Jin trudged through the night, head bowed, clutching his cardboard box like it could shield him from the city's cruelty. The streets were never kind, but tonight they felt like predators circling. Every scuff of shoes behind him sounded like a chase. Every drunken laugh from across the block made his skin prickle.
The box was pathetic: half-used pens, a cracked mug with "World's Best Employee" in chipped, mocking letters, a faded photo of himself at a company picnic, back when he thought loyalty meant a damn thing. Junk, all of it. Still, he gripped it tight, as if letting go would mean losing the last shred of who he'd been.
By day, Seoul was harsh but predictable, cars honking, shops barking for customers, coworkers faking smiles. At night, it turned feral, the city's pulse slowing into something heavy, hungry. Jin adjusted the box, quickening his pace, sneakers scraping cracked pavement. He avoided the main roads, slipping into the narrow, shadowed alleys that snaked between buildings. Out there, debt collectors prowled like sharks. He'd seen what they did to people who owed less than him. The main road was a death sentence.
But the alleys were their own kind of trap.
He passed a dumpster, its rotting stench burning his throat. A broken neon sign flickered, casting pink and blue light into puddles that reeked of piss. Graffiti scarred every wall—jagged tags, cryptic warnings in symbols that screamed: you don't belong here.
Jin swallowed hard, forcing his legs to keep moving.
At the end of the street, a group loitered outside a convenience store, leaning against the glass, cigarettes glowing like tiny eyes in the dark. Young, maybe younger than him, but their gazes carried a predator's edge that twisted his gut. He knew better than to stare.
"Keep walking," he muttered under his breath, a desperate mantra. "Just passing through, nothing you want from me."
His chest tightened as he passed, their eyes sliding over him—his rumpled office clothes, the cardboard box, the nervous hitch in his step. He might as well have a neon sign flashing: broke, weak, easy prey.
A voice cut through the night, low and sharp. "Hey, suit. Where you headed with that box?"
Jin froze, heart slamming against his ribs. He didn't turn, didn't dare meet their eyes. The group shifted, boots scuffing pavement, closing in like wolves. One of them, taller, with a shaved head and a cigarette dangling from his lips, stepped forward. His jacket was too big, sleeves rolled up, revealing a tattoo of a coiled snake.
"Didn't hear me?" the guy said, voice lazy but laced with menace. "What's in the box, office boy?"
Jin's mouth went dry. He clutched the box tighter, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Nothing worth your time. Just… old office crap."
Another guy, shorter, with a scar slicing his eyebrow, laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. "Office crap? Looks like you're running from something. You owe someone, don't you?"
Jin's pulse roared in his ears. He took a step back, shoulder brushing the alley wall. "I don't owe you," he said, voice low, edged with defiance he didn't feel. "Just let me pass."
The tall one smirked, flicking his cigarette to the ground. It hissed in a puddle. "Oh, we'll let you pass. After we take a look."
They moved closer, the group fanning out, blocking the alley's mouth. Jin's eyes darted—left, right, nowhere to run. The box felt like a lead weight, useless, dragging him down. His mind screamed: drop it, run, hide. But his hands wouldn't let go.
Then, a shout from across the street—a slurred, drunken voice calling one of them by name. The group paused, heads turning. Jin didn't wait. He ducked into the nearest alley, heart pounding, legs moving before his brain caught up. He pressed himself against a damp brick wall, the cold seeping into his spine, and held his breath.
Boots splashed through puddles, voices muttering. "Where'd he go?" the scarred one snapped. "Little rat's quick."
"Fuck it, not worth it," the tall one growled. "Probably just pens and paper clips."
Their steps faded, swallowed by the city's hum. Jin stayed frozen, counting seconds, his chest burning from holding his breath. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Only when the alley fell silent did he exhale, a shaky, ragged sound.
"Great," he whispered, voice harsh, bitter. "Almost got jumped over a box of fucking pens."
He glanced at the box, lips twisting into a grim smile. Useless junk—nobody would hire him, fight for him, or give a damn about it. Yet here he was, risking his life for it, like it was proof he'd been someone before the world chewed him up.
"This is my new office commute?" he muttered, sarcasm dripping. "From a corner suite to dodging gangsters in a piss-soaked alley. Living the dream, Jin."
