Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 79: Recollections

The leader of the terrorist attack on the government facility in Incheon was captured shortly after the second, brief but brutal cold snap had passed.

On a frigid night, with the thermometer plummeting to -30°C, government forces raided Refuge 13. They uncovered critical evidence, including several mortars, and arrested the shelter’s director, Eom Nak-soo, on charges of rebellion.

The name "Eom Nak-soo" was unfamiliar to me, yet his face, revealed during the arrest broadcast on PaleNet, struck an odd chord of recognition.

Where had I seen him before?

My social circle isn’t particularly broad or deep. At most, I could trace connections through school, a brief stint in China, my time as an instructor, or during frontline service—but none of those periods brought me face-to-face with someone like him.

So where?

Maybe I met him at one of John Nae-non’s meetups. But then again, he wasn’t at the humble first gathering. The scene of diligent m9 grilling meat doesn’t feature his face.

Even if he attended one of the larger meetups later, would I have remembered a fleeting encounter in such a crowded place?

That’s unlikely.

As Jang Ki-young, my former mentor, taught: memory is a weapon and must remain razor-sharp. Wasting it on recalling random faces is inefficient. If anything, I’ve become even more discerning over the years.

Perhaps he was someone I met while working odd jobs to survive in the lead-up to the war?

After completing my bunker, I drifted between various temporary gigs until the war broke out. I favored cash-only jobs since creditors could seize bank accounts.

No matter how desperate, warm food was still a necessity.

While my bunker was stocked with rations, consuming them before the apocalypse felt akin to denying my survivalist philosophy. So, I had to work.

But what kind of work?

As a former hunter, my most viable option was leveraging my experience to land a related job. With my credentials, I could easily out-earn most professionals.

However, such jobs made you a prime candidate for conscription when war began.

I needed something else.

Ironically, my hunter background proved a hindrance in other fields. My education was effectively equivalent to a middle school diploma, and I was considered to have no military service record.

The unique nature of hunter education and training meant little in the job market. Explaining this rarely swayed potential employers.

Ultimately, the options for someone like me—cashless, underqualified, and deemed unfit for conscription—were limited to jobs where turnover was high, and standards low.

I cycled through countless positions, hopping from one to another—a phenomenon known as "chuno."

Originally, chuno referred to the pursuit of runaway slaves. In modern parlance, it describes workers quitting temporary jobs or small enterprises after brief stints.

The fastest chuno I experienced was at a barbecue restaurant.

There, a girl younger than me—my so-called sasu (mentor)—demonstrated how to scrub greasy, scorched grill plates with a steel scouring pad, her expression utterly mechanical, as if she were an emotionless robot.

Terrified that I might end up like her, I used the excuse of a smoke break to flee without looking back.

The manager’s penchant for installing three CCTV cameras in the kitchen also contributed to my escape.

I briefly worked at a café but left after enduring the condescension of young, arrogant supervisors. I wondered if they were still alive.

The job I stuck with longest was at a gas station.

I worked there for two months—a record.

Gas stations don’t care about age; they prioritize longevity and commitment.

The one I worked at ranked among the top three busiest in Korea, handling over 1,000 vehicles daily.

Its secret? Lower fuel prices than competitors and a cutting-edge automatic car wash, one of only two in the country.

The owner reportedly had connections with a major oil distributor, allowing him to buy fuel in bulk with cash and keep prices low.

But fuel sales weren’t the real moneymaker.

The station used cheap gas as bait, profiting from the car wash fees. Naturally, the car wash preferred cash payments.

My main job was directing the endless stream of vehicles into the car wash.

“Keep moving! Stop! Neutral gear, sir. Neutral! NEUTRAL!”

Kindness wasn’t a priority. Customers sought the cheapest gas, not the friendliest service.

I once witnessed rival gas stations slash prices across the board—except for ours. That was when I realized even this bustling station wasn’t immune to stagnation.

The owner embodied the mindset of a classic "black company" boss.

He didn’t value skilled or diligent workers.

While competence and dedication were factors, his ideal employees were desperate individuals with no other options.

He’d milk such people for all they were worth, paying a measly 3 million won monthly while pocketing tens of millions himself.

Now that I think about it, Eom Nak-soo bears a striking resemblance to that gas station owner.

