Plummeting to the Miserable Bottom
11 a.m.
"Are you inside, Writer Han?"
She was always precisely on time. Her head held high with arrogance dripping from her high-pitched tone. Cha Su-ah.
Her bright red high heels clicked across the floor of the over-100-pyeong first-floor space. She wore a skimpy white silk dress that blatantly hugged her curves, a bag worth tens of millions clutched in one hand. The dark circles under her eyes were stubbornly concealed under thick makeup.
She looks just like a vain whore like that.
The expression she shot me as she entered screamed that this idiot nouveau riche with 3 billion in cash was totally under her skirt. Leaning against the second-floor stair railing, I watched her pathetic runway strut while fiddling with my smartphone in my pocket to activate the cameras embedded throughout the mansion. Now, there wasn't a single blind spot—every angle, zoom in, zoom out lens captured everything.
I didn't forget to hit the VVIP app's live stream button either.
As soon as the room opened, viewers flooded in like they'd been waiting. The chat exploded with anticipation for this series following yesterday's stream, filling the holographic display in mid-air.
I plastered on a vacant smile and descended the stairs.
"Ah! Director Cha. You made it! Thanks so much for coming. You really keep your appointments like clockwork."
My exaggerated fussing made Cha Su-ah snort derisively as she elegantly claimed the prime seat on the living room sofa. Crossing her legs, she pulled a crisp leather folder from her bag and tossed it onto the table.
"I've put everything into the space division and special soundproofing you requested—my brand name's on the line here. No chit-chat, just sign here first. Then wire the promised 3 billion to my personal account, and my team will start measurements this afternoon."
No chit-chat? Fucking bitch has a foul mouth as expected.
What's funny is how her words reeked of desperation to snag that 3 billion right now and plug her embezzlement hole. Urging me to pay up quick. The way her knuckles turned white gripping the pen for her signature spot told me exactly how bad she was burning inside.
But instead of picking up the pen, I waved it off with a good-natured grin.
"Come on, Director Cha. Business is great, but even the Diamond Mountains come after a meal, right? I've prepared something really special for you today. Let's eat first."
"Pardon? Eat? I don't really need to have a meal here with you, Writer Han..."
As Cha Su-ah wrinkled her brow in annoyance, the doorbell dinged from the entrance. I opened the door, and staff in crisp black uniforms from a five-star hotel catering service filed in. On the massive carts they wheeled were top-tier vintage champagne, caviar, lobster, A truffle-topped filet mignon steak, accompanied by a beautifully arranged fine-dining course.
The quiet first floor transformed instantly into a Gangnam luxury hotel VIP dining room. Cha Su-ah's eyes wavered. Caught off guard by the unexpected extravagance, a flicker of smug triumph lit her gaze. She suppressed a twitching smirk with a fake cough.
Enjoying it, you dumb bitch?
I directed the staff. "Once you're done setting up, head out. Clear the empty plates and table at exactly 6 p.m."
The staff bowed politely and left, leaving just Cha Su-ah and me. When I offered the food, she pretended reluctance but got ready to dig in. Every motion—spreading the white table napkin on her lap—dripped with pretentious vanity.
Golden champagne filled her glass, and she wet her lips. Downing booze at 11 a.m. like a pro. Not that I minded—I'd prepared it.
As she prepped to cut her steak, Su-ah unleashed some utterly ridiculous bullshit my way.
"I appreciate the gesture, Writer Han... but honestly, I don't touch anything without three Michelin stars. I'm picky about food temps and ingredient quality. Looks like you overnight millionaires love putting on shows like this, inviting folks home for appearances."
Holy fuck, what a load of horseshit.
The bitch who'd been bawling her eyes out in her car was now lecturing me on steak temps while playing upper crust.
"Well, since you've laid it out, I'll make an exception this once. And Writer Han, just to clear the air upfront."
Cha Su-ah wagged her fork in the air, looking down at me haughtily.
"Don't even dream of thinking money makes you anything to me, or trying some childish play at getting tangled up with me as a woman. I only do business with Hannam-dong penthouse types and the Cheongdam elite circle. People like you who luck into a big mansion and think you've climbed the social ladder? We're from completely different worlds. Got it?"
Holy shit. She actually said that shit to my face.
This chick feels like Lee Ji-hee if she rotted even more and leveled up. Seeing her makes Ji-hee seem like a fairy. She must think I'm hot for her and losing it. That's why she wore that clingy whore outfit?
With prison looming from embezzlement, she's chomping steak while yapping about elite circles. It's just fucking hilarious.
The VVIP chat, live-witnessing this pig dream, was already going nuts.
VVIP 'WorldClassCockMan' donated 300,000,000 KRW!
VVIP 'OilMoneyYoungestSon' donated 400,000,000 KRW!
VVIP 'MoneyCopyBug' donated 500,000,000 KRW!
VVIP 'ChainSicklePussy' donated 500,000,000 KRW!
Holy fuck. Jackpot. More donations than even the sex videos. Staring at the insane sums pouring into the translucent mid-air window, I bit the inside of my lip and groveled harder.
"If I've been rude, I'm truly sorry. Having someone as amazing and beautiful as you, Director Cha, come to my home made me overstep my station. Please relax and enjoy."
