Chapter 2

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Translator: Wjin

Chapter: 2

Chapter Title: Two Days Left

-----------------------------------------------------------------

No way, is this fucker messing with me using food?

"……."

Even without me saying a word, another chat popped up. He'd read my expression.

I glanced at the Team Leader's chat, then shifted my gaze.

Number 7. Her meal tray was in view.

Bean rice, pickled radish, shit soup.

She'd never once scored a meal ticket.

The shit soup might switch between kimchi base, radish soup, soybean paste, or gochujang, but it never had any chunks.

Coming here, I'd been shocked to learn a person could survive on such spartan fare.

'Before I get out......'

From the moment we opened our eyes in the morning until we drifted off at night, we faced each other, offering comfort—but we were rivals, ruthlessly selfish, and sometimes we'd prod others just to climb the ranks.

'At least once......'

I fired it off.

I still had one meal ticket, eight laundry slips, thirty-three hot water permits, and 104 daily necessities vouchers—not counting my 99 points.

Points only went to first and second place, but consumables like necessities, hot water, toilet paper, toothbrushes—the more, the better.

Thump, thump.

I had no idea why my heart was racing, but a sliver of hope lingered that he might say yes.

Flinch!

'This bastard? How the hell did he know?'

Was it that obvious?

I knew that. If they could, a few could team up, funnel everything to one, and someone could escape easy. That'd crack the psychopath's precious system wide open.

On my monitor, Number 7 nibbled a bit of pickled radish. No normal person could resist a plea like that.

Ha, you fucking prick!

'You even human?'

My hands shook. No choice—I grabbed a piece of sweet and sour something and shoved it in my mouth.

Not just her—most of them were watching me. Thirty-six people here, but I was the only one who'd used a meal ticket this week.

'Back in the day, I was so jealous of shit like this.'

The Team Leader was a devil for making us watch each other eat, swapping out the misery and resentment of captivity for base cravings.

What's the most essential thing for a human?

Sleep and food top tier one. Once you're fed, hygiene and solitude creep in.

Then he stirs up 'competition' to keep this office grinding—and as humans dumb down, they drool over my hamburger without a clue.

Couldn't toss it, hated handing it to the Team Leader, so I crammed it down fiercely, finished my daily quota, and collapsed into bed.

"Ah... fucking exhausting."

Peak condition? One chapter takes an hour and a half from draft to polish. Nothing else to do here, so I grind twelve to fourteen hours straight.

Minus meals, occasional showers, eight hours sleep—I still pumped out at least seven chapters.

Shitting out words might crank more, but modern readers crave short sentences, skimped explanations, breakneck pace. Evenings go to edits, and night falls.

Tick, tock.

Just the wall clock's second hand ticking. Thank god for that noise at least. Learned here humans need a baseline of sound.

Midnight, computers shut down. Means sleep—no distractions. Nothing to do till eight a.m. boot-up.

'Is it even night right now?'

No windows—who knows. But one thing's sure: sticking to the Team Leader's schedule was peak efficiency.

"Cough!"

Ah, puked blood again.

'Still... almost there.'

Ten years back, first time here, told to grind 100 points—total meltdown. But this hole wasn't much worse than my old one-room dump, and I was a total shut-in anyway. Adapted quick.

The change? Used to game, crack a beer now and then. Now? Write like a maniac.

'Mom doing okay?'

Son vanished ten years—must be hell for her.

'Won't starve once I'm out.'

We shared work files, so I'd seen every other author's stuff over the decade—writings, art, all of it.

Despaired over my own lack of talent, puzzled why I'd even been snatched here.

But that Team Leader bastard pulled it off.

'Topped every platform.'

Me, who'd never finished a damn thing proper, minted S-rank author in ten years flat.

And not just me—the other thirty-five leveled up right before my eyes.

Fresh meat Number 36 would flail her first months, sure, but she had enough spark to get dragged here.

'One point. Just one point......'

Drifted off.

Beep-beep, beep-beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep-beep.

Eight a.m. alarm. Normally I'd rise at seven, shower, change, claim the monitor first.

