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hwaightme · 1 year

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Curiosity

⚫ pairing: editor!yeosang x ...who knows? ⚫ genre: sci-fi, speculative fiction, noir, dystopia, mystery, angst ⚫ summary: What does it take to be the perfect citizen? This dream is just a pill away, giving the employee - opportunity, and society - efficiency, precision, and profit. But as Kang Yeosang, an editor working a dead end job, stumbles across a dissident manuscript, he cannot help but give into dangerous curiosity. ⚫ wordcount: 15.9k ⚫ warnings/tags: language, pg16?, political drabble, faking emotion, discussion of death and su!cide, mass psychosis, control the population, mention of food/eating, woo is a pothead, family drama, explicit discussion of medication/drugs, dark futurism, people living like automatons, propaganda, fake it 'til you make it, yeosang hiding true self, hints at a storm to come, 1984 energy ⚫ a/n: Hello <3 this is a total experiment. Love all feedback, asks, reblogs, notes and wishing you the best time of day <3 Big hugs!

Get up at four in the morning. Automatically shave and brush teeth. Get dressed into the regular grey on white on grey combo. Drink some water and ingest a few bites of stale break. Drive to work.

The office is already busy – as usual. Most colleagues who he had said goodbye and wished a good night to were in the same places they had been. It seemed that even their eyes had not moved a single time. Completely trained on their computers, papers, holographic projectors… Yesterday’s meetings were still in progress in the glass cabinets.

Log onto the system. Get handed a stack of work. Plow through it. Go home. Collapse.

And the routine began again the next day. This was how Yeosang’s last few years of life after university had been. Working for the same company and never getting promoted. His health getting progressively worse. But no worries about that; he had his whole existence insured!

Anything to keep him at his desk for as long as possible. Perhaps if the perks offered by this organisation had been in place a few decades earlier, it would have had the highest competition for employment. But in this day and age, it was comically mediocre. The offering of health insurance was a given now that ‘the pill’ was about as commonly used as a smartphone. Moreover, each business, that could afford it, had paramedics on site constantly.

Yeosang was not sure whether it was for the diligent employees or for people like him. Perhaps it was all a front and there was no support network. It could be that the only reason why he made it this far was because of some odd form of luck and not the services. Sounded about right. Why would the bosses waste resources on the likes of him? He should have died out with the others of his ‘kind’ a long time ago.

To be frank, he had nearly cracked on multiple occasions; he had even bought the godforsaken pills once. Had the packet lying on his coffee table, had stared at it, counted and recounted the drug. Read the description and warnings included. But he was above that nonsense. He added that packet to the rest he had acquired over the years, now beginning to pile in the depths of that one cupboard above the fridge.

Perhaps he was paranoid. That possibility could not be excluded. Look at the millions surrounding him, all benefitting from the very thing he was afraid of taking! With its help, they could achieve great things. Discover, innovate, and create. Better than any artificial intelligence could. One might say that this was the counterattack by humans against their own creations. Establishing who was the master. Both could work tirelessly, but only one had the higher conscious.

At this point, Yeosang was not sure which was more human. Whenever he tried to engage in small talk with the others, they just shot him a blank stare and mumbled a ‘huh is that so’ or a ‘oh that is interesting isn’t it’ on a good day. At least with a robot he could discuss anything, from the local council elections to the weather in Kathmandu. So that was how his coffee breaks went. He spent exactly two minutes chatting to the shiny barista – just enough time to finish his rich espresso and get back to his desk without being reprimanded. That was the most ‘real’ interaction at work.

It was his fault that he felt bored. He could be like everybody else and not feel the need for simple pleasures. But something inside of him, a tiny, barely audible voice in his head, cried out that he was better than that. He managed to go all the way from primary school to university and even get a job without relying on energy stimulants, so why begin now?

Was the ‘Workaholic Movement’ finally getting to him? After seeing its propaganda plastered on almost every wall, on public transport, in stores and advertised by anybody and everybody who wanted their thirty seconds of fame… he would have to be deaf and blind to not be affected. Even then, even if his senses would act as his saving grace for a time, the conglomerate of organisations that had banded together for this work revolution would find a way to tattoo the message inside of his head. Egging him on. Take it, take it, take it…

If being braindead was what the people wanted, Yeosang could give it to them alright. He had perfected the glossed over fisheyes and the mindless typing away at his computer. It required a ridiculous amount of strain and drained him to almost nothing by the end of the day, but ‘adapt or die’, right? He had gotten so good at faking, in fact, that even his managers stopped caring about his lack of community spirit. They just assumed the pill worked on him a slightly different way. And that was that. Don’t bother the guy, and he will not bother you.

After four hours of editing yet another non-fiction manuscript that talked about the wonders of modern society now that everybody was focusing on work, work, and more work, Yeosang was beginning to lose his faith in humanity, again. It was the fifth one of this type he had to look at this week – and it was only Tuesday. Tragic where society had ended up. He clicked on the period symbol and the spacebar with particular frustration and leaned back into his office chair. He stifled a yawn and blinked away hints of midmorning fatigue. Time to get some coffee and greet Teo – a play on the Korean pronunciation of the word computer, taking its ending syllable. Yes, he gave the barista a name, and no, he was not fond of personification. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

He put his suit jacket, which was hanging off the chair, back on to not attract more attention than required– everybody else somehow managed to look pristine like expensive cars at a showroom. Some had outfits so impeccable, they looked glued on and ironed out on the individual. Not that they would care or take the compliment, they had no basic needs.

Taking a leisurely stroll down the large office corridors was one of Yeosang’s favourite pastimes, albeit he could not dedicate more than a few seconds to it. People watching was a strange activity in the modern world. Everybody’s lives were supposed to be similar enough that there should be no need to see how others function. That was what made it enjoyable for the young editor – a sort of taboo, a dirty little secret he had with himself.

Mina from the software engineering team was pushing on her forty seventh hour now. The timer she had at her desk was ticking away. Then she would give herself an hour break and start the cycle again with a fresh new pill. Those were the people that got promotions, not Yeosang. Of course, her outfit was more professional than his too. Why do they try so hard to look good when they are out of it for the majority of the time?

“Good morning, Teo. How are you today?”

“Good morning, Yeosang. I am fine, thank you. Would you like your usual espresso?”

“You know it. Tell me, am I fashionable?” he stood and crossed his arms, watching the robot begin preparing his drink.

“I am afraid I am not qualified to assess human qualities.” Teo cleaned the drip another time for good measure before setting the cup down.

“Oh, come on. This is a super easy, bland, and superficial thing. Go on, hit me with the sad truth.” The barista did not respond straight away. Instead, it gave the illusion of giving its full focus to the coffee machine. Yeosang rocked on his feet, waiting. He was genuinely curious.

“I am going to have to disappoint you there,” Yeosang raised his eyebrows and his lip twitched

“Oh, come on, man, you are no fun! Ah, well, at least you make damn good coffee.”

“I am, indeed, no fun. I am a barista. And thank you.”

That was the extent of the conversation Yeosang managed to get out of the poor android before his drink was ready. Usually, when he was not working, the robot remained on idle mode, thus returning to a mute state. It was just Yeosang and his own thoughts now. He took a sip of the espresso – utter perfection. He had to give it to technological innovation; the scientists knew how to teach a metal can to make coffee alright.

He checked his wristwatch. There was just under a minute before he had to quit lazing around and go back to work. Nobody else in his team had gotten up once. In record time Yeosang finished his drink and disposed of the cup by throwing it into the automatic dishwasher ‘tunnel’. Really it was a transportation system for dirty kitchenware, and not the most efficient, considering that on his floor it was almost always only Yeosang keeping it in operation, but whatever makes the company look more important…

It was a race against the clock. When passing by the printers, Yeosang took a few pieces of blank paper to make it seem like he walked out with real productive intention, and not to indulge in a hit of caffeine. It is not like anybody would stop him to check what was in his hands. A colleague walked past him, carrying at least ten folders that were filled to the brim but not showing any signs of struggle – Yeosang refrained from asking if they needed any help; it was obvious they could handle it themselves, and were an independent worker.

Even when the break was long forgotten and yet another section of a new bureaucratic ass-kissing manuscript had been edited, Yeosang was still uneasy. A general feeling of being let down, but how could that have arisen? He regurgitated nonsense editing feedback without thinking. It was all the same anyway. The same mistakes, the same weak arguments being made in favour of the Workaholic Movement, the magical medicinal substance that could quench an individual’s thirst, satisfy their nutritional needs, maximise their functionality and diminish their time dedicated to nothingness to null. Nobody was sure as to who exactly, why, and how had invented the ‘workaholic’ pill – a term coined by the media that now became a common phrase. But the market for this piece of scientific magic sure looked promising. Skyrocketing sales, insane demand, and equally unexpectedly insane supply.