Only after I fully prostrated did Cha Su-ah snort through her nose and loosen her tensed shoulders.
As the meal dragged on and the champagne hit the second bottle, the booze loosened her tongue completely. Past 2 p.m., 3, 4—the long hours wore on. I deliberately pumped her pathetic superiority complex with tales from my broke, pathetic 20s.
"Back when I was a lowly film grunt, I was so poor I survived winters in unheated storage rooms on instant ramen. But while others job-hunted, I loved gripping a camera all night. No money, but there was romance in making art."
Cha Su-ah scoffed in disbelief at my words. She downed the last of her champagne and looked at me like some pitiful, uncivilized bug.
"That's exactly your problem, Writer Han—stuck in that mindset. Romance? Passion? Does that bullshit pay the bills? Reality's cold capital, who you eat with for connections, and the class you're born into. Bottom-feeders like you slurping ramen will never grasp the real game of hundred-billion capital."
She tapped the table with her manicured nails.
"Look at me. Why do you think I'm top designer—no, CEO—at Design Soo at my age, owning this scene? I didn't waste time on dreamer crap like you."
Waste of time... fuck, I wanna sew that mouth shut.
"I figured the top 1% predators' rules and built networks with them. People like me who've breathed real elite air? Mingling with your type is pure stress."
It was a tearjerker of self-delusion. Her brain had erased the 2.2 billion hole in her account, fully intoxicated by the fake self she was spewing.
If she knew I'd hacked her phone and seen how she's the laughingstock of Gangnam, would that mouth still run? Her flimsy vanity was her only defense mechanism gnawing at her—and now it was almost pitiful.
5:30 p.m. The catering crew was due at 6. After three-plus hours of self-aggrandizing, Cha Su-ah glanced at her watch and slipped back into her prickly, arrogant businesswoman shell.
She dabbed her mouth elegantly with the napkin and shoved the leather file toward me.
"Alright, scarfed the free meal, endured your dirt-poor sob stories—now back to business. Got fine dining with a gallery curator tonight; no time to waste."
Gallery curator and fine dining. What a pathological liar.
"Sign here and wire the 3 billion to my account now. I'll send my team tomorrow morning—no meddling with tacky demands on the interior."
The peak. Her arrogance and vanity exploding past the atmosphere.
I slammed my champagne glass on the table. Then shed the idiot, nice-guy artist mask I'd worn so carefully.
The dopey smile drained from my face like the tide, revealing the cold, emotionless underground director beneath.
"Director Cha."
My sunken voice made her furrow her brow sharply. A flash of bewilderment crossed her face as she caught my eyes shifting.
"Wanna see something really fucking funny together?"
"What do you mean? I have plans tonight—no time for stupid jokes..."
I pulled my smartphone from my pocket instead of answering and slid my tablet PC across the table.
A touch on the phone screen, and the mansion's embedded speakers hummed to life with a heavy thrum.
> "Hey, Director Cha. Or should I say Cha Su-ah?"
The old, greedy voice spilling from the speakers—Gangnam real estate kingpin, Chairman Choi. As it boomed through the vast first floor, Cha Su-ah's arrogant eyes shook like an earthquake.
> "People kiss ass calling you Director this and that, so you think you're some Design Soo CEO? A mere designer's been way too cocky."
"Wh-what is this... Writer Han, this is..."
Her face drained of color as she stared at the tablet screen, trembling. Centered was a bold "Corporate Account Transactions" title, with PDF evidence of 2.2 billion funneled through illegal crypto dummy accounts.
> "Kept you around 'cause you're competent. No reason to respect some beggar whining for loans now."
"Ah... aaah... no way..."
Denying reality, she bolted up and stumbled back—her heel slipped on the floor. She crashed pathetically to the ground.
But the surprise party for her was just hitting its climax.
The audio track switched, replaying yesterday's vile humiliation from the back-alley loan shark's office, filling the mansion again.
> "Bitch, sell your pussy and organs—you won't scrape 200 mil. Whatever debt dragged your ass here, no collateral? Get out, hag."
"Stop... stop it! Please turn it off!!"
Clutching her ears, Cha Su-ah screamed on the floor. The elegant top designer lecturing me on 1% ecosystems just a minute ago? Gone. Her intellectual glasses rolled away; thick makeup melted into tears and snot, hideous.
Unaware her pristine designer skirt hiked up to expose her panties, she heaved like a beast.
I gazed down at her shivering on the floor with a predator's numb eyes, picking up the crisp interior contract from the table.
Riiip—shrrrip—
The thick paper tore viciously, echoing chillingly amid her screams. I showered the shredded scraps over her cowering head like snowflakes.
Then from my inner pocket, I pulled the real contract—the VVIP Streaming Exclusive Performer Contract with blood-red text—and tossed it at her feet.
"Where does a wage-slave embezzler facing prison for 2.2 billion get off crawling into my house, playing elite upper crust and schooling me?"
"Hic... Wr-Writer Han... how did you... please, please spare me..."
"Dumb bitch. This goes straight to your company."
My icy verdict made her gasp, crawling to clutch my pant leg.
Her repulsive vanity shell ripped away, plummeting to the most pathetic depths in raw survival terror.
The mid-air chat window blazed white-hot with violent frenzy over the farce and astronomical donations.