14. Tiger (6)
I somehow managed to convince Section Chief Jo.
Since he held the decision-making power in our division, there was no need to persuade anyone else.
...Truth be told, it was ambiguous whether I'd truly convinced him.
The moment he heard me out, his face fell into a gloomy expression.
He furrowed his brow, veins bulging on his bald scalp.
That was the telltale sign whenever the chief was in a situation he deeply disliked, but I couldn't tell if he was truly angry.
"You, is that for real? You're really gonna do it? You mean that?"
"Yes, well. No one else can, right?"
"...You crazy bastard. Hey, you punk. I told you not to act like an idiot. You, you, damn it. That won't fly. Where in the world is there a law like that?"
"... ."
"Or what, is it that? You think you're hot shit now that you're in the underworld? Craving that promising talent treatment? Huh?"
"No."
"Didn't I tell you? What kind of industry this is? Hey, kid. Promising talent? That's not a good thing."
"I know."
"You know? No, from what I see, you don't. How many prospects do you think I've seen in 20 years?"
"... ."
"Guys who pop up like supernovas—I’ve seen hundreds. 'Supernova,' huh? Ironic name, right? Means they flash once and flop over dead. Isn't that it?"
"Uh, Chief?"
"How many of them do you think are still alive?"
"Maybe about a hundred...?"
He wore a bitter expression.
"As far as I know, five. Five out of hundreds! Exactly five! The rest? Dead! Gone! Passed away! Those elite supernova prospects rolling on the ground like vermin every quarter, choking on dust. That's the industry. That's what it is!"
He was worked up. You could even say he was gripped by fear.
"And did their deaths mean anything? No. Does a flower wilting have meaning? A rock crumbling? No. Nothing. Flowers just wilt, rocks just crumble. For no reason. Just because."
Fine. I'll admit it.
I hadn't convinced him at all.
The chief scolded me, and I clumsily parried his sharp words. The conversation flowed in that vein for about three minutes.
Time's running out. I have to do it now.
So in the end, I chose blackmail.
"...Chief."
"What, got more to say? Don't. I won't listen anyway."
"No. You'll listen, Chief."
Section Chief Jo glared at me.
Menopausal? This old guy's acting like a moody teenage girl—it's suffocating.
But.
He would listen.
If he wasn't going to, he wouldn't have responded at all. That was a core principle of my conversational style.
"Chief."
He pretended not to hear, but he was tuning in.
"You're a middle manager, Chief."
A sad position, middle management.
"And middle managers have to be efficient."
At some point, office workers start seeing numbers, not the essence.
They prioritize efficiency, intuition. They can't tolerate sloppiness. Even if it's human nature.
"Efficiency is numbers. Not people. 2000 to 1. Simple choice, isn't it?"
That's exactly what I was poking at.
This emotional balding middle-aged guy was still a company man at heart. Twenty years of service, section chief title, head of a division.
"Still not gonna listen?"
He had no choice but to.
Maybe it was exactly what he wanted to hear.
Humans are creatures that avoid responsibility, after all.
"This has to be done. Absolutely."
If someone heard my thinking, they might mutter it's too cynical.
But it's fact. Simple, clear, rigorous fact.
Just like the lines whispered by my specialty, Office Work.
"...Rookie."
The chief growled. Fierce momentum. But it was fine.
"You little... Disappointing."
The chief shoved my shoulder.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, but as always, didn't light it.
"Do whatever you want. Live or die, your call."
The cigarette's white tip fluttered.
He was already convinced. Maybe from the moment I first spoke.
Under the glaring full moon's watchful gaze, the lakeside was chilly and shrouded in mist.
The wind whispered endlessly, and with a torch in one hand and pistol in the other, I had no time to fix the bangs fluttering across my forehead.
...I see it.
The tiger and 'I' reached the lakeshore.
Barely made it in time.
I'd nearly botched everything. I hadn't realized the chief was so sentimental.
Still...
Now it was really here.
No place suited "over the mountain, another mountain" better.
Unbelievable. Scary bastard.
'I' faced a towering, vast mountain.
And the tiger hung in the air, writhing as it watched 'me' at the shore.