That’s right – the reality that Yeosang found himself in, made him uneasy. He had grown up in a world where people no longer relied on their own strength to achieve things – they had chemicals do the hard things for them. His classmates, instead of spending eight hours sleeping, did extracurricular activities and gained work experience that Yeosang could only dream of. They were on it night and day. Always writing, reading, number-crunching… Only those who wanted to break into the acting world could sit down to rest – if their roles required them to.

His co-workers were exactly the same. Their whole lives were only in this office. Well, who was Yeosang to judge their ‘lack of a life’ when he was not exactly a representative of the enviable life. At least those colleagues of his did not have an awareness of how painfully average they were. He had to stare at himself and his averageness each morning, and notice just how pallid he had become, and how he was slowly fading into the tiled walls of his bathroom. If he were to become a wall his quality of life would probably get better. Already blended in, and always doing his job. Finally, mom and dad would be proud.

His parents were astonishingly fast and efficient workers at their prime. They had raised the sales of the company they worked for to impossible heights, singlehandedly. That was when they had been awarded the honourable title of ‘Distinguished Workaholic’s. Something millions dream of getting. All while, ironically, not allowing their own son to micro-dose to power through middle school. Yeosang had felt slightly betrayed – his parents, at the forefront of the movement, loyal to the message of the government and the goal of the drug, and yet they were denying him that very same thing. His father would constantly tell him that he did not need that pill at such a young age, that he was strong enough. They would sit for hours on end each evening, working through homework and projects together. His father would much rather spend that much time grinding through impossibly boring tasks instead of just giving in and handing his son the quick and easy solution.

It was then when Yeosang had started to suspect that not everything was ‘sunshine and rainbows’ with that pill.

The International United Workers Organisation, along with the International Heath Fund and a myriad of research institutes, both private and public, had joined forces to create the solution to problems that did not seem to exist. They had, after years of silence and secrecy, shaken the world. In most countries, there had been hints in the press at an innovation unlike any other. People were buzzing, so when the news had finally been released, there was a metaphorical explosion that covered the planet. These organisations, these developers whose names shall never be known, had made history. Every form of media was broadcasting the news to anybody who was alive to listen. This pill would solve the ‘inefficiency crisis’ – so they called it.

Suddenly, people with the right finances began searching for this chemical miracle. An operation of this scale must mean that this is a real problem, right? Everybody had begun to question themselves, whether they were giving their all and living to the fullest. It became a craze, an epidemic which had singlehandedly taken control of the entirety of the human race. It was almost as if the advertisements had hypnotic properties; or perhaps, it was merely a clever manipulation of natural curiosity, leading to an addictive trap.

Yeosang had been three years old when KALIN-X went into widespread commercial production – two years after the official release. His parents had already been fairly frequent users by that time due to his mother’s professional affiliation with the IUWO. With more and more workers giving their lives to being under the pill, his parents began taking them more often. The majority of his early childhood had been spent with a drugged up nanny who seemed to never need sleep. When his parents did visit – never more than an hour, he could barely recognise them. Their faces were not as friendly and as loving as they had once been. By age six, Yeosang had stopped calling the two ‘mother’ and father’. They had turned into Missus and Mister Kang. And this was considered to be a resounding success and a result deserving celebration.

Primary school had passed rapidly; it was barely even a memory now. The majority of kids were just like Yeosang – abandoned, but still ‘loved’. It was normal to refer to the homeroom teacher as the parental figure, and some kids even stayed at the facility overnight. But most importantly, the children ‘micro-dosing’ was still a tiny minority. Without any definite evidence that the drug did not have any adverse side effects in young kids, even the heavily using parents did not dare to subject their precious sons and daughters to the life of a walking experiment.

Yet, as the years went on, so did the percentage of micro-dosing peers in Yeosang’s life. By middle school, the tables had turned, and he was in a small group silenced sufferers. They had found in one another support and reassurance. Until new findings came in and promoted KALIN-X for students. Then, Yeosang was left alone. No matter how much he begged his parents to just let him be, he had used the argument that they were ‘never there’, he was denied the easy way out. His mother and father were adamant on him finding his way through school using his own brain power. At that same time, both of them had received the ‘Distinguished Workaholic’ award. They had even made an appearance in the local news – the district of the city the Kang family was registered in had been joyous. The community reputation was now one of the best. They were congratulated by all, except their own son.

Needless to say, it was perplexing that two Distinguished Workaholics put prohibitions on their child in terms of pill use. Instead they began to talk and work with him more. Power through challenges together. Anything so that he would not fall victim. Was he isolated? Was he over protected? Yeosang had no answers for that. But what his parents’ actions did, was, on the one hand, they made him think for himself. He had the opportunity to see a world beyond KALIN-X, understand the past and appreciate to what heights society had evolved. On the other hand, he ended up not knowing how to view himself. At best he was mediocre. There was nothing that he could possibly stand out in. That might as well be his special skill. Being nobody. He could appear and disappear without a trace, be forgotten in a matter of seconds.

His situation would make anybody assume that he would have an inflated ego; a high sense of self and a tendency to see himself as superior. Well, that was impossible. Just being able to say ‘I don’t need drugs to get me through high school and university’ was not enough. Yeosang could guarantee that his class and course mates could all do that too. It was just they wanted everything to be done efficiently, and since the opportunity was there, they took it. He was holding the others up constantly. He was the problem.

University had been a particularly dark time. Being from a small school, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer size of the community and the invisibility he was going to have. If he was transparent before, now he was formless and equivalent to air. The majority of people that were in that same place, learning and living their dream he would never get to know. So many faces he would never see.

He would have ‘talked to somebody’ about his worries, but the counselling service ceased operating as soon as the percentage of micro-dosing members of the student body had reached ninety percent. It was hopeless. He fell and fell. Deeper into a realm he had been on the border of. It was all he knew for the duration of the study. He was used to solitude, but the change after change had done it. He cracked. After that, there was darkness.

Yeosang did not remember then he bought the packet, but he woke up with it in his hands. He was lying on the floor of his tiny single dorm, curled up, with his simultaneous release and demise in an iron grip. What was he doing? He checked the number of pills; one missing. This was a problem. A giant problem. What had happened?

He had stumbled out of his room like a bear after hibernation. Staggering, stumbling from left to right, he grabbed onto the walls. Fellow students peeked out and stared at him, wide-eyed. Yeosang was lost. Stopping at the door of one of the people in his course, he knocked violently and loudly. It creaked open, revealing a timid figure. He could not remember what this guy’s name was for the life of him, so he just asked:

“What… happened?” since when was his voice so rough and croaky? It only made the listener terrified for his life. Yeosang’s eyes were bloodshot, face almost grey, lips dry cracked and bleeding, hair a mess. He wanted answers, desperately. “I said, what happened?” his voice had now turned into a shout, and he had his hand on the door ready to force it open if his peer decided that he had enough.

Thankfully, there was no need for tackling and the guy gave in.

“You… took it…”

“Took what? Don’t babble! What did I take?”

“The pill… KALIN-X… you… you took it…” that was enough. Yeosang was mortified.

“For how long was I out?” he was barely emitting a whisper, a huge contrast that kept everyone observing on their toes.

“About… three days…” Yeosang did not want to hear anymore. He took out the pills from his pocket and shoved them in the general direction of his acquaintance. It ended up right against the other’s chest. Yeosang was looking down. Waiting for the other to take it. When he didn’t, Yeosang let his anger take the better of him.

“ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANT? YOU LIVE FOR THIS AND I AM GIVING IT TO YOU! TAKE IT! TAKE IT, YOU BASTARD!” He threw it into the young man’s room and slammed the door shut. As he turned around, he saw all doors close quickly, and heard them being locked. Hilarious. These manic addicts being scared of the one kid who wasn’t. Not a pretty sight, huh? Who cares?

Yeosang went back into his room and almost immediately fell asleep.

He slept on and off for two days. According to his personal tutor, he had done all of his coursework for the next month so he could skip a few days no problem. He had also completed a few exams early so that was set. Such a fool… how did he allow himself to do this? His parents would notice. They would be disappointed in him. The one thing they had told Yeosang not to do, he had done. But he was in a place where there was no other option, except, perhaps, ending everything altogether. But he was too young, so he chose the next ‘best’ thing.

That was Yeosang’s first and last experience with KALIN-X. He had found that one dose resulted in cravings for more and more, and he had to physically restrain himself to not burn the dorms to the ground in a search for a fix. It was unbearable, but he had to be silent. Nobody should be aware of his moment of weakness. It was a misstep that he should not have made. He had no recollection of what he had done. His real self was far from whatever he was doing. It did not exist. If he were to be asked about any piece of coursework he had done in that three day time period, his mind would draw a blank. Even though he had attained a much higher grade than his average.

