Being A Full-Time Employee C62

Chapter 62

The artificially bright holiday decorations inside only sharpened the gloom I already felt. It looked less like Christmas Eve and more like the doomsday holiday of some apocalyptic cult.

At least last year, I’d had the small pleasure of organizing my savings and feeling close to reaching my goal amount. This year, I didn’t even have that to look forward to. The reason was obvious—I had spent weeks rereading, memorizing, and filling in every empty space from Chae Wonu’s official record.

While I couldn’t see him, I filled those blank sections like a madman. My own version of his timeline.
I recorded every test and observation I knew of, and for the gaps, I added memories from this year—everything the two of us had done together. Only after meeting me, I realized, had his life contained anything that remotely resembled a personal history. Not pride—just fact. Before me, every person he had interacted with belonged to the Bureau.

But that wasn’t the real issue. The problem was the new discovery I’d made while reviewing his employment record. Once my head cleared and I read carefully, I noticed that although his enlistment date was listed, there was no renewal date. In other words—indefinite.

Wonu’s enlistment had been registered before the enactment of the “Hunter Monopoly Prohibition Act,” meaning he was legally bound to the Bureau for life.

“Goddamn it.”

I spat the curse and flicked my burned-out cigarette into the bin. The smoke didn’t calm me—it made everything worse. I immediately lit another. My hands were stiff from the cold, but I didn’t want to go inside. Before I knew it, I was on my third cigarette.

Each sigh I tried to push out dissolved into smoke instead, endless and futile. My hands shook as I struggled with the lighter. Now even the lighter was dead—empty.

“Of course. Figures.”

The sentence came out muffled between my teeth as I kept the dangling cigarette clenched between my lips. Then—flick. A flame appeared beside me. Reflexively, I leaned forward toward the offered fire and muttered, “Ah, thank you.” Small favors in a smoking booth rarely meant anything. I didn’t look up at first.

“Can I have one, too?”

“….”

For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Too much thinking, too little sleep.

“I just got out, and I only have a lighter.”

“Wonu…”

“You can keep the tofu. This is white, so let me trade for it.”

The pale, slender hand snatched my crumpled pack, pulled out the last cigarette, and lit it before I could even react. I just stood there, dazed, staring at the figure in front of me.

He looked no different than if we were strangers meeting for the first time—or friends bumping into each other after a brief separation. Calm, casual, as though nothing had happened. He stood beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The glow of his lighter outlined his face against the dim gray daylight. Maybe he had matured a little during his absence. My chest ached at the sight.

“Long time no see, Hyung. How’ve you been?”

That easy smile, that familiar tone—my chest swelled with emotion, but my mind went cold. The clash of the two made my throat burn.

Before I knew it, I acted on impulse. My cool head wasn’t as cool as I thought. More like dry ice and fire—either way, both burn.

“Ow…”

His head snapped sideways from my punch. The slow, stunned “It hurts…” only made my anger spike higher—until I realized everyone around us was staring.

“Hyung, are you mad?”
He rubbed the cheek I’d struck, unfazed. Mad? The word made me glance around. The other smokers were awkwardly edging away from the booth.

I waited until they were gone. When it was just the two of us, I noticed that his annoyingly perfect skin didn’t even show a bruise.

Once the booth emptied, Wonu reached out and took my hand.
“Only your hand hurts now.”

“….”

“Are you angry?”

“Am I angry?” My voice shook. Maybe I finally was getting angry—at him, at myself, at everything.

I seized his hand back, crushed both our cigarettes and grabbed his face.
“I was worried.”

“….”

“This is when you’re supposed to ask, ‘Were you worried about me?’ Because I was—so much that it made me furious.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. Then, gently, he covered the same hand that had hit him.

“I didn’t do any self-reflection. That’s why they didn’t let me out.”

“You idiot.”

“Everyone called me that too,” he said calmly.

“You should try staying on their good side. Your file doesn’t even have a renewal date—it’s before the law was passed.”

Wonu nodded without surprise, as if he knew. His composure only fueled my frustration. He must’ve known what else I’d seen—that endless record of blood and isolation. But saying it aloud wouldn’t help. He had killed fellow hunters during training, and no amount of “it wasn’t your fault” could erase that.

