I won the first pot with a single pair.
In the second round, I was dealt two pairs. I scanned the faces of the players as they gripped their cards and folded.
Just as I expected, the stakes skyrocketed. The showdown followed: a cocky flush, immediately crushed by a heavy full house. Common drama.
The winner raked in the chips with a raspy laugh. The loser spat out a curse and lit a cigarette.
I ordered a Coke.
In poker, the face is a mirror of the cards. The gaze, the movement of the hands, the micro-expressions. If you watch closely, an opponent's hand reads like an open book. Experienced players know how to bluff, but these were amateurs. They didn't know how to keep a poker face.
I knew how to play, but I never liked gambling. However, in such transparent company, losing was harder than winning.
An hour of cautious play followed. I alternated between taking the pot and intentionally bleeding chips. In the end, I had one chip left. I had another 4.7 million won in cash in my pocket, but for the first time, this was enough "exposure."
— Keep the change.
I gave the last chip to the dealer and stood up.
The manager approached me, his face a mask of professional courtesy.
— How did it go?
— Not my day.
I shook my head, feigning a mix of frustration and lingering excitement.
— You played very coolly. I’m certain that with your skill, the result will be different next time.
I forced a vague smile.
— The atmosphere is nice. Did you open recently?
— Just over a month ago.
At the exit, the manager handed me an envelope. Inside was a coupon for chips worth 50,000 won. In my past life, they gave out 30,000. It meant my act as a cautious player worked better this time.
To get into the real "house" in Hopo, you have to become one of them. This place is just a filter to find money bags. There, in the underground casino, sits the man I need.
Butcher Kim Guhan.
I knew where the lair was, but barging in from the street was impossible. Only through connections. Only through this viper’s nest.
DING!
The elevator doors opened. A man in a worn jacket stepped into the car. I caught a fleeting glimpse of him and walked out into the corridor.
The arrow on the display froze at the number "10." Only the gambling hall was on that floor.
The sensor in the lobby flicked off. Darkness swallowed everything except for the red "10." It glowed like a symbol of the years spent in the apocalypse.
In childhood, it seems the world is made of open doors and soft roads. Reality is dead ends, creaking hinges, and a flexible spine that must be bent before circumstances. In the labyrinth of life, hope rarely fills the void. In moments like these, one is drawn to seedy places where nightmares mingle with greed.
In the apocalypse, there won't even be this. Only death and the struggle for a single breath.
I stepped out into the cold night air. Steam escaped my mouth. Hiding my hands in my pockets, I walked through the lights of the entertainment district toward the parking lot.
*****
In the morning, I signed an apartment lease in Gijang.
The landlady was a sturdy woman in her thirties. It didn't matter where she got the money for real estate near a nuclear power plant. In 44 days, the value of every asset in the country will reset to zero.
I talked the deposit down to a minimum, inflated the monthly rent, and got the keys.
12th floor. The empty apartment met me with a hollow echo. I unloaded my gear onto the balcony and threw the window open.
The Kori Nuclear Power Plant was 1.5 kilometers away across the sea. The concrete domes of the reactors and the waste storage facilities were clearly visible. With binoculars, it was like looking at the palm of my hand.
I unpacked the satellite terminal. The expensive toy caught a signal immediately.
I mounted the Geiger counter to the window frame and connected everything into a single circuit: the sensor, the satellite link, and the batteries.
Numbers began to scroll on my smartphone. Real-time radiation background.
Next came the camera. 4K resolution. The zoom allowed me to read the slogan on a banner near the station walls.
— Money is a good thing after all.
Now I had a live broadcast. Even if the internet collapses, I’ll know if radiation has leaked. The batteries will last for a month.
This shelter is a backup.
In my past life, the army drove people out of Busan under the pretext of a leak. This meant someone took control of the plant. Most likely the government. They wanted to use the station's power, but the plan failed. Eventually, the surrounding area became a no-man’s land. Marauders feared the radiation and avoided Gijang.
An ideal place to lay low.
You can't bet everything on one card. I already have two points: Jangjeon-dong and this apartment. By the beginning of the end, I’ll prepare a dozen more.
I won't have enough cash. I’ll have to take out loans and go into debt with loan sharks. If the zombies don't come—I’m bankrupt.
But they will come. Proven by four deaths.
I checked the communication nodes and left the window open by a hand's breadth. I calculated the free space for supplies and entered the data into my notebook.
Downstairs, already in the car, my phone rang. Junsok.
— Where are you?
— In Gijang.
— Why?
— Looking at the sea. How’s the lawyer?
— The guy’s a pro. Promised it won’t go as far as prison. How much did you drop on him?
— Enough. Let’s grab lunch.
I pulled onto the road. Winter was coming into its own. Bare trees, pedestrians in heavy jackets.
I passed through the blocks and drove toward the coast. The view was majestic, if not for the reactor shell sticking out of the water. A scene from a revelation.
At a traffic light, I stopped directly opposite the main gates of the nuclear plant.
Guards, anti-ram barriers, fences. But no heavy weaponry. No soldiers.
Too careless. For a facility of such importance, it’s a hole. If a horde of the dead floods in there, the south of the country is finished.
Though previously, we got lucky.
Across the street, people were protesting. Banners, shouting through megaphones, filming on phones.
Noise, rage, demands.
Right now, they can scream all they want. In 44 days, silence will become the primary rule of survival.
One scream—and you’re a corpse.
In times like those, the chatterboxes die first. Only the silent pragmatics remain.
The light turned green. I hit the gas, leaving the nuclear plant behind.