Return to average. That was what he needed. He had to come down from this despicable high and dissolve back into the crowd. So that is exactly what he did. Finished university without any more events or hiccups, took up a generic job, and for the last few years had dedicated himself to not be different. It was safer that way. Now he knew that when people were on KALIN-X they were not rational. They were as close to machines as humans could get. Functioning not because they had the choice, but because they were being dragged by invisible strings. Millions, billions of puppets surrounding Yeosang. So, what was the rational thing to do? Pretend to be one himself.

His managers seemed to like it. They let him get on with his work without being constantly monitored, a luxury not given to those who were open about not using the pill. There were also The Tainted; a completely different class of human, in the eyes of the directors and CEOs they were a wholly distant breed. Both types were quickly disposed of. They were seen as a stain that the company wanted to wipe away, to not ruin their image of having the hardest and most loyal workers – born, living and dying while being the perfect tool. How could they have people who were non progressive? Worse, what if rumours began to spread that they were employing Tainteds? That would lead to a bad name, and imminent closure.

Yeosang had a colleague who was a Tainted once – only for a month. He was not sure how she passed the screening process, but she ended up working in his team. Very diligent and ambitious. Willing to do anything. She could edit just as well as any of the druggies, if not better. Somehow, she managed to make lifeless texts fresher, and gave the author an emotive voice; like they were actually fascinated by what they were writing about. That was what made our boss suspicious. She was not dispassionate and passive enough. He had been the one to appeal to Human Resources to check her profile in more depth, including old medical records and more… As soon as the results came in and her (according to them) dark secret was revealed, she flew out just as suddenly as she had joined. She had been given the mark of a Tainted by a series of certified professionals; doctors specialising in worker health. She was an individual ‘immune’ to the effects of KALIN-X. The dosage did not alter the lack of reaction in her, either. It was as neutral as water. She was completely unreactive, and thus, uncontrollable. No business needs people who could not be controlled when they so desire. So, she was erased from the world. Yeosang did not see her ever again after that.

Another thing that Yeosang had noticed was that it was not difficult to command people under the medication. If one was eloquent enough, they could merely convince the subject that whatever they want done is a matter of life and death. And off they go. So, all those years ago at university, Yeosang had put himself in that much danger without realising! He thought the so-called Tainted to be lucky. She could not be subdued. Could be herself to the fullest. It was awe-inspiring. Not so in the eyes of the law and industry, of course, but it had struck Yeosang with more force than any pill propaganda could. So, he vowed to live without a single tablet or pill of that poison.

He wondered if what had happened was unfair. In the past, before KALIN-X had existed, this would have been considered to be discrimination, lack of opportunity… and many more reasons. But now, in a near ideal equal society, what was this? Was this meant to be? Did it have to be accepted? Yeosang had no idea. It was obvious that the higher ups were afraid of having a person like that lady in the workplace. In their minds, she could be a bad influence. An agitator. She had nothing to lose, so why not try to ruin a system from the inside? Logical fears, and yet, she had proven to be so dedicated that it was odd to have her fired. They probably found it strange that a regular person not under influence was finding this job fun. That was why they left Yeosang alone – he had mastered the ‘I do not care a single bit about what I am doing but I am doing it because I totally adore this nation and the idea of working’ look. It had taken him a few years to master and adapt it for various unique events, but so far he had never fallen under suspicion.

In addition, they would be disappointed to find nothing on him being a potential Tainted, since he knew from first-hand experience that he was part of the average majority, who do not need to up their dose, who do not need supervision, who simply get knocked out and become little busy bees. Just like everybody else; a little mousier, outwardly dour. He had chosen to evolve with the time, like a plant growing taller and taller to reach the sun. He had wanted to have at least a little bit of it, even if it meant constantly wearing a mask.

Yeosang was scrolling through the second manuscript for the day – barely any variation from the first, when his thoughts drifted, and he remembered that ‘Tainted’. How many years had it been? One? Two? Yes, he was confident it was two. Where had she ended up after her dismissal? He could only guess. The majority of Tainteds, even those with spectacular higher education and spotless backgrounds went into manual labour, often going out of the city to farms or factories. Somewhere where there was no image. Where they were employed without a contract, paid a minimum wage on a good day, and extremely exploited. He hoped that that was not her fate. She had presented far too delicate, too metropolitan an appearance to allow for the mind to even imagine here out there. It would be better if she had moved to a less strict country and found a life there. Even an activist, or any career that was against the government suited her more. It was a little fantasy of his to pretend like he might have come across someone like a revolutionary in his life. Her eyes had possessed a twinkle the first time she walked in. Ready to tackle any challenge and move on to the next one with success after success. Who said she could not embrace it?

If only Yeosang could allow himself to be like that, then maybe he could see himself as more than an empty space. But it was safer to be air than a scalding hot fire. It was tempting to send everything and everyone to hell and to embrace his true nature, but his survival instincts and rigorous self-training would never allow such a thing to happen. KALIN-X now ruled the world, so he had to accept his role as a mere peasant and plough his metaphorical field – editing non-fiction books about this king, every day until he stopped breathing. What a horrifying fate he had selected for himself.

Hours went by. He intentionally skipped lunch to please his boss, who had been going in and out of meetings, therefore passing by Yeosang’s desk far too many times for comfort. Luckily, leaving the office was no problem at all. There was a routine test fire alarm two hours after the usual end of the workday, so after filing out he could slip away unnoticed.

As soon as he managed to get himself into the nearly empty metro, he sighed deeply. Exhaustion climbed onto his shoulders and pulled him into a short anxious slumber, vanishing on instinct right before his stop.

It was easy to locate the apartment building where Wooyoung lived. Shabby and run down, it was in one of the poorer districts, and even there it stood out like a sore thumb due to its dirtiness and air of having been neglected for many decades. This building could be said to accurately describe those who lived in it – abandoned by society and left to their own devices. Most had turned to small crime, unregistered or illegal manual labour, or burying oneself and hiding behind thin walls. A human rat, barely living to scurry around, only sustenance being the glow of the street through shabby, dusty blinds.

The main entrance had a permanent leak from an exposed rusted pipe, prevented from leaking by a kindly donated blue bucket, while the elevator had been turned into a combination of a pigsty and a public restroom. If one wanted to use the indoor stairwell, they would have to watch out for forgotten bin bags, contents rotting away, and puddles of viscous liquid within cracks in the stone chipped with age. Bannisters crooked and handrails covered in splinters, one could see multiple attempts to mask the misery with cheap white paint, which had never been able to properly dry in this rancid, humid chamber that had not seen the light of day. Sticky patches of it had formed droplets on the sides, mixing with mould and hanging like miniature ornaments. This place was poetically revolting. It suited Wooyoung just fine.

Yeosang’s friend of many years had never aspired to become anybody. Without even the tiniest goal, he rolled along with the current like a pebble on the riverbed. The only things he felt strongly about was non-conformism, passive activism and demanding that employment be a choice. The two young men were similar, in a sense. It was just that Yeosang hid his contempt for societal structure terribly well, while Wooyoung took a toddler’s approach and threw tantrums whenever possible.

Wrapping his trench coat tighter around him and holding the edge of the collar to his nose, Yeosang made his way up the emergency stairs – now being used as the regular point of entry. The metal beneath his feet creaked and rattled, displeased at the efforts it had to go through to stay upright and working. About time for it to retire, but who had the finances to save a building that should have been demolished years ago? Definitely not the residents.

There was no reason for him to be there, except to check that his friend still had a pulse. Their dynamic was rather habitual as of late – before, they were connected by university life; same group of friends, same stories circling around… nowadays it was a fear of ending up alone that kept Yeosang attached to this layabout. That was right – Wooyoung, a hard worker’s closest friend, was a ‘good for nothing’ in the eyes of the community. He did not want to participate in the hustle and bustle, claiming that any form of work was not for him. He insisted that KALIN-X only gave him a headache and avoided the majority of widely supported community and service plans. Radically opposite from Yeosang, who did everything in his power not to stand out.

The unemployed fake philosophy and conspiracy theory enthusiast liked the sound of his own voice, and could spend hours circulating on and on through the same topics – society being trash, innocent and naïve citizens being brainwashed by the evil people in suits and with heaps of money in their pockets, how unfairly he was being treated and how he totally deserved better, how we had a lot of talent but there was nowhere where he could use it… it continued pretty much the same, only with slight variations to vocabulary and excuses growing more creative each time. But Yeosang did not mind listening to this. He treated it just like white noise on television. At first it was jarring and unbearable, but once it faded into the background it turned into a form of ambiance and an element of a routine for unwinding. Meditation through listening to nonsense to take a break from other nonsense. Logical enough.

