After buying the lottery tickets, my mind felt as steady as a racer waiting for the starting signal. Strength flowed naturally into my hands.
Today was Thursday. The lottery drawing is Saturday night, and the winnings can only be collected on Monday morning. Four days remained, but without money, there wasn't much I could do. Stockpiling food and supplies required a shelter first. I could use the remains of my bank account to buy weapons and gear in advance, but things could go sideways at any moment. The best move was to stay low and keep safe until the jackpot hit my account.
Still, I had to do what I could right now. Like clearing out my studio apartment so I could leave Seoul the moment I got the money, or...
Having a proper meal.
I walked toward the edge of the sidewalk to hail a taxi but stopped, mesmerized by the restaurants on the first floor of a commercial building.
Pork cutlet, fried chicken, spicy rice cakes, sushi, burgers...
In the past, I could eat these wondrous foods to my heart's content without a second thought. After the world fell apart, the situation regarding what went into my mouth changed completely. Taste and preference vanished; calories and shelf life became the new standard. At the center of it all was canned food.
In an apocalypse where producing anything was impossible, a tin can was more than just long-term food. It was a legacy of an abundant era—a promise of civilization that guaranteed survival for as long as its expiration date allowed.
Even so, it couldn't compare to warm, delicious food made from fresh ingredients.
With fluttering anticipation, I scanned the menus beneath the signs and stepped into a small diner.
"One kimchi stew, please."
I sat at an empty table, placed my order, and poured a glass of water. Gulping down the cold, clean water felt like drinking a draft beer in the heat of midsummer. I savored the taste of the filtered water while watching the silent news on a wall-mounted TV until my meal was spread across the table.
It was an ordinary kimchi stew you could find anywhere. I took in the sight of the bubbling stone pot, the white rice, and the side dishes before picking up my spoon.
In the five lives I had lived across four regressions, I hadn't always been alone. I had companions.
A reliable man, blunt in speech and appearance, but who always did more than his share. A small-time thug with a kind face who stabbed me in the back and died by my hand. A shameless piece of trash who was the pinnacle of a burden. And the woman I lived with for a year, leaning on each other and sharing warmth, first out of necessity and later out of deep affection...
Most of them died before me. Miserably, pointlessly, or heart-wrenchingly.
Until my third regression, whenever I returned to the past and sat at a table for four like this, their faces would drift over the three empty seats. I used to stare at the food for a long time, as if performing a memorial rite, afraid that if I took a bite, they would look at me and ask, 'Is it good?'
It was only after the fourth regression that I finally understood—not with my head, but with my heart—that those people I had met were alive somewhere right now. That the moment I regressed, their deaths vanished as well.
Once I could accept that, I was finally able to fold those old memories away, tuck them into the deepest drawer of my consciousness, and sit at the table truly alone.
I took a spoonful of the stew. The pungent red broth staged a riot on my tongue, sending a shiver through my entire body. I began to eat, slowly savoring the flavor. The glistening bowl of rice felt almost too precious to chew, and the side dishes were works of art. The chewy texture of the pork was so rich it made my teeth ache with pleasure.
After rolling through the ruins of the apocalypse for five years, eating kimchi stew made me feel like my senses were finally waking up.
My spoon was moving busily until I froze, looking at the TV news. 'New Arctic Sea Route and Beneficiary Stocks.' On the screen, a polar bear stood bewildered on a melting glacier while a distant icebreaker gallantly crushed the ice, carving out an unknown path.
Global warming, climate change, droughts and floods, rising sea levels, wars and epidemics... the familiar prelude to destruction that everyone was sick of hearing. For humanity, the threat of the end was no more novel than the tune of 'Für Elise' playing when a car reverses.
In my second life, I had posted on an internet community that people needed to prepare for the coming catastrophe. That was back when my shallow humanity hadn't been fully broken by the coldness of my coworkers. I gave serious advice, wanting to do what I could, but all I got in return was cynicism and biting mockery for my "lack of imagination."
When I leaked a little bit of future knowledge out of frustration, the reaction changed completely. Tell me the lottery numbers. Pick a stock for me...
No matter how much I said everything would end in a few months, they wouldn't listen, just like that woman I met at the bus stop. Everyone only wanted money, whether the world ended or not. Apocalypse scenarios were already common enough, and the zombie trope was so familiar through movies that it failed to inspire any real tension or dread.
The world's already a mess, what's the harm if it gets worse? Let this damn world burn to the ground. If the government collapses, I can kill and farm for loot, so it's actually better. When the world ends, I'm taking a spear to the rich neighborhoods.
Beyond the sharp words pouring out petty lack and distorted resentment, the bloodshot floor of human nature was clearly visible. There were also those who claimed to believe me, asking endless questions. They grew burdensome and suspicious, trying to dig into my personal life and obsessively pushing for a meeting, so I eventually deleted the post and cut them off.
Once the rosy outlook on the Arctic route ended, the news shifted back to politics. The ruling and opposition parties were bickering as usual. The "walking legislative bodies" and the heads of the executive branch. They held great power and authority, but just like before, they would collapse helplessly when the zombies appeared in 55 days.
