Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By seven in the evening, Minosoft shed its daytime persona.

The overhead lights remained bright, but the floor lost its rhythm. Conversations thinned. Chairs rolled back into place and stayed there. The hum of printers died down into something more intermittent, like a tired machine breathing between tasks.

Kim Dokja did not leave - he never left first.

Across from him, Yoo Sangah was still at her desk, posture gradually folding inward as the minutes accumulated. The reflection of her monitor floated faintly in the darkened window behind her. Columns of data. A report opened and reformatted for the third time.

Director Han’s office light was still on.

It had been on since before five.

Dokja adjusted his glasses and clicked through a spreadsheet that no longer required his attention. He had finished his own tasks forty minutes ago. Now he was reorganizing archived documentation a chore no one had assigned but also one that no one would question.

Keeping "busy" was sometimes indistinguishable from keeping watch.

“Still wrestling with it?” he asked quietly.

Sangah didn’t look up immediately, but smiled at the question

“He's very fussy...”

There was no irritation in her voice.

At six thirty, Han Mungoh had come by again.

He had leaned one arm against the partition of her cubicle, casual in a way that asked to be perceived as mentorship. He had spoken too softly. Laughed too lightly. Commented on her diligence.

Dokja had sent a follow-up clarification email to the department group chat, asking precisely what formatting they would like -- to ensure consistency and such the like

Unfortunatly, Director Myungoh had connections everywhere, and weaselled, wheedled his precise requirement for Sangah to do it.

Now, at 7:12 p.m., Han’s office light finally clicked off.

Sangah’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said gently. “You’ve already finished.”

“I have reading to do.”

Her smile curved slightly. “Literary obligations.”

He did not deny it. Sangha was a good friend, sure, but certainly far too occupied with more enriching hobbies than reading trashy webnovels even if he secretly didn’t think they were trashy and that Sooyoung was a good if long winded author.

On his second monitor, minimized beneath spreadsheets, sat a draft titled:

SSSSS-Grade Infinite Regressor - Chapter 47 (Revised Again for YOU RAT BASTARD)

Han Sooyoung had sent it at 5:43 p.m., with no greeting and the message:

He had opened it immediately, but did not fix his face. His face was perfectly fine, thank you. It had totally not been grimacing over his very monotonous work. Totally not.

SSS-Grade Infinite Regressor was not flashy; did not rely on spectacle or speed. It accumulated inevitability. The protagonist returned again and again to the same starting point, retaining memories no one else possessed. The narrative moved forward through exhaustion rather than triumph.

Sooyoung wrote regressions like scars, and this was deeply comforting to a scarred individual like himself

Sooyoung wrote protagonists who carried knowledge like a burden instead of a weapon. Dokja often felt the same about his mother.

He scrolled slowly, reading for fractures.

His comment bubbled in the margins.

He paused, reread the paragraph, then added:

He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened.

They had met in university in a seminar neither of them respected.

She had argued loudly over the concept of maladaptive daydreaming with regard to using fiction as a coping mechanism (he was very proud of the fact he could remember both the topic and his argument very well). He had dismantled her argument point by point. She had called him an insufferable squid in front of twenty students. Unfortunately, the name had stuck, and had even been embellished over the years with 'ugly' and 'bastard' stuck on before and after respectively.

He had, however, out of some misguided fate, been assigned by the very rotund Professor Dionyses, to correct her citation formatting and be locked with her for all group projects. It had been an interesting chaotic, slightly disastrous year for Dokja, but for the first time in his life, he did not feel lonely.

Somehow, that had been the beginning.

Across from him, Sangah closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Coffee?” she asked.

rat_queen
JUST FOR U

He shut down his monitor, rolling his shoulders back

“I'm good, but if you do we can go”

Sangah shook her head, smiling.

The lobby doors slid open to damp evening air, and Sangah passed him an umbrella. He attempted to refuse it, but Sangah was quite stern.

“You'll catch a cold when the rain comes again." He attempted to interrupt her, but she continued "And it will come again, mark my words" she said, eyes twinkling. It had become a running joke between him, Sooyoung and Sangah, that Sangah had the gift of prophecy. She was very good that these kind of things. "And then I'll have no-one to keep me company in this miserable company.” She linked arms, and they begun walking. Dokja was still surprised that the good natured Sangah, the multitalented Sangah, had chosen to stay at Minosoft. She could have definately aimed higher. Yet for some odd reason, despite the harrassment from many of the male staff, particularly those of a sleazy personality and with oily hair, she stayed.