Door number thirty-nine, using the third stairwell. The building had sixty identical apartments, split into blocks with fifteen flats each. Wooyoung lived in the third one. The door was barely distinguishable from the walls, having never been cleaned. So thickly coated with dirt that its white colour had been forgotten, replaced by a brownish grey. All the rage, from what it seemed. Almost all entrances were like that, some carelessly lined by miscellaneous objects – a broken bike, an armless doll with its face and body scarred with a black marker. Its eyes were rolled back; even objects had no desire to associate themselves with this place.

Wooyoung had a basket for umbrellas standing outside of his apartment. It was screwed to the floor and to the wall – if it were not, it would have disappeared within a few hours of being brought there. For that same reason it always remained empty, since those who visited were experienced enough to know better. This was not a neighbourhood where people left their doors unlocked and greeted one another with wide smiles, watering the flowers on their balconies. Could not be further from it.

After knocking three times, five times, Yeosang decided that it was alright to enter. His friend was either off his face or could not be bothered to answer the door – usual things, really. It turned out to be former, as the stench of marijuana reached Yeosang’s nostrils within seconds of entering. He could practically see the clouds of smoke piling and dancing at the ceiling. It was as if Wooyoung’s pad had accumulated all of the city’s fog.

“Hey, you in there?” Yeosang asked, squinting and looking around. He could not stand the smell and coughed. Waving his free hand, while the other was gripping onto a standard black leather briefcase, he crept forwards to the centre of the studio. He had to cross the whole room to get to the big window.

“Hey man…” his friend trailed off, obviously just back from another dimension.

“How many time did I tell you, if you are going to be smoking that stuff at least open the bloody window!” he chided, rushing to let some air in. It was not much cleaner, but less drugged up.

“Okay, mom.” Wooyoung drew out the vowels, his head falling to one side and glossed over eyes staring in the approximate direction of the window.

Yeosang sighed and massaged his temples with one hand. He loosened his plain grey tie and ruffled his dark hair. Why did he come here again? Oh yes, to ‘relax’. Somehow, babying his friend around was more enjoyable than staying at work. He took out a wet tissue and wiped the windowsill – it was just about the cleanest part of the apartment, and only because Yeosang needed to leave his briefcase somewhere, and ended up choosing the one his friend would never bother with. The documents and manuscripts in there needed to survive another day without being rolled up into a joint; or whatever Wooyoung would want to do with them.

He had not eaten, that was for sure. With minimal skills for independent living, Wooyoung relied on store-bought meals to sustain himself. His cupboards were stuffed with convenience store quantities of instant food: ramen packets, crisps… anything that could survive an apocalypse if need be. There was also a flimsy drawer with plastic cutlery and napkins from fast food places, a grand variety of sauce packets as well as some banged up cups for them. Yeosang checked the fridge, sighing when he saw the pot of soup he had cooked last time in the same exact place. It had to have gone bad by now. One whiff of the contents was enough to confirm the hypothesis. Down the drain it went. Rather analogous to how Wooyoung was spending his days. Nothing productive. If only he were to find something to do... Yeosang shook his head. He was beginning to sound like his autonomous ‘barely human’ co-workers. Thinking that getting a job is the only way for somebody to have a high quality of life.

Look at this friend. He could spend as much time as he wanted in his home; if he so pleased, he could roam the city for as long as he liked, forget about what was ‘the norm’ and what was ‘looked down upon’ and just do what he desired to do, all on a whim. To be frank, Yeosang was slightly jealous – on multiple occasions, he thought of leaving his workplace and becoming a layabout too. He would have to downgrade from the skyscraper he lived in and move away from that district for good. Spend all of his days in some shack, maybe move in with Wooyoung. The further he pondered the matter, the more relieved he was that he was good at faking. By restating the consequences of giving it all up, Yeosang just managed to remind himself why he was pretending to be someone he was not.

Having his residence be at a very particular address had given Yeosang quite a few benefits before. Because now, almost all purchases had to be made through an identity card in order to prevent certain types of illegal activity (though Yeosang was convinced that it was all part of a mass surveillance plan), the workers at chain stores and high-end restaurants could see the district in which he lived. It was one of the most popular for ambitious youth; with high-rise apartment complexes with concierges, security guards, gyms, pools and more, it was the modern dream. Ironically enough, the majority of the residents barely spent time in their beautiful residences. On multiple occasions, Yeosang had to give directions to workers who were looking for their own apartment. That, in turn, made him feel slightly guilty that he had the opportunity to be within his rented walls, sleep on a comfortable double bed, have a glass of water while watching the sun rise from his bedroom window, and watch the sun set while sitting in his living room or cooking up a late dinner in his kitchen.

He had never invited Wooyoung over, out of fear for being detected supporting a layabout’s lifestyle. It was commonplace to spread rumours; and once one person started talking it could grow exponentially to millions. There were gossip discussion forums online where anything and everything was discussed, and neighbours in the last few years had become more vigilant than any security system. Thankfully, they never lied or exaggerated. Why? Because they, too, were being watched.

But it was better to be safe than sorry. Come back later to cause less raised eyebrows and then in a few hours disappear again. The surveillance in his friend’s district was practically non-existent, not having been upgraded from a few cameras inside a store here, or a simple antique CCTV camera outside a bank there. Everything was on the brink of self-destruction anyway, so it was obvious that the government just did not wish to waste resources on a place that was crumbling uncontrollably. They would rather wait until it turned into fine dust and give way to grandeur, sophistication and sustainable innovation.

While scavenging for any forms of ingredients, Yeosang wondered what building would be put on the site of the wreck where his close friend lived. Would it be a high rise residential? Or would it be a segment of a department store, its glass proudly shining? This whole neighbourhood would have to be uprooted, demolished and erased for the ground to even stand a chance of fitting the rest of the city. This was a district left behind, along with the people in it. With bated breath, those same politicians who were promoting equality and diversity, and were investing millions into development of their supposedly beloved city, were waiting for the inhabitants of this forlorn piece of collected infrastructure to slowly die off.

Somehow, the contents of Wooyoung’s cupboards perfectly embodied what it was like to be in this borough. Stale bread, with the pieces deeper into the bag turned disgustingly warm. Tiny ecosystems blooming on the crusts. A reasonably well-preserved carrot – a few things would need to be cut off, but overall, not bad. Some rice; since two months ago, when Yeosang cooked with it last, the amount had not changed. Had his friend really been eating and, better yet, surviving off the ramen this whole time? But the number of packets had not changed either… how was this guy alive?

“Hey. Hey. Hey! Wake up!” he shouted, having approached Wooyoung until he was only an arm’s length away. The young man lazily tilted himself up into a more appropriate sitting position, but soon enough let himself slouch forwards. He covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, and let his skinny fingers press on his ears.

“C’mon… why you got to do that, man… my head…”

“Is ‘bout to be bashed in if you don’t stop your nonsense this instant!”

“Okay, mom!” Wooyoung rolled his eyes and fell onto the couch, nuzzling into the grimy pillow that had not lived the best life.

Unlike the rest of his body, his hands were soft and smooth. A trapped pianist who was living in the wrong time. He would have been a genius, otherwise. Such comments only fed his friend’s over-inflated ego, so he refrained from even mentioning it. Even though Yeosang did agree, those fingers, on the thinner side, not having known hard labour and not worn out, would have looked spectacular floating above the keys. Such a shame that their owner was who he was.

“Have you been wining and dining out every night?”

“What’s it to you? Bro, you are messing with my vibe, can you just-” Yeosang took one of Wooyoung’s arms and pulled him up. He could barely hold himself up while standing. It was evident that the world was swimming for him. Could he even see Yeosang’s face?

“What the hell did I tell you about eating through money like that? Your benefits are low anyways, but you are just making the situation so much worse!”

“Look,” Wooyoung stated coldly, suddenly sobering up. “I did not ask for you to come here and give me a lecture on how to live my life. If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out. I will be all the merrier. Go back to work, or whatever you do nowadays.”

He was taken aback. Did his friend really mean that? Oh, what had he done? The bag of rice in his hand felt heavier than before, and Wooyoung’s gaze had, in a fraction of a second gained a threatening judgemental glint. After a minute, Yeosang cleared his throat, and gave a one-word agreement. His friend was right. This was a waste of time.

“Okay.”

“Yeo… Hold up, Yeo? Where are you heading? Don’t play me like that man! I was joking, wait!”

Yeosang was about to exit the living room, with one foot already at the entranceway, but his friend dropped to his knees and was clutching the briefcase that Yeosang picked up in one swoop, in a feeble attempt to wrestle it out of Yeosang’s iron grip.

“You know I like joking. I was just a little mad that you were telling me off like that again. Sorry, I really should not have said that. It was way too far. Sorry! No need to be so sensitive, you know how I am! Come on! Don’t go! It’s real nice to have you around. You are the only one who visits me these days. Everybody else had forgotten about poor Woo. You are my bro. Come on, sorry!” his poor excuse of an apology had turned into pleas and yelps, not dissimilar to ones a purse-size terrier could make. It made guilt rise in Yeosang’s throat, turn into a lump and spread. It was choking him from the inside, making his breathing shallower.

