — why am I even here. I was at the club. So why…"

Confusion and shame sat naked in her eyes. The woman who three months ago had cut me off with a single KakaoTalk message — You have nothing — was now covering her face because she couldn't bear what she had done.

Honestly, I liked looking at that face. I knew it was an ugly feeling, and I liked it anyway. After three months of reading those three words every night before sleep, this one face canceled them out.

"I'm leaving. This is all a dream. I'm just drunk right now. Yeah. That's it. I'm drunk."

Han So-yul stood and staggered toward the door, bracing herself against the wall as her legs buckled. This time the fog didn't block the handle. A subjugated challenger was free to leave.

The door opened. The cool air of dawn poured down the stairs. She stood on the threshold. She could have gone. She put one foot forward — and stopped.

"…What's wrong with me."

She pressed a hand to her chest, somewhere under her heart. The place where the imprint had been carved during her fall.

"What is this. Why… why can't I move my feet."

She gripped the doorframe. Her head wanted to leave; her body refused. The two of them were fighting right there on the threshold.

I watched. The system window broadcast the struggle in numbers.

Her mind wanted out of this semi-basement. Her body couldn't take a single step away from me. The woman who three months ago had cut me off without a second thought.

"When I get farther from you… it hurts here. Why does it hurt. What did you actually do to me."

She turned back with eyes full of confusion and craving mixed together. When she retreated toward me, the hand pressing her chest relaxed. When she tried to leave again, the deficiency returned. After repeating that a few times, she finally sank down on the threshold — unable to go, unable to stay.

"It's called an imprint."

At my words she lifted her head.

"That's how dungeon rules work. Once you're subjugated, you belong to me. Not just inside the dungeon — outside too. You'll come looking for me."

"What? Belong to you? What kind of nonsense is that."

Even her snap had no force behind it. Her body already knew. Her face was the face of someone who wanted to deny it and had nothing left to deny it with.

The moment I said it out loud, the imprint only hardened further. Making her recognize the subjugation locked it in — that was what the system had told me.

"…How long."

After a long time curled up, Han So-yul asked it quietly.

"How long what."

"This. This pain. How long does it last."

As if answering her question, a system window appeared.

Half a day to a day.

The fall had been a one-time event, but the subjugation had to keep being renewed. In game terms, it was a buff duration. After half a day it would start to fade, and before it fully lapsed you had to cast it again. Like a thirsty person hunting for water, she would come looking for me — and the only caster who could quench that thirst was me.

A brain that had logged five thousand hours of games understood the mechanism in three lines. I'd spent three years writing cover letters and still couldn't memorize a single one of them.

"It says it'll be like this again in half a day."

At my words, Han So-yul's face went white.

"…Then what am I supposed to do. I have to keep coming to you? That's insane. I'm Han So-yul."

I'm Han So-yul. Three hundred thousand followers. A chaebol heir on her arm. That name had no power at all in front of the deficiency.

Han So-yul looked at me from the threshold. Her eyes were more unfocused than before — enough to make me wonder if the next thirst was already arriving.

"…Just once."

Then she clapped a hand over her own mouth. It was the face of someone whose mind had returned right after the fall, only to discover what her body wanted.

I crouched in front of her. Three months ago I used to look up at this woman. Now we were at eye level.

"So-yul."

When I said her name, her shoulders flinched. Just from that.

One call of her name, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her body answered first. She felt it too, and hugged her own arms.

"…Don't call me that. Don't call me like that. It makes me weird."

"Weird how."

"…I don't know. I really don't know."

She buried her face in her knees. Somewhere between surrender and resistance, her body was slowly listing toward me.

I didn't push any further. The system had already written that she'd come back on her own feet in half a day. A game you won by waiting. First time in twenty-five years of living.

Han So-yul left at dawn. In the brief window when the Subjugation Imprint stabilized, enough strength returned to her legs. She straightened her dress, never once looked at me, and fled up the stairs.

Click-click. The sound of her heels fading away. It was the exact same sound as three months ago, when she'd left me behind. But this time it felt different. Because I knew she would come back.

The fog cleared completely. The semi-basement was a semi-basement again. Mold smell, cold ramen, an eighty-thousand-won life. The walls said nothing about what had just happened here. I lay down on the floorboards as I was.

I had just subjugated the woman who dumped me. Bound her. And now that woman would come looking for me every half day.

I should have felt triumphant. But the first thing that rose was something else. Fear. The fact that rewriting an entire person's head had been this easy — and that I didn't feel a shred of guilt about it.

