Chapter 42: The Chat Window's New Feature

Even after the door closed, my hand didn't move for a long while.

It was because of that poll window that had popped up out of nowhere yesterday. They called it a new feature, but once it appeared, it felt more like a verdict than anything else.

Once people started voting on my identity, things would roll forward whether I wanted them to or not.

I was sorting plastic bags behind the convenience store counter when my fingertips froze.

A bit of sweat beaded on my palm.

Strangely, my mind sharpened in moments like this. My heart was already racing even though I hadn't done anything, and a metallic taste lingered on my tongue even though nothing had happened.

I hated the feeling, so I gulped down some water from my cup, but my throat only felt drier.

I glanced at the screen and bit my lip.

"I'm really F-class..."

It was a barely audible mutter, but the chat didn't miss it.

I let out a long breath.

'No, I'm really F-class.'

I repeated it in my head, but nothing changed. They weren't listening to believe me—they were mining my words for meaning.

No matter how loudly I shouted that I was ordinary, that ordinariness itself became a secret in their world.

Then, the poll closure notice appeared on the screen.

I gripped my water cup tighter without thinking.

Those few seconds stretched endlessly for me. The chill seeped into my palm, and the fluorescent light under the counter stabbed my eyes more sharply than usual.

The store was quiet, yet a low hum buzzed in my ears.

Once the tally finished, the chat window shook violently.

That brief tremor felt unnaturally real.

The water in my glass rippled faintly, and the plastic bags beside the counter rustled without a breeze.

I couldn't tell if it was my imagination.

But the store manager had lifted his head for a moment, so it was too late to dismiss as nothing.

For a moment, I thought my breath had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stopped.

0.3 percent.

The chance I was F-class was only that much? No, worse—it was that little?

I stared blankly at the screen and muttered without thinking.

"I'm really F-class..."

This time, it came out much clearer.

The problem was, it sounded less like an excuse and more like a declaration.

I closed my eyes once and opened them.

No matter what I said, it wouldn't change. Those numbers weren't about me—they were about how I appeared.

Some believed they saw hidden power, others calculated calm, others untapped potential. And the real nothing—me—was buried under all their interpretations.

That 0.3 kept sticking in my eyes. Too small to laugh at, too small to grieve over.

I thought of the F-class stamp on my hunter registration card. At least that worn plastic still believed in me.

But those floating numbers were shoving me aside with the voices of far more people.

'Why do they keep finding that in me?'

My chest tightened, so I rubbed my lips.

The really weird part came next. Even with option 4 at 0.3%, that tiny number somehow made me look more F-class.

If it were true, there'd be no reason for all this denial—but the denial was so fierce it looped back to seeming real.

My explanations always lagged; the chat's conclusions always raced ahead.

I looked at my reflection in the glass door beside the counter.

I looked tired.

And wronged.

But to others, that expression read as composure, not grievance. The more I said I was nothing, the more I seemed to be hiding something.

Being really F-class made it sound even more like that.

Just then, the store manager passed behind the counter, rustling wrappers, and glanced at my face.

"Talking to yourself again?"

"Yes."

"What'd you say?"

"I'm option 4, but they say almost not."

The manager paused, then gave a very ambiguous smile.

"Then you should care even more, right?"

"About what?"

"The way people believe in you is kinda weird."

I couldn't respond.

He didn't say more and headed to the storeroom. That one line lingered strangely long. A weird way of believing meant nothing I did would be interpreted right.

I read that and bowed my head slightly.

If even my expression was up for analysis, I was just a walking post.

I wished they'd believe me just once—but the moment they did, it'd get weirder.

So today, like always, I held my cup, stood behind the counter, and muttered that I was really F-class.

Yet the results kept twisting the other way. A passerby outside glanced into the store.

It should have been a casual look. But I felt like they'd come in knowing the poll results.

The store inside and out divided by thin glass—and today, that glass felt too fragile.

The numbers didn't look like mere numbers anymore. Beside 67.2 sat people's pre-made conclusions; 0.3 was too tiny to even count as human.

In the end, I said it again in a small voice.

"I'm just F-class..."

Saying it made it even more ridiculous.

If they wouldn't believe me after all this, they had no intention of believing at all.

The manager glanced back at me before opening the storeroom door.

"Minsu, manage your expression a bit."

"I am managing it right now."

"That's what makes it weirder."

I had no comeback.

It was true. My face no longer suited the words "managing expression."

Tired, wronged, a little scared. Yet somehow, the chat turned that into mystery.

I still didn't get how a normal person's bewilderment read so easily as intimidation.

I swallowed a small sigh.

In the end, they were watching my reactions more than my identity. Even with 4 at rock bottom, it wasn't over.

What remained were the chat faces more convinced by seeing the numbers. No matter how you sliced it, I wasn't the type to sum up with one digit.

I quietly folded a triangle kimbap wrapper.

And muttered very softly once more.

"I'm really F-class..."

This time, no one rebutted right away.

Instead, the chat paused briefly—then scrolled even faster.

Applying.

I hated that word most.

It made the results feel like numbers destined to take effect somewhere.

I set down my glass.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The soft clink was too quiet.

Yet even that tiny sound sped up the chat scroll again.

I quietly hid my cold hands deeper behind my back.