Look at your friend.

It said.

Look at him, poor boy. He has nobody left in this world except you and you are about to leave. Who is throwing a tantrum now? Be the adult. If you can pretend to be on KALIN-X you can pretend to be a good friend. Pretending is nothing new to you. Since when have you been genuine?

His inner thoughts were unnecessarily hurtful. But valid. When did he allow himself to let go and have no inhibitions? Perhaps when he cried right after he was born. An infant not yet aware that he was breaking rules. Not yet wrapped up and put into the hell’s cradle, rocking side to side to the lulling rhythm of the clock, the news playing in the background.

Yeosang could remember the presenters that he liked when he was a toddler – the only time he could say he enjoyed the silly nonsense called ‘breaking news’ being reported without stopping. There was a man; probably in his thirties, with hair neatly combed back and glasses somewhere between oval and rectangle. His three-year-old self would stand in front of the television and ogle the man. The other one was a female presenter, almost always wearing a white shirt, completed with a new designer scarf. Her hair was the deepest, darkest shade of brown he had ever seen – not quite black, complex, rich, and her eyes were shining no matter what news she was delivering. Those two people made Yeosang want to become a reporter or a journalist. But reality had other plans.

Now he was babying a high friend in his filthy pigsty of a studio apartment. Where exactly did his life take a turn in this direction? He returned to the kitchen without saying a word to Wooyoung, and, defeat written clearly on his face, began to rinse and chop the salvageable bits of carrot and cabbage to mix in with rice. A swift process. He mechanically went through all the stages of preparing the meal. There was no need for him to be invested – he was not cooking for himself anyway. Did not have the stomach to enjoy anything while being surrounded by heaps of grime and decaying, peeling walls.

Time to throw everything into the only pot that had survived the apocalyptic condition of the kitchen – barely any rust and the handle was not falling off. It was only because Yeosang chose it to be his favourite. The rest could not live up to the versatility. This pot could accommodate for any dish, and silently allow the food to broil, not leave anything stuck to it, and allow itself to be washed with a rough sponge and stinging dish soap, only to be put back on the highest shelf hidden away from everything and everyone. Yeosang began to whisper a ‘thank you’ under his breath, not wanting to come off as a rude and ungrateful user. There it was, he was definitely going cuckoo from the constant acting. His real friend was a pot. They probably shared more in common than he did with Wooyoung, funnily enough. If only Yeosang could bring a pot to life, then his life would be completely different, and more entertaining. Maybe he would look forward to his days instead of trying to predict when he would drift off into oblivion.

While rinsing the rice, then turning on the stove and readying the loyal pot, he thought of the news reports he passively listened to while at work. The majority was useless – something or other about KALIN-X. It was basically compulsory to include at least one phrase about the drug in a broadcast, or else the companies valued in billions would not be getting their money’s worth. Other than those, there were stabbings, shootings, terrorist threats, gang violence, sexual offences…

Might be selfish, but Yeosang always wondered how it would be, to have his dead body be shown on the news. His couple seconds of post-mortem fame. The only fame. Would they mention that he was not a good enough worker because of his ‘abstinence’? He could bet they would. Regardless of how he were to pass they would spin the tale in the direction they wanted, to present him in a negative light and glorify anguish. It would be a creative ploy to convince more people to become zombies – something along the lines of ‘look, this kid has gone insane and ended it all, because he was not taking this miracle pill! Order a pack now to be a loyal and diligent worker,’ so on. Lies upon lies for a ‘greater cause’. Advertisements could be spotted everywhere. Even in the most gruesome crime scenes there was a product placement. Decorated in crimson. Bonus points if the logo had red in it. Aesthetically pleasing colour scheme.

No, Yeosang had to go quietly if he ever were to come to the moment of having to flip the switch. It was the perfectly rational thing to do. Disappear and never be found. Like a cat leaving the house when they knew the hour was nigh. He was not working towards anything anyway, so it should be possible. In his position, it was impossible to get promoted or be recognised for anything, so the worker organisations should not pay attention if he were to approach the situation in a smart way. He was stuck in a dead end, where the easy way out was six feet under. The news would not honour his death like those of Distinguished Workaholics if he were to be discovered. The reporters he used to respect and revere as a kid would take his story apart and change it. For once, he would be useful to society, as a bad example, appearing in the headlines and papers as this vermin who had met his end. Malicious grins behind soft lips uttering white noise. Who were they really?

This question would never be answered, for Yeosang had no authority to know. He just had to swallow the information whole and pray that he would not choke. The less he thought and the less he knew, the better. That would mean he could just go with the flow and never be noticed. Be satisfied with his dead-end job, leading to a dead end, but peaceful life. One editor less, one editor more. A pang of guilt hit him in his side. What about his parents? Would they miss him? He had not contacted them in a while, choosing to drown in work and poor excuses for chores.

Many times, Missus Kang tried to reach out to him, and many times he declined or brushed her off with a half-hearted response. Here he was, mildly hurt because of Wooyoung’s outburst, and yet he was mercilessly torturing his own flesh and blood by progressively growing more distant. He should choose a time that is not too busy and visit. A time when they would be at home too. Perhaps Workaholic Recognition Day next week will do? It was a tradition to honour those who ‘paved the way in industry’, so it would make sense. Yes, he should reconnect and be a good son for once.

The vegetable rice was steaming up in the pot, mixing and rising. Yeosang crossed his arms and took a look at his briefcase, which he had returned to the spot he had picked out upon first entering the apartment. It was peeking out from behind the murky coral curtain and dusty grey tulle, completely out of place. He wanted to apologise to the expensive leather for letting it come into contact with that poor excuse of a windowsill. But at least it was clean. He had been forcing himself to view situations in a ‘glass half full’ manner recently; a challenge he took on out of boredom and an attempt to fix his chronic apathy and melancholia. A fake smile would not do much, only remind him that he was acting, like always. In front of everyone. Anyway, his glass was ‘half full or half empty’, and dedicated to the ‘evaluation of the inconvenience something is causing and whether it will be detrimental to his reputation’. The briefcase just had to sit and cope.

Yeosang’s time in Wooyoung’s apartment slowly trickled into one hour, two hours… The food was done, but by that time any hint of an appetite had left his body, and he wanted to escape this den as quickly as possible. He washed his hands, using dish soap since there was nothing else, and dried by shaking them because he could not bear touching the rag that hung off of a plastic hook, discoloured and probably containing its own ecosystem.

His friend had fallen asleep on the sofa, body stuck in a slouch. Hoodie up, enveloped in semi-darkness. His dirty blonde hair made a veil, covering his eyes and going nearly to the tip of his nose. How unprofessional, he should get a haircut – Yeosang caught himself thinking. He was influenced more than he could imagine. But public perception was what it was. He could not deny that his closest friend had the appearance of a hoodlum; a rascal who had never seen the good life, making his wild grins and cheeky smirks all the more disturbing, threatening even.

Not bothered to attempt to wake Wooyoung up from the drugged slumber, Yeosang took his case and made his way to the door. Taking a tissue from the box he had left there a month ago, he grabbed the handle and pulled. It opened with a sigh. With a swift motion the used tissue went into the dust bin, and he was off. Now, his work day was officially done. He tightened his tie again, smoothed out his hair and readjusted the trench coat. Had to look presentable to the masses, or else too many eyes would be fixated on him on the metro.

There were more people out and about on the streets of the district, so he kept to the well-lit roads rather than taking the fast path to the station. If he was fast enough he could make the pedestrian green light. Travelling at a quicker pace than usual, Yeosang strode down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding groups of youngsters, couples and wannabe gangs who were all talking loudly, laughing and inhaling the fumes of the city.

Soon enough, he was waiting at the platform for the train to carry him north. He had blended into a queue of salarymen reading news on their smartphones, smartwatches, some even taking out their holopads – must be a long journey for them. There were a few holding books – must be working in the literature sector. Yeosang was thankful that he could feel comfortably numb in this group of average people, and they accepted him as one of their own by kindly ignoring him.

When the train doors opened, he climbed on, following the queue and lined up next to the opposite doors. In thirteen minutes, he would step off, walk straight and then right, up the stairs, follow the corridor across the main hall, down to the other platform, get on the train and drift for twenty minutes, letting the train do its job. The seamless work of machinery. This was who would not judge. He sank into the hum of the train and let his vision turn blurry. To others, he looked focused and determined, to himself, he was merely thinking of the contents of his briefcase.

