“On every deserted island, flowers bloomed.”
This was the opening line of The Song of the Sword, a novel I read back in university.
When I first moved into this cramped studio and heard the moans coming from the next room a few days later, that line suddenly surfaced in my mind.
Even in a desolate, scorched place like a deserted island, it seemed flowers could still bloom.
For some reason, the thought felt distant and bitter—like a cold draft seeping into the very bottom of my soul.
Through five years of the apocalypse, I lived surrounded by the shuffling of zombies.
Now, I’m back, listening to this pornographic ASMR... and the sensation is nothing like before.
It’s strange, yet somehow I breathe easier—as if my chest has finally opened up.
In a word...
Alive.
I felt it truly once again: being alive is damn good.
I’d seen the couple from the next room a few times on the stairs.
Unremarkable. Both looked to be in their early to mid-twenties.
I didn’t know if the guy was a student or just a slacker, but since I’d spent so much time "listening to their broadcast," I figured I should toss them a donation... even if only a symbolic one.
I pulled out my smartphone and ordered chicken—the kind with the powdered seasoning.
I added a side of rice cake and sausage skewers and some cheese balls, making it a full set.
I checked the delivery time and went back to packing.
Clothes, socks, and underwear went into the suitcase.
My laptop and bankbook went separately into my backpack.
Blankets, pillows, slippers, and other household junk were shoved into a box and hauled to the trash pile at the end of the hallway.
I washed my hands in the sink, and while scrolling through my phone, I heard the bell.
Ring!
The chicken had arrived.
I ripped off the receipt and tucked it into my pocket.
I placed the bag of chicken by the neighbors' door.
It seemed they’d already finished their business and fallen asleep; it had been quiet behind the wall since then.
I gave a light knock and quietly returned to my room.
Click!
A minute later, the electronic lock sounded—the door opened and closed.
Then came confused voices, followed by joyful squeals and a flurry of excitement.
I snorted and threw on my backpack.
I took one last look around the studio, rolled my suitcase into the hallway, and left.
I headed down to the first floor and emerged from the alleyway choked with haphazardly parked cars.
On the main road, I hailed a taxi.
I loaded the suitcase into the trunk and sat in the back.
"Four Seasons Hotel, Gwanghwamun, please."
*****
Even though I lived in Seoul, I rarely had a reason to go to Gwanghwamun.
It wasn't on my commute, and on weekends, I was either catching up on sleep or trying to get my head and body in order.
It wasn’t just Gwanghwamun—I avoided noisy, overcrowded areas in general.
When I first moved to Seoul, I used to wander the city, taking it all in.
But after a full day of being ground down by office work, everything becomes dull.
In the capital, as expected, there were plenty of places to walk and things to eat... but without money, you don't venture beyond the home-work-home route.
When the taxi dropped me off at the hotel, a voice boomed from speakers somewhere in the distance.
It sounded like a protest was underway in the square.
The roar was so loud that the words blurred into a mush—impossible to make out.
But the tone was angry, agitated, bordering on hysterical.
I turned slightly toward the square and gauged where the noise was coming from.
Pulling my suitcase, I entered the Four Seasons.
I passed through the high, airy lobby on the first floor and registered at the reception.
I took my key and headed up to the twentieth floor.
Five stars is five stars.
The lobby, the elevator, the hallways—everything was polished, stylish, and clean, like a movie set.
I opened the door and stepped into the room.
Sunlight poured in as if I’d stepped outside.
I set my things down, changed into slippers, and walked to the window.
It was floor-to-ceiling glass.
Outside, it was broad daylight, but the view was like a postcard—far too ornate.
Skyscrapers clad in smooth glass looked like faces under heavy makeup.
Cars and people moved incessantly according to a pre-written script.
It was a dazzling, perfectly tuned spectacle—like a complex circuit where every wire is in its place.
I watched for a long while before returning to the bedroom.
