Jin hunched on a splintered crate in the warehouse's corner, the only light coming from the cold, glowing text that refused to let him breathe.
[Initiative Expansion Required. Recruit First Employee. Deadline: 48 Hours.]
[Reward: ???]
[Penalty: Termination of Employee.]
The words pulsed with sterile, corporate precision, like a performance review spelling out his death.
He scrubbed his face with both hands, a groan scraping his throat. "Recruit someone? What's that supposed to mean? Post a job ad? 'Hiring for shady-ass crime gig, apply in this dump'? Yeah, that'll pull in the resumes."
The sarcasm didn't lighten his mood. His voice sounded small, swallowed by the damp, mold-stained walls.
His mind churned, sifting through faces, anyone who might fit the system's twisted idea of an "employee."
First up on his list was Min-jae, his old college friend. Always polished, always planning five years ahead, probably sitting in some glass tower now, sipping overpriced coffee and boasting about stocks. Jin snorted. "Hey, Min-jae, want to join my back-alley empire? Great benefits, like dying young."
The thought was absurd, cruel even. He shoved it away.
Next came Soo-bin, a coworker from his old job. She'd slipped him her lunch card once when he was too broke to eat, her smile easy, kind, like it was no big deal. One of the few who didn't claw over others to get ahead. Dragging her into this mess—whatever this was—felt like a betrayal. If the system was steering him into crime, someone like Soo-bin wouldn't last a day.
Family? That idea died faster than the last. His parents already saw him as a failure, a waste of their sacrifices. Showing up to beg for help, or worse, to pull them into this nightmare? They'd slam the door in his face.
Jin pressed his palms against his temples, shaking his head. "This thing wants me to build in the gutter," he muttered. "I can't drag in anyone clean. They'd get torn apart."
The words tasted bitter, like ash. The system hadn't pointed him to corporate offices or startup hubs. It marked slums, gang-ridden corners, places where sirens were just background noise. This wasn't random. It was deliberate. His "branch office" thrived in shadows, and so would his "employee."
His chest burned, not just with fear but with anger, hot and sharp. He glared at the floating text, fists clenched. "What kind of bullshit setup is this? You tell me to build a business, threaten to kill me, but give me nothing—no guide, no rules, just orders and a fucking death clock!"
His voice cracked against the empty walls, raw, desperate. He half-expected the screen to snap back, to mock him with some corporate jargon. But it just pulsed, cold, indifferent.
Jin slumped back, exhaling through gritted teeth, anger fizzling into silence. In that quiet, an ugly thought crept in, persistent, unwelcome.
Park Joon-ho.
He shut his eyes, head thudding against the wall. Damn it, he hadn't thought of Joon-ho in years, had fought to keep him buried. But the name stuck, heavy, refusing to fade.
Joon-ho was trouble from day one. In high school he was always skipping class to smoke behind the gym, picking fights with kids twice his size just to prove a point. He ran scams—fake concert tickets, phones that never shipped. And Jin, stupid kid he was, had hung out with him sometimes. Laughed at his jokes, shared cheap beers, got a glimpse of how far Joon-ho could go.
By college, Jin cut ties, chasing a clean life. But whispers followed—classmates, gossip, rumors. Joon-ho hadn't changed, just leaned harder into the dark. Fights, hustles, petty crime. The kind of guy who didn't just survive in the shadows but owned them.
Jin rubbed his eyes, muttering, "Of all people…"
Why Joon-ho? Why did his mind spit out that name? Because no one else fit. No one else could survive whatever this system was dragging him into.
He sat, chewing on the thought like it was poison. He didn't want to see Joon-ho, didn't want to sink back into that world, even by proxy. But the glowing text loomed, merciless, reminding him morals were a luxury he couldn't afford.
He pressed his hands together, head bowed, voice low, resigned. "Guess that's where I start."
The words faded into the warehouse's shadows. His box of office junk sat beside him—bent stapler, half-dead pen, chipped mug—a sad relic of a life where he'd hoped to climb the ladder, play by the rules.
That life was gone. Now he was here, in the ruins of another.
His eyes lingered on the glowing objective. Forty-eight hours. Tomorrow, he'd track down Joon-ho. How, he didn't know, but he'd figure it out.
For now, exhaustion clawed at him. His eyelids sagged, tension still coiling in his gut. "Tomorrow," he whispered, slumping against the crate. "I'll deal with it tomorrow."
The warehouse stayed quiet, save for the drip of a distant pipe. The screen dimmed, watching, waiting. Jin drifted into uneasy sleep, locked into a choice he couldn't unmake.
And in the back of his mind, Park Joon-ho's shadow grinned.
Jin set the cardboard box down, its scrape against the damp concrete echoing in the hollow warehouse. He leaned back against the wall, the cold biting through his sweat-soaked shirt, chilling his spine. His body felt like lead, muscles trembling from stress, hunger, and the crash of adrenaline.
He stared at the jagged ceiling beams, their shadows carved by the dim glow of the system's screen. The text pulsed like an open wound, seared into his vision.
[Initiative Expansion Required. Recruit First Employee.]
[Deadline: 48 Hours.]
No matter how he blinked, the words clung to him, relentless. His mind spun—Joon-ho, gangs, death, tomorrow—but exhaustion was winning. His body begged to shut down.
"Tomorrow," he rasped, voice barely a breath. "I'll find him tomorrow."
The warehouse swallowed his words, answering with a heavy quiet, alive with faint drips from unseen pipes, the skitter of rats along the walls, the distant hum of a city that never slept pressing through cracked windows.
For the first time in months, Jin let go. His eyes shut, shoulders slumping as he sank into the cold floor. The system's glow dimmed, as if it, too, was waiting for dawn.
Morning light stabbed through his eyelids.
Jin groaned, shifting against the wall, every muscle screaming from sleeping on concrete, hunger gnawing his gut. He blinked, eyes stinging as sunlight leaked through broken shutters, slicing across his face.
Something was wrong.
The air felt too warm, too close.
Jin rubbed his eyes, muttering, "What the fuck—"
His words died. A shadow loomed over him.
A figure stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the sun's glare. Jin's gaze dropped—and froze.
A gun.
Not tucked away, not subtle. A black pistol gleamed in the light, its barrel aimed at his chest.
Jin's breath caught, heart slamming so hard he thought it might burst. His body locked, pulse roaring in his ears.
The man smirked, eyes glinting with cruel amusement, like he was toying with a cornered animal. His voice was low, laced with menace. "Well, well Well. Someone's in the wrong fucking place."
Jin couldn't move, couldn't think. The box of office junk—chipped mug, bent stapler—sat useless beside him, no shield against cold steel. The system's faint glow pulsed in his peripheral vision, silent, watching, as if daring him to act.
The gun's barrel swallowed the light, and all Jin could think was that his "headquarters" wasn't his alone.