"Teacher, sir, you can beat the hell out of our kid if you have to, just make him a human being."
Catching a glimpse of the sign at the gates of the Busan Detention Center, I noticed this unexpected inscription and, for the first time in a long while, truly laughed. Rereading the playful scrawl, written as neatly as a letter to a teacher from a diligent parent, I finished my latte and turned away.
The Busan Detention Center looked nothing like I had imagined. My life hadn't been easy, but I’d never done time, so everything I knew about such places came from the movies. I expected white walls reaching for the heavens and massive green gates separating the inmates from the world, but the reality felt more like an ordinary school or a military base.
At first glance, there isn't much difference between a prison, the army, and a school—everywhere you find a bunch of men gathered in one place against their will. However, the "filling" was different. Soldiers and students aren't criminals. That was an axiom, though the government, judging by the slogan above the gates, thought otherwise.
"Correctional Institution of Hope, opening the path to a bright future."
From the look of the place, there was no sense of resolve in fighting evil, no will for justice, nor any realization of the weight of guilt within these walls. I was just wondering if it was right to light the path to the future for criminals at the taxpayers' expense, and whether the victims' futures would be just as bright, when a group of men emerged from the gates.
"Hey!" I shouted and waved my hand.
The people dispersing into freedom like discharged soldiers turned around with faint hope, but only Junsok recognized me.
"Whoa... what is this?"
"What do you mean 'what'? It's me."
He was clearly surprised to see me at the exit of the detention center, but he immediately smirked, as if he had expected something like this. It was the smile of a partner from a heist movie—the one who got caught while you were both tossing a rich bastard's house and has now met his accomplice again.
I smiled back and suddenly realized: we hadn't seen each other for three years since graduation, but there was no awkwardness. While I was fumbling through my failed life, lacking the strength even to ask how he was, a conviction lived deep in my soul—if I met Junsok, we’d laugh just like before. They say faith is merely the prologue to a tragedy, created to be betrayed, but today was clearly a different case.
Through all my deaths and regressions, I had never once tried to find Junsok. Why? Perhaps because of a bitter premonition that he, like me, was slowly withering away, slaving for pennies. Judging by the way joy mixed with relief in his eyes, he hadn't called me for the same reason.
"How did you know? That lawyer... did you send him?"
"Yeah. Let’s go, we’ll talk over food."
"Fine by me. I’m already sick of that prison slop, feels like I got drafted into the army again."
BEEP-BEEP. When I pressed the key fob and the Sorento flashed its lights, Junsok gave a playful whistle.
"Ooh, you even have a ride? What, did you win the lottery in Seoul?"
"It's used. Remember Bae Sunghyun?"
"Who?"
I explained, and Junsok finally nodded.
"Ah, the Baker?"
It was Junsok who had first slapped the historical title "Master of Women's Hearts" on the handsome Sunghyun. Since they weren't close enough to call him that to his face, his stream of consciousness passed through "Master of Tables," "King of Ping-Pong," and finally settled on the hero of an old drama, King of Baking, Kim Takgu. Thus, Sunghyun became just the Baker.
"He sells used cars now. Bought it from him. Found out about you at the same time."
"The Baker knows I was in the joint?"
"Yeah. Said you beat up some old man. He was sitting there feeling sorry for you."
"Hmph... what a guy."
Once we pulled out of the parking lot, Junsok finally relaxed. He exhaled deeply and practically melted into the passenger seat.
"Phew... So, what are we eating?"
"Spicy tofu stew? Or soft tofu soup?"
When I suggested the classic menu for the recently released, Junsok shook his head with his eyes closed.
"Save the tofu for later. The trial hasn't even started. Let’s get meat."
"Agreed."
I had scouted a restaurant in advance, so I turned the car at the intersection immediately.
"So how was it, behind bars? Was life 'wise'?"
"Well, not exactly wise, but tolerable. At first I thought—that’s it, I’m screwed. Но in reality, it turned out better than the army. They feed you okay, they don't force you to work. It’s strange: in the army, I thought I was in prison, but in prison, I wondered if I was in the army..."
Junsok talked incessantly. His tone remained humorous, as before, but deep exhaustion and grim cynicism leaked through his voice and gaze. It seemed it would take time for him to wash off the prison aftertaste.
When we stopped at an elite Korean beef restaurant, Junsok gave a joyless smirk.
"Elite beef? I just got out, and you want me locked up again for an unpaid bill?"
"My treat. I’ve got money for meat. Or do you want to go where they serve all-you-can-eat grilled pork?"
"Wait, seriously? Okay! If I’m going down, I’m going down with a bang, might as well try the beef."
Clearly, he was dead broke; hearing that I was paying, he brightened up, unbuckled his belt, and shot out of the car like a bullet.
I had only been to this restaurant once during my college years with a professor. Nothing had changed since then except the price tags. Before, a portion cost as much as one delivery chicken; now—more than two. The prices were enough to make random passersby turn away in horror, but for me, with over a billion won in cash, the numbers didn't matter. Next month, another jackpot awaited me, and in 45 days, all this money wouldn't be enough to buy even a can of food. There was no point in saving.
We sat by the window; I ordered 10 portions of the most expensive marbled beef and a large serving of seasoned raw beef. They brought the side dishes, and a brazier was placed in the center of the table with coals so powerful it felt like they were meant to melt steel.
SIZZLE.
"Ahhh, so this is what you look like, elite beef... Just like a unicorn—we live in the same country, but meeting is impossible."
As soon as the meat was seared, Junsok stuffed a piece into his mouth. He looked so ecstatic that I knew immediately—bringing him here was the right move.
"Good?"
"You bet. For this kind of cash."
