His alarm blared-there was no other term-to disorient all of him into thinking it was a security breach. There was that cold piece of memory, unwelcome and bitter. The life that he had now fell around him like so much terrible snow. Today: 6 a.m. wake-up call for Kim Seongjun, data analyst.
He ached from that foreign mattress. The morning ritual was awfully clumsy and mortifying. The tiny space provided nothing more than a dribble of lukewarm water for a shower. This equipment should have brewed a simple cup of coffee from cheap, finicky brews, but instead it produced a crime against the fine, single-origin beans he usually took for granted. Dressing was arduous, too; whether it's off-the-rack pants or shirts, all of them were coarse and awkward against his skin.
He descended the rusty staircase at about seven in the morning. He was hefted along with a river of office workers flowing toward the subway. It was overwhelming, just too much of humanity all packed in. The air were thick, stifling, permeated with perfume, sweat, and breakfast kimbap. He was jostled, bumped, and ignored. He, Cha Seongjun, who had never waited for anything in his life, was crushed against the doors of the train car, inches from another man's shoulder.
It was a bland, beige office, not particularly alluring, though nestled on the fifth floor of a rather anodyne building. Here, the air thickly hummed with dusty computers and ambitions under the wattage of their output. The position he secured through Manager Hong was so low on the totem pole that it was nearly invisible. His supervisor, a harried man, probably around fifty, with a permanent stain on his tie, barely raised his head when Seongjun entered.
"Kim Seongjun? Your desk is there. You will process the first-quarter sales data by region into the proper template. If you have any questions, ask Park here in the next cube."
Seongjun got assigned a desk, and then for the next couple of months, he'd get couped up in there again, seemingly particle-board prison. Five minutes booting the desktop computer. The task-things-that were mind-numbingly simple, the kind of tasks that could have been done by algorithm. Seven to eight hours inputting numbers in spreadsheets, with exposure to the ping of some company-wide email celebrating its staff member's work anniversary, were how he spent his day. This was reality for millions going through such grinding, anonymous toil. He could never experience it from the perspective of anyone other than someone on the outside looking in at its massive scale.
He took the stairs to a nearby park, where he found a bench on which to munch away at another convenience store lunch. He watched the other office workers, laughing, whining about their bosses, sharing food. They were community, a tribe of which he was not a part. He was an observer, an imposter. He pulled out his encrypted phone-the only tie to his real life. Three missed calls from Hong Manager. Corporate fires would need to be put out. Part of him wanted to call back, to dive into a problem that counted, but not here. Powerlessness was, indeed, an ache in the physical sense.
This evening, trudged his steps back to his rooftop room, like his spirit was as weary as his muscles after a day on the job. Such an aroma wafted up from below - spicy, savory, home-cooked - that imparted the knowledge of how profoundly inadequate his dinner, still a plastic-wrapped triangle of processed food, was.
When Seongjun was fumbling with his keys, the door to the staircase swung open, and out came Park Mina, with a small plastic container.
"Oh! Kim Seongjun-ssi! Perfect timing!" she said, her smile brightening the dim landing. "I made too much kimchi jjigae. I thought you would like some-a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift." She presented the container. Steam misted the lid, taking with it the scent of something truly wonderful straight into Seongjun's nose.
He looked at it fixedly, that suspicious instinct-honed throughout the years-rejecting the first offer. Gifts were usually patronage to something. But that scent proved to be too much an obstacle, and that simple gesture of kindness had finally broken him. For the first time ever, in excess of any other consideration, he was hungry.
"I…thank you," he said, receiving the offering. Their fingers brushed against each other; an electric impact arose, a startlingly human connection.
"It's no trouble," she said. "Rough first day?"
He felt as defeated as he must have looked. "It was…educational."
She bumped against the door frame with sympathetic concern on her face. "The first week is always the hardest. Especially if you're new in the city. Everyone seems like a cog in the machine at first. But pretty soon you will find your rhythm." There was a pause while she eyed him. "Y'know, a few folks around the building get together on some Friday nights, for drinks-and-food. Nothing fancy. Just on the rooftop. You should come along this week; otherwise, it might feel a bit…adrift."
An invitation. Socializing. He didn't want to do that, and yet a part of him craved it. This was what the experiment was for, wasn't it? Integration.
"Ah, I… will think about it," he said-applying such words without giving it a thought.
Mina's smile held firm. "Good. Well, enjoy the stew. Don't let it get cold!" She waved and slipped back into her apartment.
Seongjun remained on the landing, cradling the warm container. He went in, set it on his fold-out table, and opened it. The stew had the most vibrant red hue, packed with tofu, vegetables, and mouthfuls of pork. Tentatively, he tasted it with the cheap plastic spoon she had provided for him, and the explosion of flavors-simple; spicy; warm; rich; and so comforting-was indeed the best thing ever. It tasted like care. Like home. A dreadfully foreign concept that smacked him with the force of a fist in the guts.
He drank so completely of the stew that the modest meal must have nourished him far more than any three-Michelin-star banquet he had attended. As he scrubbed the container, his encrypted phone began buzzing again. Manager Hong, more pressing this time. *URGENT. Call regarding Daehan Group.*
Reality was beginning to seep in. Jang Dohoon was making his move. Seongjun's jaw locked in place. He surveyed the pitiful little room and set eyes on the empty container of stew. Two worlds were connecting, and this was the space in between. He needed to make that call. He needed to become Cha Seongjun-for just a minute, he thought.
He went up the last steps to reach the rooftop, where the windy night chilled the laundry into light fluttering. Such sites permitted him an appalling presence of mind; there stood the glittering spire of the Sungjin Group headquarters, a needle of light stuck in myriads of uncountable-gulp-dusty thoughts. He dials Hong Manager.
"Report," he says, pushing back his tone into a familiar authoritative artifice.
"Sir, Jang Dohoon is pushing hard on the Jeju resort project. He's lobbying the committee, using his political connections. He's publicly questioning Sungjin's environmental impact assessment."
As Manager Hong listed the commercial threats, Seongjun's brains changed gears with incredible accuracy. Orders left his mouth, and thoughts were crisp and clear. "Get me the full committee list. I want a breakdown of their affiliations and donors. Draft a press release countering his claims, focus on our community initiatives. And set up a meeting with the head of the environmental board for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, sir? But your… situation…"
"Find a way. A private dining room. Late. Use my name." The command flew from his mouth without a glimmer of doubt. This was his tongue. This was power.
He dropped the call, still standing in darkness, with the wind assaulting him through his cheap jacket. What a jerk when being such and thus split; one minute he was a mere data analyst with no power to speak of, and the next, he was orchestrating a corporate war from a rooftop. He felt his adrenaline kicking in with familiar exhilaration. He was meant to be here.
Looking down, he saw the light from Park Mina's window. He could picture her inside, probably working on her designs or talking to her brother. A world of simple truths and uncomplicated kindness. The stew she had given him still warmed his stomach.
He had accepted her gift. He had accepted, in a way, her invitation. A foundation was being laid here, a foundation of lies. Friction between his two lives was already causing sparks. And he knew with a cold, hard certainty that it was only a matter of time before it flared into a full-fledged fire that would devour everything in its path, starting with the kind-hearted woman who offered a simple bowl of stew to a lonely stranger.