Being A Full-Time Employee C67

Chapter 67

“Yeah, I got bored while you were sleeping. Why do you nap all the time? You’re grown up—don’t tell me you’re still calling it a growth phase.”

“Uh… but I really am still growing, Hyung.”

“I don’t like it. Stop growing. Where we are now is just right—you only have to tilt your head a bit to kiss me.”

“Sorry. I’ll try.”

I laughed at the perfectly Wonu-like answer and kissed his damp lips, teasing,
“You think you can try that?”

“I’ll harness the power of the universe… maybe I can figure out a way?”

“What are you, a cult recruiter? Forget it. You already hold back about plenty of things—you don’t need to stifle even that.”

Strangely, this simple domestic banter—two people spending a lazy holiday—made it feel easier to speak plainly. I worried that soon I’d be talking so naturally, I’d forget to use formal speech even when we were working.

“How did you know? I really do hold back a lot. I worry it might hurt if we do it every day.”

His wide, beautiful eyes looked up at me. The long lashes always lent him a drowsy air, though when he smiled coldly, it made him look even sharper.

“Oh, I’ve got something to say about that. Honestly, I can do it all the time, I love it—but what’s with you, Hunter Chae, still in a ‘growth phase’ there too? Actually, let’s measure it weekly—length and circumference.”

“Hmm… root, middle, and tip?”

“Of course.”

He seemed to be considering it seriously, no matter how absurd. Then he said, “We should get a new tape measure. If we use a metal one, what if it gets cut?”

We decided to get a mini fabric tape measure—but never ordered it. My attention got hijacked by an ad shouting “Pheromone perfume to protect you from monsters!”

As if. Research on monster perception was still incomplete—just the category list for their known forms had been finished, and category definitions were still being finalized.

“Someone actually buys this stuff?” I snorted.

He pointed silently at the product reviews—thousands of them.

“They’re insane. If this works, I’ll use it too,” I said, slipping into polite speech now that it was “dungeon-related talk.”

We scrolled through other ridiculous products sold by the same site.

“Let’s watch the review videos,” he said.

Some were so bad they made me want to save them just to show Team Leader Kang, who detested pseudo-science, later.

On a video platform, we found dungeon-related product reviews. An “alarm” that was allegedly triggered before a dungeon ruptured—someone complained it went off even when they ran their microwave. A “special mask” for Red Zone air—which was basically identical to Green Zone air—so it just made the wearer look uncomfortable, but still it got high ratings because it was impossible to verify its “effect.”

Scrolling past similar thumbnails, one garish image in red and yellow text caught our eyes: “Hunters—shocking truth! Are they actually aliens from dungeons?!”

“…What the…”

The misspelled text and sloppy image stopped me cold. Before I could protest, Wonu tapped it. I winced—great, now the algorithm would feed us this garbage forever—but was curious enough to watch.

It was narrated in an over-angry voice with bad illustrations and clumsy photo editing. The “theory”: dungeons were debris formed when eggs buried underground by aliens hatched; monsters inside were the seeds. Hunters, too, supposedly came from those seeds.

Too absurd to even scoff at—but I still glanced at Wonu, because he’d been “found” in a dungeon.

“This part,” he said, pausing the screen. The text read: “Hunters—humanity’s saviors?” in the same garish font.

“…Yeah?” I replied more politely than I meant to.

His slow pace today made me impatient. Then he skipped the flashing sentence to the background image—a photo of a boy in a red t-shirt, chin resting on his hand, looking up in thought.

“This kid shows up a lot—not this one exactly, but the one holding up a finger like ‘Aha!’ That shot. Is he famous?”

I nearly died on the spot. Calming my racing heart, I played it cool. “That’s a decades-old stock image. Famous, in a way.”

“Not a child actor?”

“Uh…”

“Then could our photos spread like that if we put them up?”

“What?”

Absolutely not. I locked my phone and looked him in the eye.

“Never, ever release your photo for free public use.”

“….”

“Especially you—don’t let anyone take your picture without payment. Even if it’s the Bureau asking.”

“Mm. I’ll do that.”

“Good. Still, we should take lots of photos for ourselves. You’ve got a face worth recording.”

I raised my camera and caught him resting his head on his hand, eyes half-closed, smiling—natural and beautiful.

“My turn,” he said, raising his own seldom-used phone, which had actual battery today. He pulled me in and clicked the shutter multiple times. They were hilariously bad—worse than anything I’d ever taken. Misshapen, half-lidded, awkward—but funny enough to keep instead of delete.

“You really are only good at provoking dungeons, Hunter Chae.”

“I’m good at remembering you, too,” he said suddenly, catching me off-guard.

Flustered, I looked away. He leaned in behind me.

“Even if you forget me someday, I won’t forget you.”

It was more affection than I deserved—but I wasn’t about to refuse it. After the first dungeon rupture, it was the first greed I’d ever allowed myself: I wanted to protect him, keep him mine forever.

Back at City Hall Station for follow-up operations, we learned several exits were closed, making the crowd worse and complaints louder.

Officials muttered, “This isn’t permanent, right? It’ll go away? God, we hope so—we commute here too. We understand the complaints, but there’s nothing we can do…”

The dungeon had hardened into a thick-shelled “egg.” Physical entry was the only option, so we waited endlessly.

Skipping meals, we were given cold boxed lunches. People passing by stared. Some boldly took pictures or video.

It’s rare to see hunters and guides eating like ordinary people—since most only witness them entering or exiting dungeons.

“What are you looking at?” a nearby guide said.

“Never seen humans eat? Keep walking—stop filming.”

“No, it’s just—”

“We’re just like any other workers.”

That guide’s hunter put two fingers to his temple and groaned dramatically. The gawkers bolted away instantly.

After they left, the pair laughed. A young guide blinked at them and asked, “Did you just use your ability? You can’t! Using powers on civilians gets you arrested—”

“Yeah, and leaves a permanent mark. But who cares—we’re in iron rice bowls. Nothing until we die.”

The rookie sputtered FM regulations, but I already knew the hunter was joking.

“Still!”

“What, should we live in a zoo, on display all day? Don’t worry, kid, I’m joking—it was just a movie scene.”

The rookie looked relieved but still twitchy—the mark of someone freshly awakened, still following orders to the letter, afraid to step wrong now that they were “different,” a monster.

I started to scoff at the Bureau for sending someone that green—but then glanced at Wonu, who’d fought other hunters at age fourteen, and closed my mouth.