Something Scarier Than a Ghost

"Mm..."

The middle of the night, and my eyes flew open. A vicious hunger had me in its grip—the kind no amount of snacking could quiet.

Go looking for a real meal now, though, and Bora out there would certainly tell me I couldn't. I could already see the whole speech about how late-night eating was bad for you, and then she'd march me straight back to bed.

Still in my dinosaur pajamas, I climbed down off the bed. I had prepared for exactly this. I wriggled in among the stuffed animals. Moonlight lay bright across the room; draw the curtains and I could see everything inside without the slightest trouble.

My eyesight felt strangely sharper, too. Once I was buried among the plush, my treasure hoard came into view—a stash piled high with things to eat. I shoved a hand in and started hunting for the big jumbo cup of ramen.

When I'd bought the snacks, I'd had a feeling something like this might happen, so I'd picked up a few cups just in case. As expected, I was a genius.

"Hup!"

Cup secured, the real adventure had to begin. Eat it in here and the smell would give me away for certain. There was no hot water, either. After I'd nearly caused a disaster drawing hot water from the purifier last time, they'd shut off the hot-water option on this floor's machine.

To turn it back on I had to ask Bora or Haru, and only then could I get hot water. It was an outrageous inconvenience. Needing permission just to draw hot water—adults like me didn't make mistakes like that.

The mistake I'd made before, of course, had been pure bad luck. The kind of slip no amount of care could have dodged.

With that thought settled, I slipped on my slippers and crept outside. I killed my presence as best I could and breathed as quietly as I could manage. Moving like this, I felt exactly like a spy out of some movie.

The office door stood wide open, bright light spilling out into the hall. I padded down the corridor and peered inside. Wherever she'd gone, Bora was nowhere to be seen. I scurried past the office and boarded the elevator. My destination was the cafeteria on the first floor.

Because of the night-duty staff, this building kept the cafeteria open late. You could only use the vending machines and the tables—everything else was locked up when they left—but hot water was available, which meant I could eat cup ramen the proper way.

The moment I reached the first floor, I set my short legs in motion toward the cafeteria. Security guards watching the building were visible in the lobby. Thanks to my small stature, I could cross the inner lobby without being easily spotted, and the guards mostly watched the outside rather than the interior anyway.

I made it to the cafeteria in triumph and let out a smug little laugh as I tore open the cup. Just thinking about it made my mouth water. It was like ramen eaten on night watch: the air a little cool, the hour the dead of night. Exactly the same.

I tipped the soup powder into the cup and drew hot water from the purifier. I'd already brought a pair of wooden chopsticks, so that was one less thing to worry about.

Then a thought struck me. I was alone in this pitch-dark space. Not a sound anywhere. Fear crept up from somewhere deep inside, and scenes from horror movies began to bubble through my head, one after another.

This couldn't be happening...

Even so, I couldn't abandon the ramen. I resolved to eat as fast as I could and get out. When enough time seemed to have passed, I started inhaling it. Maybe because I was so hungry, every mouthful clung to my tongue on the way down. There was no better seasoning than hunger.

Clack!

But the moment I'd finished even the broth, I heard someone coming into the cafeteria. I ducked under the table at once. Could it actually be a ghost? I squeezed both eyes shut and prayed that the honored ghost would please, please leave quickly.

Fortunately, whatever the unknown presence had come for, I heard it go out again. After ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠holding my breath for several minutes, I bolted from the cafeteria.

Huff—huff!

I'd been so tense that I was drenched in sweat even though the night was still cold. Who on earth had come into the cafeteria? I was half convinced it really had been a ghost. I flung myself into the elevator just as I was.

Ding!

The chime announced that the elevator had reached the floor where I lived. Only then could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I let out a sigh of relief.

But when the doors opened, there stood Bora with her arms folded. One look at her face and it was obvious she was furious.

"Eep..."

"Hana. Where have you been? What do you think you're doing, wandering off without a word?"

"Waaah!"

Caught by the hand, I was hauled into the office. Bora was far, far scarier than any ghost.

As a gourmet product, the Starlight Cherry Tomato was worth nothing at all.

It tasted like a cherry tomato—better than most, even—and that was the whole of it.

Koreans were a people who didn't feel they'd truly eaten unless there was a steaming bowl of plain rice, a stew, and a side of meat. Their very greeting was Have you eaten?, so taking pleasure in food itself was, in a way, only natural.

Prices had since climbed and swept the habit away, but there was a reason the old line still circulated online: better one hot bowl of gukbap, crowded with green chili, onion, and every vegetable under the sun, than a hamburger or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠some other instant meal.

Kim Sehee's own thinking had gone no further than that. The tomatoes were something to fall back on in the military, where a proper meal was hard to come by, or a stand-in for cereal on a rushed morning. Nothing more.

Some people simply hated tomatoes to begin with, and because Korea lacked the vast acreage America used for mass production, the price couldn't be set low.

At five thousand won—about four dollars—anyone who wasn't truly pressed for time could buy a proper convenience-store lunch box instead. And if a lunch box didn't appeal, a cup of ramen, a triangle kimbap, and a battered sausage on a stick to finish came to roughly the same.

For sheer fullness, all of that was far more satisfying than a cherry tomato. Which was why Kim Sehee hadn't allocated all that much growing space to them.

Time, however, proved her wrong. The longer they stayed on the market, the more sales climbed. They never went the other way.

She had expected them to hit a ceiling sooner or later, sales bumping up against some invisible speed bump and stalling. Instead, the current rate of growth was soaring as if to mock that prediction outright.

In daily life, Starlight Cherry Tomatoes had already spread everywhere. Hospitals greeted them with something close to a standing ovation from the doctors.

Hospitals ran on ground-down human labor. When a call came, a doctor had to abandon a half-eaten meal and run, and for people in that position the cherry tomato was an irreplaceable stand-in for an entire meal.

They were also the ideal diet for patients too weak to eat. Feeding a proper meal to someone who couldn't even lift a spoon took tremendous effort.

And being fed didn't mean they had a digestive system that worked like a healthy person's. Half a bowl of rice, and they still couldn't digest it properly. For people like that, the cherry tomato became the best meal available.

There was an inconvenience: eat nothing else and the nutrition grew unbalanced, so it had to be combined with other foods. But the advantages were so overwhelming that the drawbacks barely registered.

For anyone working emergency response, the cherry tomato was now the finest ration there was. Firefighters, medical staff, police—nearly every field wanted Starlight Cherry Tomatoes.

And the ones who wanted them most were the hunters. Whether they were stepping into a low-rank gate or a high-rank one, hunters shared a single problem: food. A single trip in and out took a week at minimum.

Without mana, you couldn't enter a gate at all. That was why guilds hired porters who carried mana but lacked the strength to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fight—they hauled the combat hunters' food and weapons.

Starlight Cherry Tomatoes didn't make the porters unnecessary. If anything, swapping meals for tomatoes freed the empty space for the potions and supplies a hunt required, and hunting efficiency went up.

Cheered by the good news pouring in from every side, Kim Sehee made her decision. She would go all in on cherry tomato production.

She placed the call, and she spoke.

Her eyes lit. When the tide came in, you rowed with everything you had.

Kim Sehee set the phone down, rose from her seat, and stretched. She could already see it, vivid as life: herself raking in money on Starlight Cherry Tomatoes.