It was more challenging than usual to feign professional indifference. Once or twice the nerves nearly got to him, and an involuntary twitch had almost escaped his self-control. But the fear of discovery was far greater. Even that kind-hearted old lady from floor seven, the one with the dachshund, could tell on him. To anyone and everyone. He moved down the corridors swiftly, head perfectly straight and posture impeccable. A regular robotic office worker coming home from an incredibly long day at work, already wanting to head back. Home by necessity. Nothing to see here. Inside, his heart was racing, threatening to jump out of his chest. With every stride the sound of the pounding got louder and louder, until the only thing Yeosang could hear was the chaotic flow of blood inside his head. It drowned out the footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the distant ding of the elevator… It was only him here. A serene panic.

After what seemed like an eternity he was standing in front of his apartment’s door, unlocking it with practiced autonomy. Counting to nine from the moment the key turned, he gently pushed the door, feeling its sliding motion, slipped in, and shut it, turned and pushed the door closed. Approximately nine seconds was the average amount of time Yeosang took for his leisurely return, nine seconds to be ‘average’.

He sighed, a felt his legs go weak. What came over him? Relief? It would be rational; he had managed to smuggle classified and prohibited manuscripts into his house after all. He rubbed the front of his briefcase and, even though he was in the comfort of his own home, still went through the exact routine of sliding off his dress shoes, placing them into the cupboard, taking off his outerwear and leaving it on the hanger, placing the bag on the bench to his left, and only then ambling into the main apartment.

He walked to the kitchen sink and rinsed his hands. Just like always, the sensor on the soap dispenser only woke up after he waved his hand around like a madman. Nothing ever changed in his home, except when solitude washed over it upon the owner’s departure, and when the lightbulbs flickered on, spotlighting his returning sombre figure. This was why in part, the miniscule problems, the inconveniences, were comforting. Something broken here or there – it felt alive. Problems were something he could metaphorically rely on. It was often the case that problems stayed longer than solutions, so it would be more logical to build one’s plans around the negative rather than the positive, at least that was his way of thinking. Yeosang was really becoming an automaton without needing pills, wasn’t he? Perhaps that was how he would end up on the news: the first ever case of someone having abilities on par with the drugged-up workers, but being a fully functional human, with the id, ego and superego all in check. He could keep on dreaming.

All that publicity would remove all ability to be secretive, however. All celebrities nowadays were so transparent that they were like windows. Like skyscraper, like superstar. Sometimes, the reality shows or daily vlogs were broadcast on the big screens in city squares, the sound coming from them barely audible over the buzz of traffic and pedestrians. Still, with one scan of the code on the bottom left and one could tune in on their personal device, adding to the number of fans, therefore to the number that will appear in the star’s bank account. An efficient system, to be frank. Sometimes there would be giveaways, raffles, game shows, anything to cook up some more e-money and attract a wider audience.

Interactive talk shows and ‘guided vlogs’ were the most popular, however. It was where the audience was an essential member of the broadcast, and the viewers could actively participate (of course after being approved by a group of moderators, the judges, if you will) by either asking questions, making suggestions or flat out deciding for the puppet-like entertainer what they should be doing to improve the show and gain more of everything. It was risky. Riskier than one would think. There were many cases talked about in the unofficial and underground papers of wannabe celebrities, vloggers just starting out and almost famous influencers succumbing to the malicious fans and doing something they instantly regretted.

When passing through his friend’s district Yeosang had spotted a few posters talking of a young lady, twenty one, having been brutally murdered on camera. “Justice for Dasom” – that is what it said, aggressively, in red. Who had put those posters up? Her family? Friends? Those same fans? Yeosang had no idea, but the sheer amount of such occurrences had desensitised him to the miniature tragedies. On a wider scale, did they really affect anything? Did the world change with so-and-so’s departure? Frankly, no. Maybe more people mourned their death than the average person’s handful. But they will be forgotten too. Yeosang was counting on that, so he began to fade away as early as possible, so that his passing would not leave as much as a ripple. The only thing he could wish for was to be replaced as quickly as possible.

Still in his dress shirt and trousers, he was immobile on his L-shaped sofa, staring out into the distance through the floor length windows. Then, his eyes settled on his own reflection. His always perfectly styled hair, his nearly creaseless clothes, his hollow eyes. Carefully designed to be empty. It was at times like this he felt forlorn and useless. Who was he trying for, what was he trying for? It wasn’t like he had a goal in life. Not a lover he could meet with, talk with, adore. Not a family he could deeply connect with and visit without a reason. Not even a vacation to save up for and to plan. The majority of the things people of the past took for granted were now nearly obsolete. Especially holidays. One could have the rest of the mentioned wonders, but only if they still put work first.

He was tiny compared to the city he lived in. A little ant, inspecting the glowing red lights on the horizon. Millions of lives on the palm of a hand; Yeosang’s insignificance was amplified drastically. Was this how the creators of KALIN-X felt? Had this been their goal all along, to stand out from the crowd and be able to grasp it? Change the way the world worked, quite literally… Who and what were they trying for? Was it at all possible to not be hollow?

The collection of ideas, practically sounding like a manifesto that was hidden away in his briefcase, was leading him to question his judgement. Yeosang had always agreed with the aimless way of life that had been drilled into his head since he was young. How else would he move through the years without disappointment? If one were to have set expectations, they were bound to have downfall after downfall. If they were never set in the first place, there could only be successes. Guaranteed satisfaction at any workplace, simply because nobody had any standards.

But this… this manuscript… It was scandalous! Submitted to the editing and publishing house anonymously, it definitely made its way onto his floor by accident. Definitely meant for immediate incineration. And yet, by fate or luck or destiny, it survived and passed all initial screening tests. How? Upon first glance, the messages held within were definitely not for the ‘workaholic movement believers’ nor for those propagating the miraculous powers of the pill.

The author was daring. The author was brave. The author was most definitely unlike anybody Yeosang had ever had the chance of even imagining. From the opening lines there was spirit. A demand for attention. They were confident, unafraid of ever being caught. Was this a figment of his imagination? Was all the pretending finally getting to his head and he was hallucinating the beginnings of his downfall? No, the papers were very real, and the pages had burned themselves into his mind.

Bound by two sheets of A4 paper, the manuscript was beyond ordinary. No one in the office had spared it as much as a glance. As a matter of fact, it had been sitting on one of the tables of ‘open selection’ manuscripts for approximately two weeks, until Yeosang’s boss had picked it up and absent-mindedly left it at his colleague’s desk, who pushed it away when taking out binders and notepads. What if one of the ‘hard workers’ had gotten their hands on it? Would they immediately raise an alarm and security guards in black suits with earpieces and scowls permanently etched onto their face would rush in to dispose of the dangerous material? But most importantly he now was in possession of this potentially incriminating work. He was not a rebel by any means, but curiosity got the best of him, and he had to take the piece home. Smoothly swapping it out for another equally thick manuscript, he left the pro-pill propaganda on his desk like he usually would for something he was working on, while the mystery was with him still, not yet safely, but stored in his case. He had added a few blanks to the ‘presentation’ piece beside his computer to make the two submissions identical; a page counting machine would immediately spot the miniature fraud had there been a different number. Nothing like being too careful. The pill-driven drones sometimes got suspicious.

Yeosang pushed himself off his couch and rolled his head, hearing a few cracks. So young yet exhibiting the physical aptitude of a creaky old door. He must totally be a source of pride for his parents for this… He did not see any of his colleagues ever struggle with pain. Were there suppressants, painkillers mixed in? He could not recall if that was the case, from the one time he lost to the game. His conscious just disappeared. It was ironic that he was now contemplating this, as in the first few paragraphs of the manuscript there was a line that implied just how necessary pain was to feel truly alive. And by that the author was meaning any sort of pain. From a big bruise to a fall out with a friend or partner to the coffee machine breaking.

He wanted to settle down and devour the words as soon as possible, but the fear of being watched was not leaving any time soon. He had to slowly draw the curtains, like he always did, change into pyjamas as always, cook a light dinner, like he always did, make some herbal tea – whichever he was feeling like having, and only then take his briefcase, and with it in one hand and the mug in the other, settle in the armchair in his bedroom. Positioned in a corner, it was impossible for anyone to get behind Yeosang and read over his shoulder. He could see the whole room and observe the entrance. There was no way anything or anyone could be watching in a room he checked every night and every morning.

Once in more loose-fitting clothing and with others prepared for cleaning, he moved towards the kitchen. After browsing the cupboards and fridge gave him no ideas, he chose to fry up egg with vegetables. The more mindless the dinner the better. Tossing the contents of the pan he was cooking in complete silence. The only sounds aside from the sizzling and scraping that echoed around the room were the occasional whirrs of cars zooming down the street outside. Although he lived on the ninth floor, and supposedly had noise isolating glass windows, it was obvious that one could not escape completely. While he was still young, he could live with it. The rhythm of existence of millions outside.