Consumables stocked, "clothes" just that prison jumpsuit stamped Number 1—but I liked showing a clean front.

'So tired......'

Worse than yesterday.

"Cough, cough—!"

Blood sprayed; didn't even hunt for tissue anymore—just wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

'Number 7......'

Sit in that chair, she'll see me raw. No mirror needed to know how wrecked I looked. Blessing in disguise, maybe?

'Gotta work......'

Ridiculous.

Ten years ago, barely any friends. Single mom, dirt-poor school days, straight to army post-high school.

Classmates, squadmates? Decent enough together, but uni or their paths pulled them away.

Guildmates from games were my only real crew...

Here? Thirty-five friends.

Ha, that prick... Number 13 made me want to hawk blood at the camera, but Number 7 soured my mouth instead.

"……."

Got up, hit the toilet. Showerhead right there. Stripped.

Splashhhh.

Habit—sprayed the bowl clean, then hot water over my head.

Hot water.

Winter? Godsend. Not cold now, but no tickets in winter? Days without washing.

Shampoo, rinse, treatment. Luxury few could dream of.

Felt a tad refreshed after.

"......Haa, two days. Just hold out two days."

Clean clothes on, back to the chair. Brutally monotonous days, but writing let me escape reality.

'Finale tomorrow.'

Four more today, wrap tomorrow—this one's done.

Normally? Jump straight to the next.

Blink, blink.

Team Leader chat pinged.

Yesterday's update reactions.

Racing the finale, pure climax spam—reactions exploded.

'Call it part 1 end?'

Too unsatisfying. Guy stuff drags 100+ volumes easy.

Team Leader hates it though—sales hot? Forty volumes. Norm? Wrap around twenty-five.

So 250 eps, ten volumes, finale looming—regrettable as hell.

'Out, sequel it.'

My masterpiece, life-changer.

Ep ten: top five. Ep hundred: number one, never slipped.

Team Leader limited one ep daily? Fifty points maybe. Stretched? Hundred-plus.

Nine years couldn't touch it—one swing, done.

That's a life work.

"Cough—!"

Blood taste again.

Truth? No clue my exact earnings. Team Leader shows 'ranks' only—fuck knows his cut, his pile.

'Enough to get by, right?'

Sequel thoughts flickered—big bucks—but nah. Out? Sever every thread with that bastard.

Want these ten years erased from my life.

Revenge?

Sure, kill him. But first? End this hamster wheel, find peace.

Selfish?

Sure. First in, last out—survivor.

Early three years: revenge fire. Next three: talent despair. After? Just pray for out.

Goal sharpens.

'Fuck the rest. Just let me go.'

Wanna live. Hospital. Real treatment.

Brunch already.

Fancy outside, here? Survival drill.

'Specially after bean rice, radish, shit soup yesterday, day before, last year—no hype left.

"……."

My tray? Different story.

Fiercer than ever. Even me, zero appetite—hand twitched anyway.

Then.

'Ah.... that'll do it......'

Chat went dead silent.

Monitors showed Number 36 thrashing and screaming like a lunatic, but we'd all been there—seniors squeezed eyes shut.

'Rebellion's pointless.'

No tissue? Wipe with hand. Freezing? Hate stripping, no hot water—bed sleep marathons? Impossible.

No lights, twenty-four-seven reeducation tunes. Absurd part? Week later, you crave 'chat' like air.

'Work vibe's shot.'

No outright violence—at least not in my tenure. But the Team Leader? Mastered endless, efficient, effective torments.

'Beans sans rice? Brutal.'

Worst: he snatches ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back the scraps. Radish and soup stay, but beans only, no rice? Tray hits—tears flow.

'Still... can tough it.'

Humans? Weirdly resilient—won't die.

Eh?

Whoa!

"Wha...? Wh-wha...?!"

Dizzy spell—body peeling off the chair.

'Serials ain't done yet......'

Ten years in, pro instincts firing even now.

"Urk......"

Falling barely registered. Worse pain—chest exploding, guts twisting vise-tight.

"Fuck....... Aaaaaaagh!"

No time for others. Can I even last till tomorrow?

```