Even if the catastrophe was clearly visible, charging like a truck in the wrong lane, civilization was already too complex and precisely interlocked to simply turn the wheel. While they wavered between propaganda, human rights, the economy, and political calculations, people would turn one by one into walking corpses that couldn't rest even in death.
An unavoidable future was gathering like dark clouds on the horizon. Thinking of that, every single grain of rice between my teeth felt infinitely precious, like the meal of a gladiator before the final battle.
After ordering another bowl of rice and finishing a satisfying meal, I left the diner with a cup of instant coffee. I walked slowly down the sidewalk before raising my hand to catch a taxi.
"Noryangjin, please."
Though it was far from rush hour, the roads were quite congested, as expected of Seoul. Watching the cars filling the wide road from the comfort of the backseat, I remembered the mess I had experienced in my first life. I was silently reflecting on the chaos and tragedy that would occur in 55 days when my smartphone rang.
It was the company. I was going to reject the call, but I figured I should talk to them at least once.
"Yes."
— Hey, Yoon. What is this? How can you just drop a resignation letter and vanish?
"All materials related to my work are on the desktop. I wrote the ID and password on a Post-it."
— I don't know what you're thinking, but this industry is small. Do you think you can manage your career by quitting like this?
"I'll take care of my own life. If you have nothing else to say, I'm hanging up."
I ended the call and waited a moment, but the manager didn't call back. My relationship with the company was over. Someone else would fill my vacancy, and until then, my coworkers would grumble as they split my workload. Just as I had once done.
The line of cars ahead didn't look like it would be cleared in a couple of light cycles. Realizing it would take a while, I put my phone away, leaned my head against the seat, and closed my eyes. I let my body surrender to the flow of the taxi as it repeatedly stopped and started, drifting toward my destination.
*****
In expensive Seoul, the only sanctuary permitted to me was a tiny studio apartment in the alleys behind the Noryangjin academy district.
"It’s small."
The room was so tiny it better suited the name "Gosiwon"—a student cubicle. A small bed, a desk, and a mini-fridge were crammed in like a dollhouse. It looked bizarrely cramped, like a slightly oversized toy or a solitary confinement cell for a criminal. Either way, it was no environment for a human being to live in.
But humans are creatures that manage to squeeze into places where life seems impossible. Ever since I moved to Seoul after graduating in Busan, I had lived in shitty studios like this. Since the shelters I occupied in the zombie-infested world were usually warehouses, houses, or luxury apartments, my living spaces had been quite large. While some survived by holing up in studios like this, most survivors preferred large houses where they could stockpile supplies. Although food and necessities were always scarce in the apocalypse, empty houses were everywhere—anyone who wanted to could live in a 1,400-square-foot apartment.
Among the survivors I met after the outbreak, there were some crazies who snickered and said they were thrilled the world had ended. At the time, I just thought they had a few screws loose or a twisted personality. But standing in front of this studio, which was worse than a prison cell in a functioning world, I finally understood why those people said such things.
"Let's pack and get out of here."
I shook my head and took off my shoes. Before organizing the room, I sat on the bed and searched for a hotel for tonight. I scrolled through five-star options and clicked on the Four Seasons in Gwanghwamun. The Palace View overlooking Gwanghwamun and Gyeongbokgung was popular, but I wanted to see the night view of the bustling city, so I chose the City View.
City View Executive Suite. 1.1 million won per night. Checking out Monday morning, the four-night stay plus 10% tax totaled 4,895,000 won.
I checked my bank balance. I had 13.5 million won. Including the 5 million won security deposit for this room, I had 18.5 million. Since I wouldn't have to worry about money once the lottery hit on Saturday, I paid with my check card without hesitation.
Once the reservation was confirmed, I called my landlord to say I was moving out.
— Today? Haha, you can't just do this all of a sudden...
"Something urgent came up, so I have to go down to the provinces today. I'm taking my things now, so you can return the deposit whenever you can."
Since I was leaving abruptly without notice, I had to accept that the deposit would be returned late. I set my phone on the desk and pulled my suitcase onto the bed. As I opened it and began packing clothes from the closet, I heard a neighboring door slam open. A man and woman entered, closing the door irritably as they continued an argument they had started outside.
The walls were so thin the conversation was perfectly audible. The theme of the discord—played out in the woman's sharp soprano and the man's pathetic baritone—was money. Recalling memories from five years ago, that couple often raised their voices over finances. It was a common occurrence. Money is essential for life, but few have enough.
What happened next was also common. Though it was unexpected.
While I ignored the commotion next door and packed, the voices grew sharper, stabbing into each other’s vulnerabilities. Then, the talking suddenly stopped, and a struggle began. I could sense the man trying to use force to shut the woman up.
I involuntarily stopped and listened. I frowned, wondering if I was about to witness a murder, but the situation took a sharp erotic turn.
"Ah... ahh..."
The creaking of the bed and the moans drifted vividly into my room through the walls, which were as thin as speakers.