He kept on thinking about the manuscript sitting in the briefcase. How it was positioned, tucked away between random files and his notepad. Should he wear gloves when holding the book? No, since when? It looked ordinary, so giving it ‘crime scene level’ treatment at this point, especially after he had already touched it enough times, would be borderline mad. Plus, if someone were to bust into his apartment right at the moment he was reading, they would undoubtedly question him. No, he had to keep on playing it off as if it was nothing.

The food was tasteless – Yeosang forgot to add any spices and was too easy on the salt. His mind was so far away from the kitchen that his hands got lost and decided not to risk it by adding red pepper flakes. A collection of ambiguous textures was all that was left in his mouth, and he half-heartedly chewed and washed the mass down with water. There was a time when Yeosang would try to impress those surrounding him with culinary expertise, spend hours perfecting dishes and inventing recipes. Some thought he would be a chef and joked that they would be waiting for him to open a restaurant. But that was all it was: a joke. Hours all too quickly turned into minutes, then seconds, then dissolved into nothing. Food became sustenance and nothing more. All forms of dreaming were eliminated at the root and all Yeosang was left with was random kitchenware the purpose and function of which he was not sure of anymore. Who needed a chef in this day and age? Showroom restaurants? They already had the best of the best, and if he were to try to set up a café or a bakery, it would never be successful. Rustic and bohemian social spaces were progressively being eliminated, and that included all privately owned eateries. If one were to name any place Yeosang used to go to as a kid, he could almost guarantee that it was shut down.

So, he had changed focus, not that he had any considerable one to begin with – it was easy enough, seeing as he enjoyed literature from a young age and could dedicate impressive efforts to pondering the alternate meaning to a book, analysing the morals and picking apart the structural and formal techniques in the text. His parents, both far away from the creative arts, allowed him to pursue it since they saw a well-paid future ahead of him. Of course, they had shut down possibilities of being a poet or writer early on, advertising the prestige of being an editor. His kid self… unsurprisingly, fell for it.

The manuscript he had smuggled home was the first time in years when he felt that his career was worth it. He had the chance, the opportunity to see a text like this. It was a rare occurrence, since he was not in the primary handlings department, alas it brought him joy. There were real people, real minds behind some of the texts, and that gave him motivation. Not all of it was nonsense! It was impossible to publish, of course, but at least a handful of people could have the knowledge that there were others who were not convinced and saw through the so-called idyllic conditions. Those courageous souls, spending days typing away at their desks were, without a doubt, not doing it for profit, but for the awakening of others. Passion and drive was evident. They were breathing, blood was coursing through their bodies. Oblivious somnolence was not in their lexicon, for they were abstinent too. Proudly rejecting what communities surrounding them had silently accepted because they did not want to look into it further. Yeosang could finally feel like he was part of something bigger. Like he was standing for something, and not just trying to be unique in a society that was seeking to destroy that concept and state. His resistance was not futile.

A part of him was putting off his reading until much later, unsure as to why. Potentially it could be due to an intrinsic fear of the unknown – there could be something in that collection of words that would be too jarring and astonishing for him. A statement that was so true he would not be able to fully accept it. As an editor, one had to approach every text with an open heart and mind, ready to read opinions conflicting with their own, and go out of their personal way, adopt impeccable professionalism, all in order to support the writer if the work was good enough and agreed with the publicised ethos, general requirements for publication, etcetera. But Yeosang was not in his office, where that façade came automatically. He was not metaphorically feeding off of the nature of his co-workers and mimicking them like a child would their parents. He was in his own four walls, faced with something that may or may not change how he perceived the world he was born and raised in.

The manuscript already had control over him; from the shocking appearance in the office to the attractive anonymity of the author. But on the other hand, it had the chance of disappointing him. All too often, the pieces he had to go through at work started off like the world’s greatest novel or essay, but then that passion, that conviction diluted itself into nothing. All that was left were checklist statements mandated by some big boss up above to make the manuscript ‘good enough’. Yeosang hoped that the writer had enough resilience to write at least a few pages more than the average. Anybody could be regular if they tried. Anybody could become everybody else. It was the strength some people had to openly ‘step out of line’ that Yeosang wanted to catch a glimpse of in the text, for it is something he did not have. It was always a game of averages for him.

He usually took half an hour to eat dinner, if it was something he took time to prepare and wished to be more leisurely. Then, to the hum of the television he would take small bites and chew. For lighter dinners he would sit at the breakfast bar and eat in five to ten minutes. As per usual, he had turned on the radio, not caring much for the music that was playing, and had intentionally slowed his pace to be within the timeframe. There was barely any left, so he took one final sip of water and forced the morsel down his throat.

He gathered the dishes and washed up while counting. He counted his steps without realising. Sat back down on the sofa and tapped his knees. He was too anxious. It was now the time to watch television for some time before retreating to his bedroom and get ready for bed. The daily brainwash was very lulling. So, the couch it was again. Yeosang pressed on the remote and saw an announcer on the new channel slowly appear on screen, but it was not long before he drifted off to a short, restless sleep.

His internal clock jolted him awake after exactly twenty minutes – the time he normally spent resting after dinner. It was time. He stood up, turned off the TV and mechanically went to the entrance, taking his briefcase and walking to the bedroom. Stopping by a light control panel he turned off the lights in the living room and kitchen and shut himself away from the darkness. Setting the case against his armchair he moved swiftly to the bathroom, calming his nerves with regular routine. Biding his time, preparing himself, either for greatness or for a great emotional fall.

After walking out, Yeosang stood by the side of his double bed, blankly gazing into nothingness. There was no reason for him to subject himself to such danger. He could shred the pages right now, hide them, burn them, flush them… the possibilities were endless; the main thing was that because he did not fully familiarise himself with the content yet, in everybody’s eyes he was still innocent. No interrogation team would be able to get any information out of him, simply because it did not exist. Safety in ignorance. But he had already come so far, smuggling obviously banned material into his home, might as well give it a read. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity after all.

The sensation was similar to one when he and a few of his middle school friends would sneak out of their houses at night to roam the streets, see the life lit by the hazy moon, see what their parents were hiding from them. Relishing in the feeling of doing something they were not supposed to. Thinking about it now, Yeosang realised how foolish they all were, subjecting themselves to so much danger. It was in that same time period when there was a rise in the frequency of gang-related crime, hate crime and general violence. Many-a-times did they have to run away from a person trying to lure them into a side alley or take the long way home because their gut was telling them the group in front was up to no good. At the time it was a game. It was thrilling. Yeosang had not felt this silly thrill in a long time.

His heart was racing as he opened the leather case and moved files aside with his fingers, reaching in. The papers were heavy in his hand. It amazed him how much power the written word could have. This could potentially change lives! He had to pay careful attention to what has in this. This could be an underground sensation in the making! A black market bestseller! Those were rather trendy nowadays, even with some businesses beginning to officially publish some works that gained wide enough recognition and weren’t too politically charged. That was probably not going to be the fate of this particular work, but now that the manuscript was in Yeosang’s hands, he could see whether his hypotheses were right. With a sharp exhale he flipped the blank page to reveal a lonesome title, printed in the centre in a large font, with no name to accompany it.

All Work and No Play

Curiosity. A search for the tantalising, for nothing will ever be how one wants it. Dear reader will never see the words before them in the same way as another, nor will they, upon giving it the honour of a second glance, see these humble beginnings and trailing thoughts the same way again. But all have come to this page, this attempt at being a daring literary artist, because of one emotion. A sensation intrinsic to humankind – curiosity.

It questions everything, however, we never question it. Odd, is it not? For millennia our kind had built itself up and destroyed itself on the basis of curiosity. Would it be a reflex to combat the unknown? A strategy to expand one’s own mind to the multitude of possibilities surrounding them? The true explanation for curiosity can only be found if one were to be curious themselves, but that defeats the purpose and logic of the search. To define a tool and a state, one must use this same tool and state. According to modern reasoning and the philosophers of today, that is simply not possible and must be avoided, for the greater good.

So, would that not mean that there are now even more opportunities for curiosity to thrive than ever before? Ambiguity breeds the unknown, a monster that strikes fear in every person’s heart. It is with unparalleled passivity that the general population survives, eyes closed to the beautiful world of curiosity. A land of probability and invigorating risk is being progressively eliminated, by what?

If one questions, they must be aware. If they are aware, they are conscious. If they are conscious, they are rebellious. If they are rebellious, they are dangerous. A summary of the average thought process, is it not? I implore dear reader to take a moment to reflect on their daily life and agree to surmise this.

It is almost admirable how, whoever employs this mental chain, is, supposedly, not curious as to what question is being asked, where did it find foundation and how it could be explored. These good-willed citizens are, in fact, defying human nature simply by not being curious, or having the capacity to supress it to extinction. There should be some form of respect for these workers, these members of unions, these speakers, managers, and clerks.

