A man clad in black tactical gear stood against the cold, damp wall, his breath steady behind the visor of his helmet. His outfit—helmet, shirt, mask, and bulletproof vest—was standard for special forces, as was the sleek rifle in his hands. He pressed his back firmly to the wall, the faint sound of footsteps setting his nerves on edge.
"I heard footsteps. Need backup—they're at my position," P1 whispered into the radio, his voice tense but controlled.
Moments later, two teammates appeared, rushing to his position. They wore the same tactical uniform, their presence a quiet reassurance.
"We need to hurry and defuse this," one of them said, his voice sharp with urgency. "you need to move in P1"
"OK" Replied P1.
The man nodded and turned his focus forward. Slowly, he peeled away from the wall, inching toward an archway to his right, just a few steps ahead. His movements were precise, calculated—no sound, no unnecessary motion.
Through the archway, he entered an open area. His eyes scanned the scene. In the far-right corner, the bomb sat ominously, wires and circuits glinting faintly under the dim light. But the area was eerily quiet.
"I have visual on the bomb," he reported over the comms. "No one else in sight. I'm going in."
"I'm almost there," came the response from another teammate, his voice slightly breathless as he approached a large, slightly ajar wooden gate on the opposite side.
The man moved cautiously toward the bomb, his weapon raised, his gaze flicking to every corner of the room. Suddenly, something shifted—a subtle movement behind a crate near the bomb.
There!
Without hesitation, he fired. Bullets riddled the crate, splinters flying everywhere as the figure behind it fell with a heavy thud.
Gunfire erupted nearby. His teammates were engaged in a firefight. The man pressed forward, kneeling beside the bomb. He pulled out his defusal kit, his hands moving swiftly.
"T-minus six seconds," he murmured over the radio. "Diffusing. Keep them off m—"
Ka-chak.
A sharp pain exploded in his back. His body went rigid as the knife drove deep between the plates of his armor. The defusal kit slipped from his grasp.
As he crumpled to the ground, his vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was a shadowy figure standing over him, the glint of a bloodied blade in hand.
The beeping of the bomb quickened.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
BOOM!
The blast tore through the room, a deafening roar of fire and debris consuming everything in its path. The shockwave rippled outward, obliterating walls and throwing bodies into the air.
As the smoke cleared, the screen went black.
A bold, red title flickered into view, accompanied by a low, menacing hum:
"BOMBERS WIN."
A fat guy sat slumped in a dark room, wearing a crumpled green t-shirt and loose shorts. He adjusted his glasses as they slid down his sweaty nose, his eyes glued to the computer screen. The room was a mess—trash littered the floor, crumpled chip bags, and empty soda cans formed small mounds in every corner. The faint glow of the monitor lit the cluttered room, highlighting a simple bed, a dusty bookshelf, and a computer table barely holding up under the weight of chaos.
Outside the lone window, it was pitch dark. The city slept while Gaon Im, a 28-year-old unemployed man, screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Fuuuuck! We lost! And that bitch knifed me! Of course, it had to happen in my rank-up match!" he roared, smacking his head with both hands.
Frustration boiled over, and his fists slammed into the table. The force sent a can of soda tumbling, spilling its contents over his keyboard.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Gaon cursed, scrambling for something to mop up the sticky liquid. His hand found an old t-shirt from the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. He yanked it up and started dabbing the keyboard furiously, muttering curses under his breath.
A soft knock at the door.
"What happened, Gaon? I heard you shouting. Do you need any help?" came a concerned female voice from the other side.
Gaon's frustration flared. "Ahhhh, just go away! Don't bother me! I'll put the dishes and clothes outside later!"
There was a pause. Then, a quieter response: "Okay."
Just as he thought she'd left, her voice returned, softer, almost hesitant. "Your father was asking about you… He misses you."
"GO AWAY!" Gaon bellowed, slamming his fists on the table again.
The silence that followed felt heavier this time, broken only by the faint sound of retreating footsteps.