The large, soft bed was made with snow-white sheets—they smelled like May sunshine.
Two glass walls meeting at a right angle stubbornly showcased the light and the view—almost aggressively so.
I felt the urge to just collapse onto the bed, but I held back and went into the living room.
I unwrapped one of the "welcome" snacks on the table, popped it into my mouth, and checked the mini-bar.
A five-star hotel is another world.
It’s not an apartment smelling of home cooking, nor is it a "shack-up" motel.
From the lobby to the fridge, there was a sense of travel here—a high-strung lightness.
It felt like an optimistic confidence that life might actually turn out okay.
1,100,000 won a night—insanely expensive.
But in 55 days, I won't be wiping my ass with fifty-thousand won bills, but with whatever I can get my hands on.
Back then, even if you offered a hundred million, you couldn't stay in a place like this. So there's nothing to regret.
I checked the bathroom and started the tub.
I stripped and stepped in.
The clear, warm water embraced my body with a pleasant weight.
"Ah..."
The tension melted away, and the heat slowly seeped inside—deep.
I closed my eyes and leaned the back of my head against the rim of the tub.
As I took my time enjoying the hot water, the sunset thickened behind the glass—red, viscous, spreading across the sky.
In the apocalypse, night is a time when you freeze and huddle in a corner, listening to the world.
It will be that way again, surely.
But today—not today.
That thought made things easier.
I slowly slid down and went under the water completely—down to the tips of my hair.
Four nights and five days at the hotel passed perfectly: comfortable, quiet, just as it should be.
For every meal, I went to the restaurant and stuffed myself with whatever and as much as I wanted.
In my free time, I hit the gym on the ninth floor.
When I was studying in Busan, and later in Seoul while working at the office, I also occasionally tried to "get it together" and sweated in the gym.
Though usually, it only lasted three days.
I wasn't into sports, I hadn't been seriously ill, and I’m still only in my late twenties.
I thought my physical condition was "well, okay."
I was wrong. Completely.
Both my strength and stamina were pathetic.
I did squats, not even with plates—just the empty bar, twenty kilograms.
That was it: my thighs felt like they were about to burst, and my legs shook.
I couldn't finish twenty reps.
I started on the treadmill at a light jog.
After a minute, I was out of breath, then a sharp pain stabbed my side as if I’d been hit.
I got off after three minutes.
Five years is a long time.
Plus, I’d managed to grow soft and forget because out there, in the apocalypse, I "gained experience"...
But honestly, back then, my body was just like this. Ordinary. Weak.
The fact that I lasted five months in my first life with a body like this—I was just lucky.
Leveling up my physical stats is just as important as building a shelter and stockpiling supplies.
It directly increases the chance of survival. I can't neglect it.
I revised my plan, mapped out a two-day program—upper and lower body—and increased the cardio.
After training, I took a shower and looked at myself in the mirror.
Nothing remarkable—but overall, the physique was tolerable.
My skin, like an office worker's, was white—not a scratch, not a scar.
There were almost no calluses on my palms.
But if you add it all up... I’ve regressed four times. That means I’ve lived five lives.
And in the apocalypse, I rolled in the mud and blood for so long that it totals almost ten years.
For ten years, I punched holes in zombie heads until I was nauseated.
For ten years, I sent scavengers and bastards who came at me to the afterworld.
I’ve accumulated experience and knowledge that money can't buy.
And along with it—nerve, endurance, and the ability to claw my way out of any situation.
When the zombie outbreak begins, the history of the apocalypse will start appearing as scars on this clean, "blank slate" body.
One by one, like tattoos.
When I wasn't training, I updated my list of essentials and scoured real estate websites.
At the same time, I tried to catch any signs of the coming nightmare.
I watched TV, roamed the internet, and checked the news.
USA, Europe, China, Japan, Korea—there wasn't even a hint of infection anywhere yet.
On the surface, it looked like nothing would happen.