Certain jobs had lost their meaning due to the curiosity as it was before becoming obsolete. Researchers are only searching within the limits, never overstepping boundaries. Developers are working in controlled environments to ideate and create within constraints. Perhaps the most liberating element of these types of employment would not be so-called creative liberty, but cold-blooded optimisation. The eradication of faults until something could be considered perfect, at least for a season. The inclusion of a just noticeable difference to keep clients and customers happy, and the impeccable design of a fault to be fixed in the next series. It was all pre-planned, with no curiosity for what could happen.

Curiosity does not work according to schedule, does not cooperate when one tries to restrain it after it was set free. It has the strength to keep one awake night and day, can be nauseating and inspiring simultaneously and can be demanding as well as reasoned with. It is a force of other-worldly power, one which cannot be explained unless one feels it. So, if dear reader finds that these words resonate with themselves… that means that they feel. They are liberated from being unknowingly numb to life. They can embrace the experiences of every day and appreciate the beauty of curiosity by developing themselves and the world around them.

Where does the oppression come from? What are the invisible constraints one falls victim to, what are the limits that surround a human, a ‘fellow worker’? Dear reader must take a look around and look into themselves. Is there anything that one could single out as the denier of ‘curiosity’? Has dear reader ever been told to not ask so many questions, to accept what was being taught or what they saw or heard or read? All are examples of curiosity being artificially supressed. Why there must be emphasis on artificiality, is because for the existence of one concept there must be the antithesis, the antonym, the counterbalance. There must be occasions when one’s curiosity is voluntarily shut down, and the human mind does not see opportunity for further exploration. The laborious repetitive tasks and particular chores might serve as a meditation, but they deactivate the curiosity. Is this what the ideal state is propagated to be? Overly accepting and allowing curiosity to age until it is senile.

When we were children, we were curious about everything; engaging in bombardment of adults with never-ending questions was a common occurrence and we would not think much of it. Such was nature. When we began to get older, enter the education system and join the community of sedentary, desk-loving lifestyle activists, our natural ability to ask question after question commenced degradation. It was impossible to escape the induced metamorphosis that was the guiding to the ‘right questions’ that one could easily answer. Then, by young adulthood, we have lost the ability to challenge our interlocutors, falling into common patterns, making predictable small talk, and becoming the world’s best listeners, for we now are not willing to speak for ourselves.

Is operating on a set of instructions the new trend? Is the lack of creative liberty worthy of appraisal?

Dear reader, how would you express curiosity in modern life? For, perhaps, now, because of how endangered it is, the remnants are hiding in the darkness of those who are awake.

It was nearly two in the morning when Yeosang felt exhaustion creep into his limbs and his vision began to get blurry. It was not too long left until he was supposed to be waking up, supposedly refreshed, and getting ready for work. Words were echoing in his mind. Curious? Ignorant? The Big Bad Wolf behind it all? It was obvious that the writer had a standpoint that was opposing the one of ‘the general public’, and was attempting, through intentional ambiguity, to begin the classic revolutionary story – the oppressed rising up; those mistreated in one way or another uniting and going against the one who used to be in control. There were no direct references to people inside the text, the implied characters just as anonymous as the author. Only allusion after allusion. It had to have meaning too. A regular piece written by your local agitator would be name-calling left and right, tearing apart official statements, and most importantly, spinning its own lies out of thin air and passing them as gospel, the real truth. Those were always entertaining to read; sometimes, when Yeosang would be going home after visiting Wooyoung, a kiosk that opened only when the owner wished for it to be, would be selling some underground books - a meagre selection of reflective memoirs, obscene one quid manuscripts that ended up in the nearest bin after a quick read, and sometimes, comedy gold.

The work that Yeosang was holding in his hands did not make him want to laugh. On the contrary he was left rather morose after going through the first few chapters. Left with more questions than answers, he pinched the bridge of his nose and skimmed over the open page again. After a whole chapter dedicated to ‘further reading’ that mentioned psychoanalysis, social psychology, behavioural evolution, genetic and acquired traits… if he thought hard enough, maybe some terminology might had made an appearance in a class or a lecture at some point.

He had expected this to be out of the ordinary, but it seemed that a part of him did not hold any hope for secretly published writing. It had become an expectation for him – anything even remotely against heavily advertised values was probably written in one burst and sent out into the great big world without ever being read by the author again. This curiosity business was profound. And the fact that this is the very beginning of original prose lead Yeosang to muse further. Having been split, textbook style, into sections based on human emotion and feeling, the fact that curiosity was placed first out of a grand selection was making the young man wonder. This could be a challenge: if the reader wants to prove that they are, indeed, curious, then they will feel inclined to read on. After one has been called ‘awake’ and has been convinced that by reading this they are attaining freedom, how could they not succumb to the pull of turning the page?

It was not that the sequence of phrases had resonated with Yeosang in any particular way – it was just that they were so unexpected that they imprinted themselves into his short-term memory, and he needed to satiate himself with more. It was a break from his regular routine; one which he sank into and began to live through mindlessly. This gave him his thought back, even if only for a few hours. After washing up one more time Yeosang returned to his seat, picked up the manuscript and read on.

Some parts read faster than others. There were elements that did not add any flavour or meaning but were colourful enough to keep the encyclopaedic recount of humanity going. He completely forgot to make any notes, merely devoured page after page. At that point in time the only thing troubling Yeosang was how he was going to appear at the office in the morning and how much coffee he should ingest before leaving his apartment. Trivial matters compared to the turmoil in faraway lands that he saw on television, when he was lucky enough to skip promotional messages.

After a few more pages and five stifled yawns Yeosang rolled his shoulders and set the manuscript aside. Nodding to himself he looked at the collection of papers once more and stood up to stretch. Time for a coffee break. Walking slowly to the kitchen the young man was operating fully in the dark; he did not need to see more than the silhouette of the coffee machine, the buttons, lit up and blinking. The aroma filled his nostrils and he shut his eyes.

Curiosity… At this moment, there was no need for curiosity, it would be ‘inefficient’. Yeosang exhaled sharply and smirked to himself. He could not help but be critical; years of studies instilled in him a distrust of any new literary movements and out of ordinary thought. So, he tried to conjure up criticism for the obviously illegal work. What was the purpose of this manuscript? There was no moral, like in old fairy tales, no explicit political message, not even a main character that the reader could relate to or judge… The peculiarity of the writing style made Yeosang fall deep into thought. Even though the manuscript was not perfect, there was something there. Something that had the potential to ingrain itself in the reader – could it be novelty? Intrigue? He was conflicted. For the first time in a while, he could not assign a label to the work.

He waited until the last drip fell into the cup before picking it up and taking a small sip. The same coffee that he had nearly every day. What else did he expect? More often than not, when people expect change, they get static. Like looking into a refrigerator, closing it and then opening it again thirty seconds later, hoping for something new to magically appear. This was a move Yeosang had seen in a late-night comedy show recently – an exclusive live audience recording which he had managed to get tickets to by sheer luck.

When coming back from visiting Wooyoung there was a flash sale going on at the transit station – a tiny pop-up booth that had just opened. Frankly, it was suspicious, but the tickets were real, and the price was fair. So that was how Yeosang ended up watching a series of stand-up comedians performing skits centred around the theme of ‘early twenty first century’. Live was simple back then. They did not have to worry about constantly working. They had time to look inside refrigerators for minutes on end. Perhaps a primitive example of hope, creativity, and curiosity.

His musings returned to the manuscript. He felt like he was catching the drift of the author, thinking of examples of elements of human nature. Go him. He was awake, he was fully functioning. Might as well take the title of philosopher and father of all thought, right? No, his job did not permit him to be aware. Too bad. Work would undoubtedly be more unbearable had he approached it with curiosity.

Some voice in his mind was actively protesting the desire to know what more was held in the manuscript, wishing to stick by the rules and exist in harmony with others. It was the same voice that had been operating his robotic side, allowing him to remain in line, in uniform. Gave him his present life.

If only it was not as exhausting, then said inner voice would not have existed in the first place, and Yeosang would have been first in line to optimistically conjure up plans for coups, propaganda campaigns and the seizing of power. After all, he did have the symptoms of not being entirely average, with his avoidance of KALIN-X. And out of the ordinary people, according to romanticised logic, had to do out of the ordinary things.

Alas, he had a stable job with a stable income to go to in the morning, he had been avoiding suspicions from his neighbours with near award-winning skill. It would be cowardly to jolt away from routine, no matter how tedious, at the first breeze of thought that did not coincide with that of the ruling power. He had been born out of line, meant to struggle as he had been. Like a cog in the machine that acted in place of a time bomb – he had no clue when he was going to burn out. But it was not his present self’s problem. He was surviving. He needed to survive.

But curiosity was a virus that took over an organism painfully slow. In stages. And without realising it, Yeosang had started a countdown. It was only a matter of time before ‘the cat’ would risk it all, just to satiate itself, hoping that, for once, the phraseological fable would fail to predict the outcome of giving in.

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