The rain poured relentlessly, drowning the bustling city of Seoul in a cold, gray haze. Kang Jin-Ho stood at the corner of a busy intersection, his threadbare jacket doing little to shield him from the downpour. He clutched a tattered delivery bag, its contents leaking slightly from the bottom—a metaphor for his life, one might say.
Jin-Ho stared at the pedestrian light, waiting for it to change, though he wasn't sure why he cared. The cars sped past, splashing water onto the curb, and he instinctively stepped back to avoid getting drenched further. Not that it mattered. His shoes were soaked, his socks squishing with every step, and his thin pants clung uncomfortably to his legs.
He glanced at the digital clock on a nearby billboard. 9:45 PM. Another fourteen hours of work ahead if he wanted to make rent this month. His stomach growled—a reminder that he hadn't eaten anything more substantial than instant noodles in two days.
"Maybe next month," he muttered bitterly to himself as the light turned green. He stepped onto the crosswalk, dodging a cyclist who cursed at him in passing.
Jin-Ho's day had started like any other, with a hurried breakfast of stale bread and instant coffee before rushing to the distribution center. The pay was miserable, the hours grueling, but it was work. Or at least, it had been.
"Jin-Ho, come to the office," his supervisor had barked earlier that afternoon.
He knew the tone—curt, dismissive, and final. As he walked into the cramped office, the look on his manager's face confirmed what Jin-Ho had feared.
"We're letting you go," the man said without preamble.
Jin-Ho blinked. "Letting me go? Why?"
The manager sighed, as though he were being inconvenienced. "Look, it's not personal. Business has been slow, and we need to cut costs. You're just… not efficient enough."
"Not efficient enough?" Jin-Ho's voice cracked. "I deliver more packages in a day than half the guys on the roster!"
"Yeah, but your customer ratings are low," the manager replied, leaning back in his chair. "People complain you look… unprofessional."
Jin-Ho clenched his fists. Unprofessional? Of course, he looked unprofessional—he couldn't afford decent clothes, let alone a proper raincoat for the downpours that plagued the city. But he kept his mouth shut, knowing any protest would fall on deaf ears.
The manager shuffled some papers. "You can pick up your final paycheck next week. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
Jin-Ho turned and walked out before the man could finish. His coworkers barely glanced at him as he gathered his things. They didn't care. No one cared.
Outside, the rain had started to fall. It hadn't stopped since.
Jin-Ho walked aimlessly through the streets, his delivery bag still slung over his shoulder, though it was now empty. His mind drifted, as it often did, to memories he wished he could forget.
He had been seventeen when the accident happened. His family—a loving mother, a hardworking father, and a bright younger sister—had been everything to him. They weren't wealthy, but they were happy. Until that night.
A drunk driver had run a red light, slamming into his father's car as they returned from a weekend trip. Jin-Ho had survived because he'd stayed home to study for an exam. The irony wasn't lost on him—his pursuit of a better future had cost him his family.
The driver, the son of a wealthy businessman, received a slap on the wrist: a fine and community service. Jin-Ho had watched in silence as the man walked free, his expensive lawyer smirking as if to say, this is how the world works.
Even now, years later, the bitterness lingered. Jin-Ho often replayed the courtroom scene in his mind, the way the judge had looked at him with pity, the way the man's family had looked at him with disdain, as though he were the one in the wrong.
"The rich always win," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rain. "They crush the poor, the weak, and the helpless, and they don't even blink."
He clenched his jaw, his hands trembling at his sides. What had his family's deaths taught him? That justice was a luxury, and survival was a game rigged from the start.
By the time Jin-Ho reached his tiny one-room apartment, the rain had soaked him to the bone. The fluorescent light flickered as he stepped inside, the smell of damp walls and mildew greeting him like an old friend.
He dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of his mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. His phone buzzed—another reminder from his landlord about overdue rent. Jin-Ho ignored it. What was the point?
He reached for the bottle of soju he'd bought with his last few won, the liquid burning his throat as he drank. For the first time in years, he let himself cry. Not the quiet, restrained tears he shed in private, but deep, gut-wrenching sobs that left him gasping for air.
He cried for his family, for the life he'd lost, for the dreams he'd abandoned. He cried for the boy he used to be—full of hope and ambition—and for the man he had become, hollow and broken.
When the bottle was empty, Jin-Ho stood. His legs felt heavy, his head spinning, but his resolve was clear. He couldn't keep living like this. He didn't want to.
He stepped onto the small balcony, the rain still falling as the city lights blurred in the distance. The edge of the railing felt cold beneath his hands as he looked down at the street below. It would be quick, he told himself. Quick and painless.
But as he leaned forward, a faint chime echoed in his ears.
A translucent screen appeared before him, glowing faintly against the night.
[You have been chosen by the Online System.]
[Click YES to become a Player or click NO to decline the offer.]
Jin-Ho blinked, his breath hitching. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating. But the screen remained, hovering in the air as if mocking him.
"What… what is this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the screen. It felt real—solid, almost warm to the touch.
"Chosen?" he muttered. "By who? For what?"
The screen offered no answers, only the same options: YES or NO.
Jin-Ho stared at the choices, his mind racing. It had to be a trick, some cruel joke. Maybe a scam or worse, a hallucination. But even if it was, what did he have to lose? He glanced back at the street below, then at the screen.
"What else do I have in this world?" he whispered.
With trembling hands, he pressed YES.
The screen flickered, and a new message appeared:
[Welcome, Player Kang Jin-Ho.
Note: Once chosen, you cannot escape the system.
Prepare for initialization.]
Before he could react, the world around him dissolved into light. The rain, the city, his apartment—everything vanished in an instant, leaving only darkness.
And for the first time in years, Jin-Ho felt something he hadn't dared to hope for: the faint stirrings of purpose.