Seoul carried the metallic scent that followed rain. Traffic lights reflected across wet asphalt. The city did not quiet so much as change tempo.

Across the street, a massive LED billboard cycled advertisements before settling on an esports promotional reel.

Yoo Joonghyuk, captain of a very popular gaming team, appeared onscreen in profile, headset resting against dark hair, expression carved into composure. Behind him, the team logo glowed:

Nebulous

The caption read:

International Series begins in 3 days.

The clip cut to analysts discussing odds. The word formidable flashed briefly beneath his name.

Sangah watched for a moment.

“They’re everywhere lately,” she murmured.

“Internationals,” Dokja said. “It’s expected.”

“Don’t watch?”

“Highlights, sometimes”

That was true.

He observed narratives.

They crossed the street.

Her subway stop came first.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, half-hugging him, and then meeting his eyes.

“I won’t.”

She smiled, faint and knowing, and descended the stairs.

Dokja opened his phone again has he descended another staircase. Sooyoung had sent a tonne of messages, mostly insults. He scrolled past them to the most recent.

Dokja was not a gamer. He had said one time, once (!) that Yoo Joonghyuk was a handsome man when he appeared on an AD that the man was eye candy - and he was objectively very handsome. Eyebrows seemingly drawn by a single, uninterrupted stroke of a famed artist's brush; a nose and a chin shaped in perfect angles that defied attempts to measure them through mere devices of men; a pair of deep eyes seemingly carved out of a beautiful jewel containing all the misfortunes found in this world.
If someone saw those features and not get immediately drawn in by them, then there must be something wrong with that person. At least… that was Dokja’s opinion, and when he had expressed them to Sooyoung, she had cackled about how he was waxing poetry like some lovestruck 12th century medieval maiden. He was merely being truthful…

His apartment building greeted him with dim, flashing lighting and worn tiles.

He proceeded to the second floor.

The door across from his opened before he reached his own.

Lee Gilyoung stood there holding a ventilated insect container like a ceremonial offering. Shin Yoosung stood behind him, looking hopeful and angry.

“I found bugs,” Gilyoung announced proudly.

“They’re secured,” Gilyoung announced again, sounding as if he had found the next nobel prize awarding winning discovery.

“For now,” Yoosung added.

“Good,” Dokja replied.

From inside, Biyoo’s indignant babbling carried faintly through the hallway. Shin Yoosung figeted at the sound. Dokja wondered if Yoosung was supposed to be looked after her baby sister right now.

“are you recording tonight?” Gilyoung asked. Dokja winced. These children were adorable, but knew far too much about his life.

“Yes.”

“Can I—”

“No, Gilyoung-ie. Maybe next time, it's late now, you should sleep.” Dokja ruffled the boy's hair, and the boy preened into it, Dokja gently pushed the boy toward his own apartment, and boy entered, looking slightly happier.

Yoosung bowed slightly. “Good evening.”

“Good evening. How are you and Biyoo, Yoosung? ”

Yoosung grinned "We-”

"YOOSUNG!" Yoosung, winced, and scampered down the hallway to meet her irate mum.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

Inside his apartment, he turned on only the desk lamp.

Warm light pooled across the microphone and keyboard.

He loosened his tie, and took it off. Set his phone down.

He opened the recording software.

Chapter 43.

The protagonist realises he's betrayed the person he used to love..

He adjusted the microphone slightly closer.

Headphones on.

He inhaled once, slow and controlled.

Then began.

His voice was something he had grown to be proud of. Expecially when he was tired, he wouldn't say he was narcisstic, but his voice had a velvety cadence when he was tired.

He recorded the chapter twice.

On the second pass, he adjusted the pacing in the confrontation monologue. Lowered his tone, not into absence, but into fatigue.

When he finished, he removed his headphones and opened the editing timeline, but not to edit much. Only to remove the rattle of his cheap window blinds, because he didn't want the listener to know he was poor.

He listened through once more, eyes closed.

Somewhere across the city, Yoo Joonghyuk was likely scrimming beneath stage lights, preparing for an international stage where thousands would watch him play.

Here, in a dim apartment with peeling paint and thin walls, Kim Dokja read. He truely lived up to his name, in many sences.

Narratives existed at different scales.

He exported the file.

Uploaded it to the small forum.

Typed no commentary.

Closed his laptop.

The room fell into darkness except for the thin line of streetlight slipping through the curtains.

He lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed once more.

He allowed himself the faintest smile.

Across the city, crowds were already lining up for Nebulous merchandise.

On his desk, the microphone cooled in silence.

Kim Dokja closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would repeat.

He would work.

He would read.

He would record.