The words tasted like ash, but they kept him grounded. If he stopped talking, stopped mocking himself, he'd hear it again, the system's cold, silent command. Seventy-two hours to turn this nightmare into a "branch office." Fail, and it wasn't just bankruptcy. It was death.
He shook his head, shifting the box under one arm, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The air hung heavy, thick with grease from nearby food stalls and the sour stink of alley corners. Seoul felt like it was breathing down his neck, daring him to keep going.
And he did. Because what else was there?
Jin's sneakers slapped the uneven pavement, carrying him deeper into Seoul's underbelly. The alleys twisted into tight, crooked angles where streetlights didn't dare reach. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by faint neon flickers from distant signs, their colors bleeding into the grime.
He shifted the cardboard box in his arms, sweat gluing it to his skin. His shoulders burned, legs aching, but he kept moving. Every corner held a heavy silence—not empty, but coiled, waiting to strike.
When he turned onto the block the system had marked, his stomach dropped. The building loomed ahead, a hulking shadow with half its windows shattered, jagged glass glinting like teeth. Rust streaked its corrugated shutters, dark and crusted like dried blood. The stench hit before he got close: damp wood, mold, a sour bite of rain-soaked garbage. The concrete steps to the entrance were chipped, edges worn sharp by years of neglect.
Graffiti scarred every surface—crude curses, sprawling gang tags, layered in a chaotic war of spray paint. Jin recognized a few, dangerous ones, the kind you didn't cross out unless you wanted your face rearranged. This was his "branch office."
He barked a laugh, sharp and bitter, his lips twisting into a grin that felt like it belonged at a funeral. "Yeah, perfect corporate headquarters," he muttered, voice rough with disbelief. "Screams Fortune 500, doesn't it?"
A loose shutter creaked above, banging in the night breeze like a mocking laugh. The street was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. A couple of streetlights buzzed, moths swirling their dull glow. A stray cat bolted across the alley, hissing as it vanished into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered, the sound swallowed by the night. Otherwise, nothing.
The silence pressed down, thick, expectant, as if the building itself was watching him.
Jin stood at the threshold, heart hammering. Every instinct screamed to turn back. Places like this weren't just abandoned—they were claimed. Maybe not by people sleeping inside, but by gangs, dealers, or worse, in spirit. Step in, and you crossed a line you couldn't see.
But the memory of his lungs seizing, the invisible hand crushing his chest when he defied the system, burned too fresh. He could still taste death in his throat. His choices were stark: step inside, or die out here.
He took a shaky breath. "Fuck it," he whispered, and stepped forward.
The air inside hit like a punch—damp, heavy, reeking of mildew and something sharp, chemical, maybe paint thinner, maybe something worse. His sneakers crunched on broken glass littering the floor, the sound too loud in the suffocating dark. Dim light from outside barely reached past the entrance, leaving the interior swallowed in shadow.
Jin shifted the box, the edge of his cracked "World's Best Employee" mug digging into his ribs through the cardboard. His throat was dry, his voice itching to break the silence. "So this is it, huh?" he muttered, half to himself, half to the empty space. "My big promotion. Corner office, shitty view, complimentary rats."
Before he could say more, the air shimmered.
Cold text flared in front of him, glowing like a ghost in the dark.
[Location Reached: Candidate Branch Office.]
Jin froze, breath catching. His heart thudded so loud he swore the walls could hear it.
The words hung for a long second, then shifted, each new line slicing the air.
[Acquisition Confirmed.]
A pulse of pale light rippled through the building, quick, subtle, like an invisible brand searing the structure. Jin's skin prickled, goosebumps crawling up his arms. The box slipped in his grip, and he caught it just before it crashed to the floor.
The text shifted again, colder, sharper.
[Quest Fulfilled.]
[Reward Allocated: A-Rank Card.]
Jin stared, his mouth dry, the words burning into his eyes. "A card?" he whispered, voice cracking with a mix of fear and disbelief. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
He half-expected the system to answer, to explain, but the text just hung there, unyielding, like a contract he'd already signed. The building creaked around him, the shadows seeming to tighten, as if the place itself knew he'd just made it his own.
"Great," he muttered, his voice barely above a breath, dripping with sarcasm. "Welcome to the corporate life, Jin. Hope you like the smell of mold."
He stood there, box clutched tight, heart pounding, the cold glow of the system's words the only light in his new, broken world.