Being A Full-Time Employee C59

Chapter 59

The term “detention room” wasn’t technically correct for us, but everyone still called it that. We weren’t military, though we each had ranks loosely modeled on the armed forces, so the term wasn’t entirely wrong.

As soon as I’d finished the last of the post–rapid-healing treatments meant to prevent side effects, I yanked out the IV needle and took off. The detention room—our so-called 영창 (yeongchang)—was underground. Getting down there meant going through multiple layers of security: not just a pass, but a formal authorization.

To get that authorization, I stood outside the office of Chief Kang—or rather, Team Leader Kang now, since he’d apparently been promoted again.
“It’s me,” I said flatly. He probably knew I’d come anyway.

“Come in,” the same bright, singsong voice called from inside.

I pressed a hand briefly to my still sore chest, drew a quick breath, and opened the door.

Inside, Kang was buried behind a mountain of files. Even before he said anything, I guessed what they were: data from the dungeon we had failed to conquer. He looked too cheerful to be reading anything else.
“A failed raid. That’s a first, isn’t it?”

“…”

“There’s lots of noise from higher up about how the Bureau’s reputation is in the dirt. And below, people are complaining—‘Who are we supposed to trust now?’ they say.”

“I get the part about ‘above,’ but who’s this ‘below’?,” I asked.

Kang stared at me over the edge of a file.
“‘Below’ means ordinary citizens, of course. And yes, the Bureau stands above them.”

“So we’re the ones in power? You sure about that?”

“Of course. Don’t get so defensive, Guide Yang—think simple. Between the protected and the protector, who’s higher? Who’s more desperate?”

He said it deliberately. Kang understood people too well, and he knew exactly where to dig. As someone who’d come from a sacrifice zone of the first dungeon break, I could tell he was twisting the knife. He was right, though—we were desperate. Most of us had died before we even had time to understand the situation.

I was one of the rare ones who survived long enough to understand—and I was still desperate. Especially now, since I needed Kang’s cooperation.

“I heard Hunter Chae Wonu’s been detained,” I said.

“I heard he caused trouble with another hunter. He’ll face the proper punishment.”

“Can I at least visit him? He hasn’t committed any major crime.”

“No, not a major crime—but with his record, that changes things.”

I frowned faintly. Something in Kang’s tone was different today—colder, maybe even a little deranged. What was going on?

Still, I was the one in need here, so I decided to stay uncharacteristically polite. I tapped my fingers behind my back, fighting my nerves.
“The dungeon raid turned out far harder than expected—and we nearly died. It was the kind of mission no one could succeed in. In fact, several failed outright.”

“True,” Kang said. “So are you presenting your failure to me as an excuse?”

“I’m saying we brought back data. There wasn’t any raid point to begin with.”

“That much is already in the report.” He tapped the file against his lips.
I knew that too. But I had more experience in dungeon runs than most guides alive, and—though it sounded arrogant—I had sharp intuition.

“My assessment is that raid points have expanded beyond terrain or monsters. I think this dungeon introduced a time limit condition.”

“So according to you, if the team doesn’t complete it within a set time frame…”

“It likely means we fail to unlock a terrain feature or eliminate a specified monster in time.”

“I see. Meaning once that time passes, victory becomes impossible? What’s your proof?”

“There were clearly defined sectors. If we cleared the monsters in a section, the danger there never returned. Unlike previous dungeons, there were no massive enemy waves; after eliminating a certain number or a key monster, the section was considered cleared. Those cleared areas could be safely accessed by others—like civilians at the restored station now—while the deeper sections into which the combat team couldn’t proceed remain sealed. That seems to support my theory.”

“…”

“I might not have scientific proof, but when your bones break and your skin tears inside one of those places, you develop a certain instinct.”

“There’s some bite to that comment, Guide Yang.”

“Yes. I figured one question alone wouldn’t cut it this time.”

“Normally, mid-process amendments aren’t allowed.”

Kang’s chair twirled halfway around as he spoke. When he laid his hands together, I noticed his fingers—covered in scars. When had those formed? I almost flinched but managed to keep it to a twitch instead of showing shock.

Time to make the deal. I needed to sound cold—soulless, even. The irony was that what I wanted required me to beg with emotion while pretending I had none.

“Well, since it’s you, I’ll make an exception,” Kang said. “The dungeon’s difficulty really was hellish. Speaking of which, its classification’s under review—it’s unranked now. A first.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to know.

“I want access to Hunter Chae Wonu’s data.”

“That’s not a question, Guide Yang.”

“That dungeon was far too horrific to come back from empty-handed. I’m cashing in my reward in questions and requests.”

He didn’t seem impressed. Still, we both knew I had no leverage here. I stood tall, hiding my nerves behind my straight posture and lifted chin. I wanted to look like someone with no regrets to show.

But Kang merely smiled, amused, and replied with disarmingly casual ease.
“All right.”

Really? I kept silent—not asking again lest I sound foolish.

“Smart man. Now you’ll also see Hunter Chae’s Bureau tenure record.”

“…”

“But tell me—what happened to that righteous Guide Yang who swore he’d just ask the man directly?”

“I realized that forcing someone to talk about a past they don’t want to share isn’t kindness.”

Because I knew what Wonu looked like whenever his past came close to surfacing. Like a child convinced there was a monster under his bed—curled in a corner, eyes darting, terrified of looking yet unable to turn away. No matter how noble the reason, I couldn’t force him to face it.

“Then maybe ignorance is bliss, don’t you think?” Kang said, perfectly reading my hesitation.

This time, I frowned outright.
“What can I say? You get curious about someone you care about.”

Kang burst into delighted laughter. My only consolation was that he liked cocky bastards, and I’d learned to play the part.

“All right, all right. That’s why I like you, Baekgyeom.”

See? Knew it.

Turning back to his desk, he rummaged through a disgusting pile of junk—burger wrappers, old fries, God knows what else—and finally fished out a USB drive. After a few failed tries, he plugged it in, typed a flurry of code I couldn’t understand, then tossed it to me. I caught it midair.

“Security key. Plug it in, and you’ll have access.”

“Thank you. And one more thing.”

I went bolder now—reckless even. I had to push my luck.

“One more thing?” Kang repeated, perplexed.

“I asked for access to everything related to Chae Wonu. That means not just digital data—but physical access.”

“Huh?”

“I want entry to the detention room. Please issue authorization.”

His look of disbelief was priceless. Usually, it was the other way around—he put me on the spot. For once, it was my turn, and I was almost proud enough to laugh.

Ah, if only Wonu could see me now. Aren’t I cool, Wonu?

I stopped by the data archive first. It was on the opposite side of the facility from the underground detention block, so I couldn’t pretend it was “on the way.” Truth was, I went because I was too curious to resist.

The archive was nearly empty as always—except for a guy asleep in a hoodie in one corner, face buried and snoring.

I took a seat in the farthest row from the door. My mouth was dry. Opening the Hunter Records search terminal, I navigated all the restrictive authorization gates until I hit the same message I’d always seen: “Access denied.”

That’s when I plugged in Kang’s USB.

Lines of code flashed. The password auto-filled—filthy long, absurdly complex. Then finally… the screen loaded.

“Hah…”

I buried my eyes in clasped hands and exhaled deeply. Leaning back, I spun in the chair a few times before I could bring myself to look again. Only then did I steady myself enough to continue.