Being A Full-Time Employee C2

Chapter 2

Another brat was yawning and following behind me. Hyungmin, who had just joined the agency and was on his very first dispatch, came running up to me, acting like he knew everything.
“Wow, weren’t all the originals stored inside there?”
“They say no. Apparently, they dug out a storage room in the Alps underground and buried them there.”
“Well, if that blows up too, that’s the end of it.”

I maintained a thoroughly skeptical attitude. Seunggyu snickered and agreed, saying that was true as well. Maybe that lack of countermeasures was why we were once good friends. But when I think back on it, I doubt it. Were we really friends?

Anyway, this was the era of dungeons. Everything remembered from before felt hazy, like a past life, and untrustworthy.

“Hey, Yang Baekgyeom. That’s not where you’re supposed to go.”
As I dug at my ear and tried to leave these fools behind, Seunggyu suddenly grabbed my arm. I turned back, unable to hide my displeasure, only to see him grinning. The gold tooth he’d fitted into his fang flashed, making his age look anywhere between six and fifty-four, not twenty-eight.

That natural babyish face, the chubby cheeks, and the antiquated old-man fashion combined into something that dropped people straight into the uncanny valley without warning. I wondered, could this bastard also be a hunter? No—that wasn’t likely. Mental-system types… if anything, he might be an Esper.

“You belong upstairs. Fourth floor.”
“Fourth floor? This place even has a fourth floor?”
“Of course.”

Because of dungeon outbreaks, because of all these monsters and supernatural powers, the Hunter Bureau had deliberately omitted Floor 4, believing in the inauspiciousness of the number “4,” which sounds like the word for “death” in both Korean and Chinese.¹ When the Bureau was first established, Helios had stepped in to help, and they didn’t believe in such superstitions. But apparently, because even some hospitals still refused to mark their “4th floors,” the higher-ups agreed to skip it anyway.

And Helios, of course, no longer existed in Korea. In fact, not anywhere in the world. The company had been torn apart in the U.S., caught in a storm of accounting audits and damning documentaries that kept being released one after another.

Helios filed lawsuits, claiming those documentaries were fabricated, but the contents were so absurdly unethical and abnormal that nearly all their clients and partners, even nations themselves, cut ties. The revelations had been this:

“Helios conducted experiments on orphans to turn them into Hunters. There were no failures in these experiments, since even the unsuccessful ones were useful in testing their new drugs.”

A nauseating story. The Korean Hunter Bureau quickly abandoned Helios as well.

Some said Helios had become too influential, and that the U.S. government itself had drawn the line, while rumors spread that the CIA had actually funded the documentaries. Others countered that Helios did run orphanages, but purely for charity.

Whatever the truth, it was only a brief scandal. The company disintegrated, and people’s attention quickly moved on. Life was simply too dramatic day after day to stay focused on a vanished company.

For me too, whatever Helios had left behind at the Bureau—or failed to leave behind—was irrelevant. What mattered now was the fact that, officially, the fourth floor was labeled as the fifth floor, and everyone recognized it as such.

“You go up from the third floor by stairs. Open the specimen room next to the Division for Amorphous Biological Entities, and that’s where you’ll find the stairs.”
“How do you know all this in such detail?”
“What else would I be using but information? You can’t survive in this industry without it. You ought to thank me.”
“Stop taking such a hefty commission then.”

It was a hassle. I shoved one hand into my pocket and with the other snatched Seunggyu’s sunglasses. Ignoring his startled “hey,” I strode off.

The security guard who already knew my face waved me through the visitor’s lane without checking. His expression clearly said: No need to bother, he’ll soon be classified as a relevant member anyway.

“How have you been?”
“Same old.”
“And the kids? Elementary school now?”
“I transferred them to Jeju recently.”
“Wow, that far?”

Sejong City to Jeju was indeed a long way. The mention alone seemed to bring a shadow to the guard’s eyes, his gaze brightening with sorrow as he nodded, clearly already missing his kids. Not in the mood for melodrama, I stepped into the elevator at once.

Luckily, there weren’t many people inside. With nothing to do, I cast a glance at the mirror. The face staring back was both unfamiliar and familiar. Not that I looked in mirrors often, so it was always like this. I looked tired, but that was only because I’d stayed up all night gaming. Whenever I had to return to the Bureau the next day, sleep just wouldn’t come.

I touched my chin, cupped my face, and tilted my head side to side. Hmm, still handsome today. The rustic sunglasses that made Seunggyu look thirty years older suited my face surprisingly well.

“I know you’re good-looking, but every time you make it obvious that you know it, you’re insufferable.”

That was what Seunggyu used to grumble. And he was right, so I would only laugh in response. But what was wrong with it? If you’re making good money and you look good—that’s all that matters. All I need now is a house far from the unstable Red Zones, safely within the Green Zone.