I smirked and sent a succulent piece into my own mouth, dipping it only slightly in salt. Amazing. A texture and juiciness that neither chicken nor pork could match, blending with the aroma of high-quality charcoal. A fatty, rich flavor... Pure happiness. In a couple of minutes, the grill was empty.
Before the second batch, they brought the yukhoe—raw beef. I took a portion along with the pear straw: a completely different taste, but no less exquisite. After emptying a few more plates, I got down to business.
"When did you start aiming for the 9th-grade civil service?"
"Hasn't even been a year."
"You and the civil service... I guess Korea really is finished."
Hearing this biting joke, reserved only for close friends, Junsok smirked back.
"Didn't you know? Korea only has a couple of decades left anyway. Low birth rate and all that."
"So what happened? Did you really pummel an old man?"
When I asked bluntly, Junsok turned somber and set down his chopsticks.
"Let’s have a beer."
I ordered Terra and filled the glasses. He drained his in one gulp, slammed the empty glass on the table, and began his story.
After years of hitting the books, passing through fear and despair, he finally secured the coveted civil servant spot. Junsok decided then: I won’t break my back for a career, I’ll just issue forms at a window, get paid, and live quietly. The perfect mindset for a bureaucrat supposed to be a soulless cog in the machine. But all the "cozy" spots were already taken.
On his first day at the district center, his colleagues met him with suspicious joy. The center head even gave a speech about "youthful vigor and fighting spirit" that the civil service supposedly needed. When Junsok reached his desk, he understood everything.
Passing the safe and boring departments, he found himself in the very corner, in a place that resembled cursed land. The Social Welfare Department.
He had taken the exam for general administration, not social work. The appointment was absurd. When he tried to protest, the supervisor shoved a paper at him: "Due to staff shortages in the social welfare department and a surge in complaints, allow the center head to temporarily appoint employees of any profile to these positions."
Among applicants, social welfare was considered the "den of evil." Nine out of ten horror stories—stabbings, being doused in gasoline, death from overwork—happened exactly there. The main clientele were seniors on welfare. All of them either had eternally dissatisfied faces or eyes burning with rage.
"You think people get wiser and softer with age? Bullshit. That only works if you have something to live on. But if life is nothing but a grind, then by old age, all that's left in you is malice. When you see a frail old man, who could kick the bucket tomorrow, screaming curses and swinging a trekking pole at you over a few thousand won... your faith in humanity evaporates completely."
The previous employee had gone on long-term sick leave due to stress, and the department was effectively at a standstill. There was no handover of cases. Junsok didn't even have time to sit at his desk, piled with old folders, before the phone rang. As soon as he picked up, a torrent of choice insults demanding money crashed down on him.
After somehow handling the situation and exhaling, he flinched at a bang on the desk. Something dirty, like a spit, fell on its stomach before him. An ID card. An old man in a felt hat, bearing little resemblance to the passport photo, began a furious tirade.
Complaints that had piled up for weeks while the seat was empty poured out like a tsunami. Everyone demanded money. Benefits, pensions, subsidies... There were those who thanked him, but there were plenty who felt they had been cheated. The latter used social welfare employees as a trash bin for their emotions. They vented their hatred of life on civil servants, believing they were "getting fat on the people's money." Only one thing distinguished them from online haters: these weren't afraid to use their canes.
While Junsok fought this war, the rest of the staff watched from the sidelines, as if watching a fire across a river. Perhaps they even placed bets on how long he’d last. Telling this, he never once called them "colleagues."
The end of his short career was brought about by an old hag with a nasty, evil face. She immediately started banging her cane on the floor, demanding benefits. The application deadline had passed; help could only be given next year. The old woman caused such a scandal that the whole center was in an uproar. By then, Junsok had learned to tune it out—bark all you want, I’m just passing by. But then she dropped a line that knocked him off balance.
"...These servants of the people, eating bread on my taxes, don't know how to do a damn thing!"
Junsok looked up. The old woman looked so confident in her righteousness that he couldn't take it:
"Taxes? Grandma, what taxes do you pay? You’re living on welfare that’s paid for by my taxes."
It was the cold truth without a hint of irony, but it was exactly what sent the woman into a frenzy. She swung her cane. And not as a warning—she aimed straight for his face. Junsok managed to cover up with his arm, so she poked the cane into his chest. Trying to retreat, he grabbed the cane. A struggle began, and the old woman, unable to withstand the pressure, tumbled to the floor and burst into screams.
Coming to his senses from the roar of voices, Junsok saw that he was being filmed on phones. Including by his "colleagues" standing off to the side.
"And they locked you up right away?"
"No. That day at the station, they just questioned me and let me go. Said—he’s got a job, he’s got a home, there’s camera footage, the old woman’s injuries are trivial... They said the case would be closed for lack of evidence. And the next day, they came for me."
Junsok angrily poured himself more beer.
"The lawyer said: the seniors from that district went to trash the local assemblyman’s office. An order came from above—'punish him as an example.' It’s a dog's world. I want it to burn to hell."
Looking at him, I thought: how many people on this planet dream of the same thing? Just go online—it’s full of psychos cheering for every missile from North Korea, hoping for war. In Japan, China, the US—it’s the same everywhere. In Europe, the right wing takes power to the chords of general discord. The slaves' thirst to see the pyramid collapse builds up like storm clouds. Something was definitely bound to happen, even without the zombies.
The system seems unfair, and it seems its collapse will hit the rich while giving the poor a chance. But the reality is cruel: when the world falls, the bottom layers are crushed first. Into dust.
"The world is going to collapse soon anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Zombies."
I wasn't joking, but to him, it sounded like a joke. Yet Junsok didn't laugh. His face, flushed from beer and anger, froze. He blinked slowly and stared at me.
"...When?"