Being A Full-Time Employee C6

Chapter 6

Even I, not one to be easily startled, couldn’t help but raise my voice this time. The senior researcher covered her mouth and muttered, “Oh dear, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

Meanwhile, oblivious to the mood, Chae Wonu tilted his head and strode closer. We stood about ten meters apart, holding our result reports.

“Not bad.”

I’d once achieved a matching score as high as 89 percent—so the 78 percent with Wonu wasn’t bad at all. This was exactly why, in Gwak Seunggyu’s agency, I boasted the highest market value: whoever I was paired with, I always pulled solid results.

Still, people called this number a compatibility score, but that didn’t truly mean romantic or personal compatibility. I glanced at my inscrutable partner standing beside me. He was still staring intently at the report.

“This is our compatibility rating?”

He suddenly turned to me and shoved the paper forward, but what he was pointing to wasn’t the score I saw. It was his ability stability number. Only 34 percent.

“If that’s the actual value, then you and I should cancel our contract.”
“Why? Are we canceling it?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

I closed the distance a step and tapped the bottom field.
“Here, 78 percent. That’s good.”
“Is this the highest record you’ve had with someone?”
“No. I had an 89 once.”
“Why didn’t you sign a permanent contract with them, then?”
“Isn’t that a little too personal? We’re not that close yet.”

Figuring his insistence came from youth and ignorance of boundaries, I intentionally sounded a little more brusque. But once again, Wonu was a step ahead.

“Too personal? So when can I ask then? After a week?”
“No, that’s not the point…”

Honestly like a child. Contrary to his cold, perfectly handsome looks and low husky voice, his questions were innocent to the point of absurdity. Then again… “innocent” didn’t really fit Wonu no matter what.

“We just didn’t get along. The contract ended, and the personalities clashed too much. His temper was filthy.”
“So yours wasn’t, and only his was filthy?”

Ah. Right to the core.

I answered without irritation—in truth, I wasn’t offended.
“Which is why we fought and broke it off.”
“That really happens?!”
“Of course. What, you think these contracts are some lifelong marriage vow?”

Now that I knew where his endless stream of naive questions came from, I could forgive it. If he’d never had a partner, then how would he know? People are always astonishingly ignorant of fields outside their own interest.

“Well, with results like this, we’ll keep the contract smoothly. I’ll look forward to working with you.”
“Me too, hyung.”
“…Hyung.”
“Should I not call you that?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“What did your previous partners call you then?”

He seemed strangely fixated on my past. Still, as his first partner, he was bound to be curious about the system.
“The most common thing I heard?”
“Yes.”
“Asshole.”

Then: bastard. Then: rude prick. After that: annoying piece of shit. More neutral ones like “Guide Yang.” There was a reason none of my contracts ever extended.

“I’ll just call you hyung.”
“Go ahead.”
“And you can call me Wonu.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then what will you call me?”

…Are we really negotiating nicknames?

I gave the only normal, sensible answer.
“Hunter Chae, Hunter-nim, Partner Hunter. I’ll probably stick with Hunter-nim.”
“But then, how will I know if you’re calling me or some other hunter?”
“We’re usually together. There shouldn’t be confusion.”
“What about in the field?”
“Then I’ll say Hunter Chae.”
“But couldn’t you just say: Wonu-ya?”¹
“Is that an order?”
“If I call it an order, will you do it?”

I nodded. No helping it—formally speaking, his position was higher. Hierarchy sometimes mattered more than character or competence.
“Alright then, I order you. Call me Wonu.”

Creepy, the things he says. Isn’t this the part where you laugh and say, “Just call me whatever’s comfortable”?

“…Fine.”
“Hyung, so you’re not gonna call me that after all.”
“Unless I’m on the verge of dying, no.”
“You’re stubborn. Then just call me Hunter Chae.”

I muttered inwardly but nodded. His stubbornness matched my own.

“Then can I step out for a while?”
“Where to? I’ll come along.”
“I’m going to check on the agency colleague who coughed up blood and splattered the walls red in the matching room—are you sure you want to come?”
“Yeah. Oh, is it into one of those clearance-restricted zones?”
“No, not that. Do what you want.”
“Hyung, you just muttered ‘Damn, fuck,’ didn’t you?”

Why ask what you already know?