“Damn.”

The ding of the elevator arriving broke my thoughts. I checked to get off, only to realize it had stopped at Basement Level 2. I hadn’t paid close attention on the way down. Annoyed, I slammed the “3” button repeatedly. Just then, the doors opened and a man dressed entirely in black, his cap pulled low over his face, stepped inside.

Head down, he glanced at the panel where the button for Floor 3 glowed, and lowered his hand again. Apparently heading for the third floor too.

It only took moments to reach the third floor. The man and I got out together. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of his lips—it was all I could see of his face. Young, perhaps. His tightly pressed lips gave off a stubborn impression. They were crusted with dried blood, which was a shame since the shape of them was delicate and attractive. Still, fleeting thoughts about strangers’ lips didn’t matter. What mattered was my bank account balance.

I walked on, searching for the specimen room. As I strolled along, I noticed that the man was following me at a snail’s pace. Even though our steps were different in tempo, he never allowed the distance between us to widen beyond a certain point. With his head lowered, I couldn’t tell his exact height.

At last, I found the specimen room far at the end. Clearing my throat unnecessarily, I grasped the doorknob.

Just then—

Clunk.

The man beside me pulled down the handle first and stepped inside.

“Well, well.”

Was he assigned to the fourth floor too? No wonder he had such an odd vibe.

Most of the Bureau’s resident workers were civil servants, so I almost never saw such strange characters. Tilting my head, I followed him in.

He bolted up the staircase two steps at a time, impatient. I, on the other hand, grabbed the railing and began climbing leisurely. Soon after, I heard the emergency door bang open and shut.

“If the fourth floor is a gathering place for weirdos like that, it’ll be trouble.”

I removed the sunglasses, slid them into my pocket, and ran my fingers through my hair—deliberately messy but stylish.

The only hand-me-down capital from that dusty, debt-ridden home of mine was my looks. And they never betrayed me.

“Kind of nervous.”

Even though this wasn’t my first year, nor my first case, it was my first time being summoned to the fourth floor. The nerves were real. I opened the door wide.

“…”

And what unfolded before me was something hard to describe. A dentist’s office, perhaps. Or the personal “utopia” of an extreme minimalist who’d crossed into obsessive cleanliness. Maybe even a psychopath’s den.

That’s how white, clean, sterile it was. Aside from faint sky-blue accents and a few metallic silvers, there wasn’t a single other color in sight.

And there…

“I’m here.”

The gloomy figure swiped his card, speaking in a dull voice.

The machine beeped immediately.

“―13:17 hours. Registration number 170009. Hunter Chae Wonu, record update complete.”

“Ah.”

I chuckled quietly. No way I could have missed that name. Patting the jacket pocket where I’d stuffed the rolled-up file, I stepped closer and extended my hand.

“Nice to meet you. As of today, I’ll be working as your Guide, Mr. Chae Wonu. My name is Yang Baekgyeom.”

There was no need to make a poor first impression. Whatever our relationship turned into, this was purely business. Keeping things smooth was ideal.

Chae Wonu lifted his gaze to me, then slowly removed his cap.

“Hunters usually aren’t very socially skilled.”

I offered words that were less encouragement and more consolation to Hyungmin, who noisily blew his nose.

He still had his visitor badge hanging around his neck. Since sugar was far better than words, I shared some of my portion of fruit with him. It was canned, but processed food always had a bigger impact on tired brains.

“Still, telling you to get lost right off the bat… didn’t expect that.”
“Told you, that’s normal. I’ve even gotten slapped before.”
“What?!”
“And with a fist, no less.”
“Good lord.”

Hyungmin immediately looked at me with pity. But I wasn’t in a position to be pitied. Realizing he probably wasn’t badly off, I took the can back, in case he asked for more. I quickly popped a piece of canned peach into my mouth and asked:

“But crying just from a single ‘get lost’ is a bit much, isn’t it? Didn’t you say this is your first time? You haven’t even freelanced before?”
“I’m a complete beginner. Honestly, I only joined because my parents recommended it to help build up my career record.”
“Hmm.”
“How about you, hyung?”
“Me?”

After drinking every last bit of syrup from the can, the hunger still gnawed at me. I glanced around for more and answered.

“I joined for money.”
“Can’t deny it’s lucrative. He’s the top earner at our agency.”

That interruption came from Seunggyu, who settled into the seat beside me. By now, he had fished out another pair of tacky sunglasses from somewhere and hooked them backward around his head, lenses pressed against the back of his skull.

“Going fishing?”
“Yep. Surprised you knew.”

I was the fool for even asking.

¹ Footnote: In Korean and Chinese, the number “4” (사 sa) sounds identical to the word for “death.” Many buildings exclude the fourth floor or renumber it to the fifth out of superstition, similar to how some Western buildings omit the 13th floor.