Just toying with me. Let me go on purpose.
Like any feline predator, toying with captured prey for sport.
Tiger and I play. I play with tiger. Music swells. The shaman screams.
And finally, the whole world dyes red.
Blood-red moon.
Atop the moon floating bright on the lake, a beast perched lightly.
The musky stench stabbed my nose. Even from this distance, it welled up. Deliberate. It knew how to hide its scent. Watched me the whole time, chose this for fun.
And.
That's your fatal mistake.
You damned beast.
I finally followed the document's last directive.
Recognizing it was simple.
'Don't do it.' The first run's 'Oh Sung-jin' said that.
Wary of the tiger's ability, cognitive contamination. That's why he forbade it.
Discarding his greatest weapon, 'observation.' Irrational choice.
Why? Did I suddenly go mad? Crushed by despair, gave up?
No.
The thread of thought starts with doubt.
Was it really a 'prohibition'?
No. I don't work that way.
Oh Sung-jin always wins. And that's true.
The document has intent. Whether favor, opposition, or calculation.
Margins guide as much as directives.
Time for choice.
Finally, I understood what I wouldn't do—like stars in the night sky—clear, precise directive's meaning.
'Its form doesn't resemble a tiger. Overall behavior is less beast, more lion dance.'
I observe.
'Ability: mental domination. Given tiger's place in old tales, akin to mountain spirit. Meaning it can hunt a person's acquaintances after devouring them.'
That's why 1700 died, why it could topple a massive group like a company.
'But that's deception too. Its essence isn't tiger. Nor lion. Nor mountain spirit.'
Just mimicking.
Deceiving.
'Because our attempt to know it informs it of us.'
It's wearing a lion mask from the start.
It's not a tiger.
Just making us mistake it for one.
Essence inquiry.
Office Work's first principle. Intuition.
It's a void existence. No origin, no lore. No context, no inferences.
But using those tools, I can pierce the flow...
Anomalies have rules. And its rule is...
Parasitism.
Parasitizes anomalies. Its form defined thereby. Thus, its true identity:
Formless cognitive contamination anomaly parasitizing Dangsan Dowon folklore.
In short...
All things and nothing.
...
I understood it. Whispers come. Tiger. No. It's me. No. Then what is it? What am I?
Trying to comprehend the abyss. Pleased. I peered too deep into it, so it peered deep into me.
The tiger's lips tore into a long grin. It chased 'me,' gazed at me. Grinned at 'me,' smirked at me.
Shaman's scream shakes the earth. Eardrums about to burst. It comes. Watches. It devours me.
And becomes me.
...That's how it should have been.
Beeeep—!
Suit collar chokes my neck. Breached. Instant-death pattern.
But I knew it. Like counters to instant-death have counters.
Time-delayed attacks can't be blocked anymore.
Beeeep—!
It's over. Suit worked well, but won't anymore.
Now.
What do I do here? How to respond to all and nothing?
Simple.
I raised the torch high, swung it. Flame arcs slash the dark.
"Tiger—!"
It wasn't a tiger until now.
"Over here—!"
From now on, it is.
Because I made it so. Prepared everything for that.
All countermeasures assumed 'tiger.'
Rawr—!
The chase began. It wormed through the path, madly pursuing me. Roars followed, growls trailed.
The radio spat labored breaths.
Section Chief Jo's voice. But not him speaking. Mountain spirit. Tiger!
Over and over, it tempts me. But it's fine.
Is that shadow on the tree the moon's, or your noose creaking?
I yanked the radio from my belt, tossed it to the ground. Profane whispers from colleagues, acquaintances, close ones fade away.
It moves with interest. Toys with people. Removing one target signals the game's end.
Shadow looms. Jaws inches away.
At the same time, I gripped the anomaly byproduct I'd brought to counter it. It wriggles, warm.
"Eat this—!"
Chicken flies skyward. Tiger's eyes flash. Voice from the bag. Polite, sociable chicken baritone—tiger leaps.
Rawr—!
Keeping it seeing me as plaything.
Soon.
There, moonlight. At the path's end to the summit, great round full moon's glow.
Time for the showdown.