After a few minutes, Gaon got up, tossing the now-soggy t-shirt aside. He opened his bedroom door to find a neatly wrapped packet of hongeo sitting on the floor. The smell of fermented skate fish hit him, even through the plastic.
"Today is just not my day, huh?" he muttered, kicking the package lightly before dragging himself back into his room.
Gaon took a deep breath, surveying the mess he lived in. The stench of old food and dirty laundry was unbearable, even to him. He began piling up the clothes into a heap, grabbing the same t-shirt he had used to clean his keyboard. Then, he collected the dirty dishes stacked on his desk—plates with remnants of half-eaten, now-rotten food—and added them to the pile.
He opened the door and dumped everything outside: the dirty dishes, the pile of clothes, and the untouched hongeo his mother had left for him.
"All done," he mumbled to himself with a hollow sense of accomplishment.
Gaon closed the door behind him and returned to his computer. The glowing screen still displayed the dreaded words: "Bombers Win."
"Time for a rematch," he muttered, fingers already moving to queue up the next game.
After a string of losses in his next few matches, Gaon leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. The frustration had dulled, leaving a strange emptiness in its place.
"Really... today's just not my day," he muttered, sighing deeply.
The silence of the night was interrupted by the low growl of his stomach. Hunger gnawed at him, and he glanced at the clock on his computer screen—2:30 AM.
Reluctantly, Gaon stood up and shuffled out of his room, passing the pile of garbage and dishes left by his door without so much as a glance. He descended the stairs and made his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen was dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the window. Gaon grabbed a box of instant noodles from the pantry, filled it with warm water, and set it on the table to cook. As he waited, he opened the fridge, rummaging through its contents.
A small container of rice caught his eye.
"Fried rice…" he murmured to himself. "It's been a long time since I cooked anything for myself."
Just as he was lost in thought, a sudden noise broke the stillness.
Thunk.
The sound of something hitting the floor jolted him, and he spun around, his heart pounding.
Behind him stood a man—seemingly fit for his age—with a worried smile on his face. He was holding a glass, the source of the noise evident: the glass lid had fallen to the floor.
"Sorry, didn't mean to spook you," the man said, crouching down to pick up the lid.
Gaon's chest tightened as he recognized the man. Tae Im, Age 59—his father.
"I just needed some water," Tae added casually, walking toward the sink.
Gaon stood frozen, his expression blank, his hands still gripping the edge of the fridge door.
"Close the fridge when you're done, Gaon," his father said, his back turned as he filled his glass at the tap.
Without a word, Gaon closed the fridge. He turned back to the table, reaching for the noodle cup he had set aside.
"Are you going to cook something?" Tae asked, his voice gentle but tinged with longing. "I miss your cooking… even though you only did it sometimes."
Gaon hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on the noodle cup. "Not today," he said flatly, grabbing the cup and turning to leave.
"Gaon," his father called, stopping him in his tracks.
Gaon didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," Tae said, his voice heavy with emotion. "I don't know what I did to push you away, but I'm sorry. I'm willing to do anything to make things right between us. I love you, Gaon."
The words hung in the air, filling the silence with an unbearable weight. Gaon stood motionless for a moment, then walked out of the kitchen without a response.
Back in his room, he placed the noodle cup on his cluttered desk and sat on his bed. He leaned back against the wall, knees pulled up, and lightly banged his head against the wall in frustration.
"Ehhh…" he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Now I have to distract myself to stop thinking about it."
Grabbing his phone, he opened a social media app and began scrolling aimlessly.
Photos of his friends and acquaintances flashed past his eyes.
"Oh, he got the job? Good for him."
"He went to Cuba this time."
"Sheesh, this guy's loaded."
A photo of a familiar face made him stop. "Yo, it's Shin. How long has it been since I talked to him?"
And then… he froze.
"IT'S HER."
His breath caught in his throat, and tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over as he stared at the screen.
"She's the reason I'm like this now," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow.
Memories came flooding back, unbidden. The walls he had built around himself started to crack as he sank deeper into the past.