Chapter Text
Myunggi would never admit to it, but he had a problem. Even before he lost everything, he was too much of a perfectionist. His bedroom, always neat, looked like those in a Pinterest board, strictly arranged with no space left untouched. The bed was made with tight, smoothed out sheets, the pillows were spaced perfectly; never shown with a stain, and not a single item was out of place. His apartment never held even a speck of dust, nor would a curled-up sweater ever appear on the floor. He forbade it to happen. He couldn’t. The very thought of dirtiness invading his space made his skin crawl. Control was always there. Even before everything disappeared from him in a flash, his eating patterns consisted of fruit and protein, never mixing with one another, always looking organized. His meals were carefully curated, down to the smallest detail. Each bite was a conscious decision, every bite measured for balance.
But when did he become so obsessed? The thought nagged at him as he sat there, practically starving, staring at the small plate in front of him. He picked at the fruit, the sliced apple and the boiled egg whites carefully arranged, trying to push down the gnawing hunger. The count of calories and carbohydrates spun in his mind, each number racing faster than the last. His meal consisted of only intrinsic sugars, nothing processed, nothing out of place. It was not much, but it was perfect. Or at least, it gave him the illusion of control. Control over his body. Control over what he put inside it. It was the only thing he had left, the one thing he could manage in a life that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. After losing everything, it was the only thing he had left to hold onto. His body had become his last tether to some semblance of normality, something he could grasp in a world that constantly seemed to slip out of his hands.
Myunggi stood up to place the empty bowl in the sink, running scalding hot water over it until the last dash of food was gone, watching it swirl down the drain. The water burned his hands, but he barely noticed, too focused on the ritual of cleaning. His fingers scrubbed at the porcelain, viciously, until every piece of food was removed, until the surface gleamed with immaculate cleanliness. His hands were shaking slightly, but he ignored it, unwilling to acknowledge the way his body was reacting. Satisfied with the result, he dried the bowl with a clean towel, folding it neatly before opening the cupboard and placing it back in its perfect spot.
He walked into his room, the same meticulous space, a reflection of his mind—organized, quiet, almost sterile. He grabbed his grey sweater from the back of the chair and slipped on his bucket hat. The chill of the evening air was a welcome contrast to the sterile heat inside. Outside, it was cold, but it was his control. The walk was a ritual, something that, despite everything, he could control in a world that felt increasingly out of his grasp—with the added bonus of burning the calories he had just consumed.
The streets were sparse, the occasional car driving by, its headlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The city glowed with artificial light, as if praising him for the timely routine he kept. He had always prided himself on that, discipline, order. The rhythmic sound of his footsteps on the pavement matched the ticking of the clock in his head, his thoughts moving in sync with each step he took. Myunggi’s pace was brisk, his posture perfect—straight back, chin slightly lifted—always the image of control. His eyes were forward, fixed on some distant point, shutting out the world around him.
As he entered the subway, the familiar hum of the trains rattled the ground beneath his feet. His mind wandered for a moment, a passing thought of what he had lost, before a sudden movement caught his eye. A man—polished, well-dressed—was staring at him. Myunggi met his eyes briefly before averting his gaze, annoyed at the intrusion. But the man didn’t look away. In fact, he raised an eyebrow and smiled, a strange, knowing look in his eyes. Myunggi felt a flicker of unease, but he shook it off, continuing toward the staircase, eager to escape the man’s stare.
“Hello, sir? Can I have a moment?” The voice rang out, polite but insistent.
Myunggi startled, turning around just enough to face the man without fully engaging. “I’m busy,” he muttered. He knew it was a lie. He wasn’t busy—he was avoiding him. He just didn’t want to be seen right now.
“Just a moment,” the man insisted, his posture stiff and formal. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded Myunggi with a gaze that was unreadable, almost calculating. Myunggi didn’t trust it. There was something off about the man, something that set his nerves on edge. But he didn’t have time for this.
“Fine. Hurry up.” Myunggi snapped, his patience running thin.
The salesman opened his briefcase, slowly taking out ddakji tiles. Myunggi scoffed, ready to dismiss the situation, when the man’s next words stopped him in his tracks.
“Play ddakji with me, and every time you win, I will give you 100,000 won.”
Myunggi looked at the tiles, then at the briefcase, then at the man’s face. He scoffed again, more out of habit than genuine disbelief. "I’m not interested in your games.”
The salesman’s smile widened. “And if you win?” Myunggi asked, raising an eyebrow, curious despite himself.
“You give me 100,000 won,” the salesman replied smoothly, his tone light, as though it were a trivial thing.
Myunggi thought it through, lips turning downward. He had seen this kind of thing before—people like this, looking to prey on desperation. He’d lost money in games like this before, trying to chase something that wasn’t real. But he was desperate. The need for control was stronger than his better judgment. The idea of winning money—actual, tangible money—tempted him. He agreed, silently cursing his own weakness.
The first round was a disaster. Myunggi’s fingers were stiff, uncoordinated, and his flick missed the mark completely. The tile clattered to the floor. The salesman didn’t even flinch. He simply flicked his own tile, sending Myunggi’s flying off the table with ease. Myunggi’s stomach twisted, and a flush of embarrassment spread across his face.
"My ₩100,000?” The salesman raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Myunggi sighed, defeated. He’d lost, and he knew it. He had no money to give. He hesitated, but finally, with a humiliated huff, he confessed, “I don’t have ₩100,000…”
Myunggi clenched his jaw, his gaze falling to the ground, the tension in his chest rising. The silence stretched between them, the weight of the promise and the humiliation hanging in the air. What would the salesman do now?
“That’s fine,” the man said, smiling. Myunggi couldn’t tell if it was kindness or cruelty. “You can pay with your face, instead.”
Myunggi froze. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the man moved swiftly. A sharp slap echoed through the air as his hand connected with Myunggi’s cheek. The force of it sent Myunggi’s head snapping to the side. For a moment, everything blurred, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. The sting on his skin was burning, but worse was the shock, the complete confusion of it.
He slowly turned his head back, meeting the salesman’s eyes. The man was still smiling, that same unnerving, almost knowing smile.
“Shall we continue?” the salesman asked, his voice smooth and casual, as if nothing had happened.
Myunggi stood there for a long moment, his hand pressed against his cheek, the sting still sharp. His mind raced, confused, but a part of him wanted to play along. To see where this game would lead.
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Myunggi was left with a number to call, apparently it was “a great chance to win even more money.” He didn’t know why he agreed to it, but something about the offer, about the man’s smile, made him feel like it was a step—something that could finally give him the control he was craving. Humming to himself in approval, he set a reminder to call them, his thoughts already drifting to the possibilities of what could happen next.