"…Was I this kind of person."

The only thing that answered my muttering was the blue text on the ceiling.

Three hundred coins. The number the system had previewed on day one — Subjugation reward: 300 coins + 1 room — had actually printed itself somewhere that wasn't a bank account.

Eighty thousand won in the bank account. Three hundred here. The bank money hadn't grown in three years of scraping. These three hundred appeared in a single night.

It hadn't formally opened yet, but I could see what was for sale. Expand the room, learn skills, or call another woman.

Three branching paths floated side by side on a three-hundred-coin screen. A shut-in's brain was already grinding the numbers. What to unlock first for maximum efficiency. It was way more fun than any job-hunt roadmap. At least on this board, the gauge actually went up when you put in the work.

But with only three hundred right now, buying one thing emptied the account. Summon Ticket was two-fifty. Room Expansion was two-fifty. And the Summon Ticket wasn't just a coin problem — it was also a "who do I call" problem.

I committed the three paths to memory and closed the shop. No reason to rush. In half a day Han So-yul would come back, and the tribute bonus would drip a few more coins. On this board, time was on my side.

The phone rang after the sun had fully risen.

I hadn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slept at all, still lying on the floorboards, and grabbed the phone at the vibration. I figured it was a convenience-store shift text, or the twenty-seventh rejection email.

It was KakaoTalk. I sat up the second I saw the sender's name.

[Han So-yul]

The name that hadn't lit up once since three months ago — Let's end this. You have nothing. On the chat window I could never bring myself to delete, the one I opened every night, a new message appeared.

Three words.

I stared at those three words for a long time.

Oppa. Three months ago it had been "Seo-jun." When she dumped me it had been "you." And in a single night it had come back as "Oppa."

What are you doing. The woman who'd dumped me and ridden yachts with a chaebol heir was, of her own free will, asking me what I was up to.

The system told me what this KakaoTalk message really was. It hadn't even been half a day. The woman who'd fled at dawn like she was running for her life had, the moment morning came, been unable to endure the deficiency and come looking for me. Wearing the mask of the most ordinary message in the world: What are you doing, Oppa.

In her head she probably had no idea why she was doing this. She'd just suddenly thought of me, just suddenly sent a text — that was what she'd believe. An imprinted brain lies to itself that way. But I knew the true name of those three words. Thirst.

I started to type a reply, then stopped for a second and looked around the room.

Until yesterday this semi-basement had been the least changing place in the world. Rejection emails in the morning, the store manager saying "plenty of people to replace you," someone in the group chat going "Seo-jun's still job-hunting, right?" A script that hadn't changed a single day in twenty-five years.

But this morning, the woman who'd dumped me three months ago had sent "What are you doing, Oppa" of her own free will. For the first time, the script had changed.

"…So it actually works."

Not triumph — sheer absurdity made me laugh. The reality of a man with an eighty-thousand-won bank account had, for the first time, moved by a fingernail's width. And it had moved by the hand of the woman who'd hurt me the most.

I typed a reply.

Three words for three words. The exact same indifferent tone she'd used on me three months ago. Back then that tone used to make me anxious. This time I was the one holding it.

The reply came instantly. On a KakaoTalk that was used to being left on read, an immediate answer stuck for the first time.

Of her own free will. Asking with her own mouth if she could come back to the semi-basement she'd fled at dawn — less than half a day later.

Re-dose. Meaning even without a second subjugation, just her coming back would keep the bond alive. Once every half day, like pouring water again.

I looked at the ceiling with the phone in my hand. Three hundred coins. One subjugated heroine. Three branching paths I'd previewed. Still just one. Just Han So-yul.

But somewhere in the system, I could feel the next door getting ready to open. Once more coins stacked up and the shop fully opened — skills to learn, a room to expand, or the other names that had walked over me for twenty-five years, waiting to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be called. Not yet. Han So-yul alone was overwhelming enough.

I typed a reply.

One word. But the hand that sent that one word was a completely different hand from three months ago.

One last line of ceiling text appeared.

One day since the dungeon opened. I had barely one person, three hundred coins in hand — and for the first time, I watched my own reality take a step toward me. The board had only just begun.

The phone buzzed again.

Wait for me. From the woman who'd made me do all the waiting for three months.

I cleared the ramen pot and roughly tidied the semi-basement. For the first time, I wasn't ashamed of someone coming into this room. Not because this was a semi-basement — but because this was my dungeon.