Chapter 39: Minsu's Lunch Menu Becomes Bait
My left hand throbbed.
The sensation of hiding it yesterday still lingered.
A fishy smell that wouldn't wash off clung to my fingertips even after rinsing with water, and the dried-up wound stung for no reason now and then.
I pushed open the door to Saebyeok 25 convenience store, and a chill hit my face.
Water droplets on the glass door glistened under the fluorescent lights, and the smell of fried food mixed with coffee weighed heavy on the back of my neck.
Unconsciously, I checked the entrance first.
Only then did I glance at the counter, the shelves, the fridge, and finally myself standing in the corner.
The fact that this sequence felt so familiar only made me feel worse.
I couldn't pinpoint when I'd become someone who scoped out the store's layout first.
Probably because I was such a coward.
Or maybe to hide that I was a coward.
I adjusted my cap and stood in front of the shelves.
I straightened the fronts of the triangle rice balls and righted the misaligned chocolate milk labels.
Not because anyone told me to—it just felt like my vision tilted if anything was off-kilter.
The habit was the same when organizing the drink boxes by the counter.
Before grabbing a cold can, I'd press my palm on the top of the box once, then slide it out.
Standing three steps from the door, lifting my head a beat late when a customer entered—it was all for the same reason.
Too quick was weird.
Too slow was weird too.
When there were no customers, only the purifier's trickle, the fridge motor's hum, and the fan's breeze remained.
In that quiet, I kept hiding the back of my hand.
I didn't see that post that day.
Instead, I just felt like customers kept staring at me longer than usual.
At first, I thought it was because I couldn't hide my wound.
Then maybe my face looked tired.
But one guy stood in front of the fridge without grabbing a drink, glanced my way, then muttered low to his friend.
"That guy's hand movements are super consistent when ringing up."
The moment I heard that, a chill ran down my neck.
It should've been meaningless, but my spine stiffened first.
I pretended not to hear and kept tidying the shelves.
Pulled the tuna triangle rice balls forward, lifted chocolate milk two slots up, aligned the cup ramen.
My hands were busy, but my mind was blank.
Or pretending to be.
Moving while not knowing who's watching drained me faster than I'd thought.
Invisible gazes were the stickiest.
I glanced up at the small surveillance camera on the counter, then quickly looked down.
The camera wasn't the issue.
People's heads were scarier now.
A moment later, the store manager peeked at his phone under the counter, then looked my way.
"Minsu, you're moving exactly the same today too."
"Pardon?"
"Nah, just... looks like someone posted an analysis on you."
I froze for a second.
The can in my hand felt ice-cold.
"What analysis?"
The manager shrugged and started to show me the screen.
I instinctively stepped back.
No reason.
Just felt like I shouldn't see it.
Pure instinct.
The manager chuckled and pocketed his phone.
"Didn't read it closely. Just seemed like it was about you."
That vagueness stuck even more.
"Seemed like me" was always ambiguous, and ambiguity lingered longest.
Who saw my hand?
When did I check the door first?
Why did I always take a breath before ringing up?
Stuff I never noticed.
But someone had noticed it all.
I tried to laugh it off, but my lips wouldn't curve.
Like someone had already mapped my every move.
Then a guy who looked like a student came in.
He wandered the shelves, sneaking glances at me.
I unconsciously reached for the drink shelf to fill an empty spot, but my mind was flooded with yesterday's lunch chaos from the chat window in front of me.
198,000
'I just bought a triangle rice ball because I was hungry.'
I argued it in my head, but it was useless.
The manager was sorting ledgers behind the counter, and the store air felt oppressively still.
Yesterday's board post fallout was already creeping into my daily life—an unpleasant vibe.
The chat humans were dissecting my every move like it was under a microscope.
The student customer eyed me cautiously from the shelves.
His face had been normal before, but now it was like he'd come to confirm if the guy from internet pics was really standing here.
That was the worst part.
Screen people chattering freely was still beyond the invisible line.
But when those interpretations crossed the store floor into real customer stares, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I stopped tidying the shelves.
My reflection in the glass door looked exhausted, and from the counter, the manager's plastic bag folding rustled too clearly.
Sounds that would've been nothing before were all too sharp.
The student hesitated forever, then slowly approached the counter.
His steps were weirdly cautious.
"Um... this is the place, right?"
"Pardon?"
"No, I mean... I just saw the post."
I set down the drink can and asked.
"What post?"
He trailed off, then shoved his phone screen too close to my face.
It showed a follow-up capture from yesterday's post.
The title alone made my stomach drop.
Not just my menu choice— even the angle I hesitated at the door was mapped out.
The photos were blurry but recognizable.
My stiff shoulders at the auto-door, hand reaching for drinks like fleeing, gaze dropping to the counter floor.
Habits I didn't even remember were evidence on the board.
"Crossing the line?" came too late.
The line was already crossed.
My lunch, my hand, my door-freeze habit—all fodder for interpretations.
I wanted to push the phone away, but my hand wouldn't move.
Pushing wouldn't erase the photo or stop the board.
The cramped store suddenly felt like a glass box.
Visible from outside, no escape inside.
Me, standing in it.
My fingers holding the can froze mid-air.
I barely forced sound from my throat.
"Can't even move freely anymore."
The student glanced at me, then backed off without checking out.
Two more customers after snuck peeks and whispered.
The manager saw and sighed.
"Minsu, one post yesterday and now customers are eyeing your every toe."
I stared at the shelf labels, feeling my fingertips stiffen.
At the top of the board, beside yesterday's lunch pic, a new store door photo was pinned.
How my shoulders tensed when the auto-door opened.
Which way my toes pointed first at the counter.
All detailed.
I stared blankly at the screen.
My thoughtless habits were already compiled into lifestyle commentary by someone.
And from that moment, Hunter Gallery wasn't just a screen board anymore.
It became a place where every breath I took got an instant reason written in.
That terrified me.