“I was thinking,” I murmured, “maybe we could live together once you got out.”

But the words died before they reached the air fully. His situation—permanent containment—and mine, renewable yearly unless I got another assignment—were worlds apart.

He must have known the same. He knew that if either of us said stay or I’ll stay, it would break something fragile and unspoken, even if it made the evening feel romantic.

But neither of us did. One was too much of a coward, the other too steady to let himself dream.

“It’s Christmas Eve today,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“Should I buy a cake? I can go outside now.”

I noticed then that his lip was a little swollen. So my punch had left a mark after all. Some small relief flickered inside me. I nodded, releasing a quiet groan as my wrist ached from the punch.

“Also pick up a compression bandage.”

He laughed, light and easy. I slipped a hand around his waist, leaning against him completely despite the fact that it was my wrist that hurt, not my leg. He smelled cool and clean, freshly washed—a fragrance that somehow fit perfectly beneath the gray winter sky.

Just a while ago I’d thought it was a sky the color of dirty dishwater—but now, with Wonu beside me, it didn’t seem so bad. With cake and warm coffee, even that sky could pretend to have atmosphere.

The Christmas season grew more grand each year. Since the first dungeon break, decades had passed; the phenomenon had become part of daily life.
But “daily life” didn’t mean “harmless.” Dungeons were still disasters—every person carried the potential for tragedy. So when holidays came, maybe people celebrated out of desperation, clinging harder to any reason to feel alive.

A brilliant morning star glittered atop the great Christmas tree.
Carrying a bag of fish-shaped pastries, I spotted Wonu staring up at it, completely dazed. It wasn’t like a child’s fleeting curiosity—he gazed at it for a long, mesmerized moment, neck craned, profile shining against the light.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, genuine and reverent.

I followed his gaze but could only see a generic star ornament. It was brighter reflected in his eyes than on the tree itself. That—that—was what was beautiful.

Usually, whenever I looked at him, he would turn his head and meet my eyes. But today, he didn’t. Today, he just kept looking up. Maybe this was something truly special for him.

Santa Claus had nothing to do with it. If there were any justice, Santa should’ve given him Christmas for once. Instead, Wonu’s name would probably end up on the “naughty list” in that imaginary old man’s left hand. Christmas wasn’t meant to come to him.

It didn’t matter. I had brought something better than any nonexistent Santa’s gift. I handed him a bung-eo-ppang (Korean fish-shaped pastry). Only then did he blink and look back at me.

…“Look back”?
Did that mean I was jealous of a sparkling ornament? Maybe I was.

“You’re like the spoon someone holds out to feed a kid staring blankly at the TV,” I said.

“You remember that kind of thing?” he asked.

“….”

His eyes curved in a smile. Damn it—that was when I realized my slip.

“You saw something about me, didn’t you?”

He spoke calmly, eyes turning back to the star again. There was no anger in his voice. I just stuffed a hot pastry into my mouth, internally cursing myself.

“But it’s okay. Sometimes I wanted to tell you anyway.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“I thought maybe I could, but also wanted you not to know. My mind changes every minute, so I couldn’t help it. I don’t know how much you’ve learned, but… it’s a relief somehow.”

My relief didn’t come. It felt like he’d handed me a heavy burden instead. Not that I’d ever consider putting it down.

Soon, we were both finishing the last bits of pastry. I always saved the tail for last—it was my favorite part. My father used to say that if you liked the tail so much, you should just buy round bread instead, but the sweetness of finishing with the red bean made it the best bite. The good part was meant to be saved for the end.

Wonu, on the other hand, ate the tail first. He bit into it and exclaimed excitedly, “It’s custard! There’s custard in this one.”

He didn’t seem to know choux cream bung-eo-ppang (a custard-filled version of the pastry) had been around for fifteen years. I smiled faintly.

“Starting with the tail, huh?”

“Yeah. The tail’s the best. You’ve got to eat the good part first.”

“Before someone takes it?”

“Yes. Before someone takes it,” he said, popping the rest into his mouth.