I ignored him and turned away.

The infirmary was for minor injuries. The ward—for anything worse. In the lobby you could check how many beds were free, who was occupying them. Every single individual mattered; their whereabouts, their status were critical.

Hyungmin was in the ward. He’d likely be admitted for a day or two. Crossing the glassed walkway over into the ward building, I discovered Wonu still trailing casually behind me. I’d half-expected him to give up midway. But he really followed. I couldn’t predict him at all; his “character” defied definition.

“Where are you going?”
“Building B.”
“Then this way’s faster.”

He yanked me sharply to the right. His strength nearly tore my arm from its socket.
“The left wing has the freight elevators, but it’s really on the right, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But if you take the cargo lift on the left, you access Floor F. It’s quicker that way.”
“You sure know everything.”
“I’ve lived here a long time.”
“….”
“You don’t want to ask me why?”
“Personal business.”

I truly didn’t care. He wasn’t the only one here carrying burdens.

My flat response made him plainly disappointed. Lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed on me—like a hunting dog with its tail drooping. And me? I was not a dog lover.

“Let’s go?”

There’s no way we’d connect. Unless he waved wads of cash like a fan, dabbing his tears with banknotes.

Still, his way was faster. He really seemed to know this place like the back of his hand.

When I opened Hyungmin’s ward room, four beds lay inside. But all four were empty. I walked straight over to a bed with a tag displaying patient info and sat down. Wonu just stood watching.

“What are you doing? Sit.”
“Pretty simple place.”
“It’s not the ICU.”

Maybe he’d only ever been inside intensive care before? Possibly.

Hunters healed fast. If someone ended up in a ward instead of the infirmary, it meant they were injured seriously—seriously enough not to go on a dispatch for at least a week. And that was for hunters. If it had been a civilian, it’d have been diagnosed as an eleven- to fourteen-week recovery. No wonder hunters weren’t really considered “people.”

Wonu randomly pulled every curtain back, then plopped on one of the empty beds, bouncing to make it squeak. Finally, after a while, he came and sat right next to me instead of on another bed.

“This person’s a Guide too?”
“Of course. It’s a Guide ward.”

…I glanced at the tag on his wrist—a cluster of things dangled from it. But I had no intention of asking. I lived by a principle of keeping business and private lives separate. Especially with partners—those who stood closest, who by necessity had to be near—you drew an even firmer line.

At that moment—just as I was silently hoping Wonu wouldn’t open his mouth with some trivial nonsense—the door opened with impeccable timing.

“Oh? Hyung!”

It was Hyungmin. He waved his bandaged arm energetically. Outwardly, there were no visible injuries. But his complexion was pale, lips drained white into blue. Beside him hung a stand with not one or two but three IV packs dripping steadily. For this situation, though, that was actually decent.

Guiding rebound wasn’t a trivial thing. In the early days, when information was scarce, countless Guides and Hunters—despite their skill—ended up dying from rebound. It was impossible to count the numbers on two hands.

“Hyung, hyung! How did you even know I was hospitalized? I swear, I almost died! I mean it, I even saw my grandma who passed away, way off in the distance. I seriously thought my insides were flipping over. I was throwing up blood like crazy—I didn’t even know a body could hold that much blood! I’d be sure it was all gone, but more kept coming, and on top of that, hallucinations and voices wouldn’t stop, and the ringing in my ears was insane—”

Beside me, Wonu’s mouth actually fell open in wonder, before he rested his chin lazily in his palm, eyes keenly fixed on Hyungmin. Clearly, he had never met someone who chattered at such speed before. Before long, Wonu’s leg began to bounce, unconsciously keeping rhythm with the torrent of words.

“And then—get this—even when it wasn’t pain, even when my mind was fuzzy and fading, my consciousness wouldn’t separate from my partner’s. We stayed tied together. I kept feeling like I was going right while also being dragged left. Hyung! Have you ever had them use the drug that forcibly severs your connection? It’s like getting whacked with a bat. My skull was pounding like it’d crack open. Oh, oh—and my partner. He was actually really great, but…”

Hyungmin’s voice trailed off suddenly.

His expression crumpled. Shoulders sinking, he quietly shifted back onto his bed, the earlier vivacity gone, settling himself wearily into the bedding.