But 55 days will pass—and the first isolated zombies will appear, suddenly, as if out of thin air.
They will start tearing into people with their teeth.
The victims will twitch in convulsions and die, and then—after a while—stand up and lunge at others like rabid dogs.
And so the chain reaction will go: bite, death, new zombie.
Whether it’s airborne—I don’t know. But if you’re bitten until you bleed, that’s it. Infected.
There is no cure, no vaccine.
They behaved exactly like the "walking corpses" from the movies—that’s why people started calling them zombies.
But in reality, we knew almost nothing about them.
After dinner, I would go up to the bar, sit by the window, and just exist.
The only alcohol in the room was Jameson, but in the bar, I could try dozens of different whiskies, wines, and cognacs.
Quiet jazz, a good view, bourbon in a glass—and the city at night below.
It was beautiful and symbolic, like an illustration from a fairy tale.
The guests in the restaurant and bar looked calm, soft.
The adults spoke easily, without a trace of nerves.
The children—naive and well-mannered.
It wasn't just that everyone seemed like a "good person" compared to the apocalypse.
It’s just that if you can afford a hotel that costs over a million won a night—you have a margin of safety.
Which means your upbringing and self-respect are likely above average.
Though, of course, there are always those who saved up and then came to "get their money's worth" by harassing the staff.
How great it would be if, even after the end of the world, one could live like this—in an expensive hotel, without anxiety, in the warmth.
A president or some tycoon—maybe they could pull it off.
But everyone else, except for a handful of lucky ones, will crash to the very bottom, where natural selection, blood, and violence rule.
And they will survive—endlessly.
Water and food alone won't save you.
Once, while scavenging houses for supplies, I found a corpse in an apartment.
A man was hanging on the balcony, already starting to rot.
The apartment was decent, a two-bedroom. There was water and food for at least a month.
He lived alone. There weren't even traces that anyone else had ever lived there.
Why he hanged himself, I understood later from his broken computer.
I brought the system unit back, fixed it—and saw inside the entire, turned-inside-out soul of a man who had been driven into a corner.
More than six hundred porn videos. Over a terabyte in volume.
And maybe what he was burning into himself until the very end wasn't "lust." Maybe it was longing.
In two thousand screenshots, there was no sadism, no perversion.
Only a naked man and woman, holding each other tightly.
Almost like a Klimt painting.
It’s like being surrounded by the sea but unable to drink—and dying of thirst.
That was him: among zombies and scavengers you couldn't talk to, he found himself isolated, like a deserted island—and he died.
To live long in the apocalypse, you have to keep not just your body, but your head in shape.
You need to breathe normal air, catch the sun, and look at the blue sky more often.
And if there’s a reliable person nearby to eat and talk with—you don’t need anything more.
Only, to make all that possible, you first need money.
After the end of the world, money isn't worth more than fuel or toilet paper.
But now—it's a different time.
Now, no matter what you do, you need money.
*****
On Saturday evening, I took my time with dinner, then lazily had a drink at the bar and checked my smartphone.
It was 21:00.
The lottery drawing was already over, and good news was waiting for me.
The jackpot numbers matched one of my tickets.
The winnings—2 billion won.
Five hundred million more than last time.
Next month, I’ll win again, so money won't be an issue.
This time, the first button was fastened correctly.
I raised my glass and, looking at Seoul at night, gave a quiet toast—to my own reflection in the glass.
Then I finished the drink.
I spent Sunday according to plan, dense and without setbacks.
On Monday morning, exactly at the bank's opening, I checked out of the hotel.
I pulled my suitcase toward Gwanghwamun Station.
Since early morning, microphones were booming at the subway again.
Protesters were screaming with strain, as if choking on their own rage.
The prize collection point was designated at the main office of NongHyup Bank.
It was located right by Exit 6 of Seodaemun Station.
I checked the map—the next station.
I tapped my card and passed through the turnstiles.
A minute later, the train arrived.