The blurry broadcast image makes it hard to say for certain, but if the once-chubby owner had slimmed down, he’d look exactly like that.

Particularly the jutting jaw and youthfully sinister appearance—they perfectly match the features of the man I knew.

Imagining a greedy, selfish, and ruthless employer transforming into the leader of a resistance against oppression is fascinating.

For someone with time to kill, it’s an intriguing mental exercise.

Unfortunately, PaleNet painted Eom Nak-soo as a heroic figure—someone who endured severe torture without betraying his comrades. However, his motives and circumstances for the rebellion remain undisclosed.

The information released on NationNet was sparse: Eom Nak-soo was the director of Refuge 13 and allegedly orchestrated a Christmas Eve attack on a government zone using weapons supplied by the Legion faction.

I scoured PaleNet for personal details about him but found little of value.

The only useful tidbits were that Eom Nak-soo was hot-tempered, impatient, and spoke in a Gyeongsang dialect.

The gas station owner I knew hailed from Ulsan—or somewhere nearby.

It seems Eom Nak-soo’s family was quite wealthy.

After all, for someone who dropped out of college to have a gas station handed to them outright? That says plenty.

I also heard his wife’s family was quite affluent. It was at that point I realized for the first time how much money some market merchants handle.

Eom Nak-soo was brash, particularly in how he treated his employees.

He had a peculiar habit of yelling unintelligible sounds before addressing someone by name.

He treated me no differently, but as someone well-versed in chuno (hopping between jobs), I confronted him immediately.

“I can’t take this crap anymore. Screw this!”

I threw off my uniform, slammed my locker shut hard enough to nearly break it, and lit a cigarette right in front of the gas pumps.

Rather than the boss, it was the shift manager—essentially a slave under him—who came over to plead with me, asking me to hold out for just a few more days.

It was a tough time, and I was desperate for money, so I gritted my teeth and worked one more day. Surprisingly, after that incident, Eom Nak-soo treated me with a semblance of respect.

He even started calling me Mr. Park Gyu.

Greedy, rude, and embodying the worst kind of opportunist, Eom Nak-soo was undoubtedly a vile man. But I couldn’t deny his competence as a business owner.

“I went bankrupt three times. Twice, my parents bailed me out; the third time, my in-laws helped me get back on my feet. I told myself, ‘Just one last shot,’ and hit the jackpot. Even I can’t believe it.”

Recovering after three failures is no small feat. Financial burdens aside, it’s not easy to keep your spirit intact after such setbacks.

While harsh to his employees, he was incredibly respectful to people he called “hyungnim” (older brothers). I vividly remember him hearing about an acquaintance’s passing at 2 a.m., dressing in a suit, and driving to Busan immediately.

It wasn’t even his mother—it was his grandmother, who had lived past ninety.

Though ruthless with his staff, Eom Nak-soo was meticulous with money. Unlike employers who constantly delayed wages or made excuses to dock pay, he even gave extra to those he deemed worthwhile.

I was among the few who received a 200,000-won bonus.

And his wife’s cooking? The side dishes alone were impeccable.

Say what you will about him, but Eom Nak-soo was undeniably a successful entrepreneur.

Perhaps that business acumen was what later allowed him to become a resistance leader.

Yet, no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t understand why he would lead an attack against the government.

His supposed heroic qualities, such as enduring torture without betraying his comrades, seemed completely at odds with the man I knew.

There had to be a trigger.

He had a son in high school—a boy who wasn’t particularly bright or ambitious.

I doubt Eom Nak-soo ever intended to send him to a prestigious university. The kid was quick-witted, knew to keep his distance, and maintained a polite demeanor despite understanding that most employees like me wouldn’t stick around long.

Perhaps his son fell victim to government policies?

One thing’s for sure—Eom Nak-soo doted on his son.

I remember him drunkenly boasting during a drinking session in the breakroom, with his wife’s homemade snacks on the table.

“I’m not sending my kid to college. Back in my day, having a ‘sa’ in your title [e.g., doctor, lawyer] earned you respect. Now? It’s all about money. Rich bastards are the nobles, and the poor ones are the peasants. I’m saving to buy him a gas station.

Who knows? With my guidance, maybe he’ll out-earn me one day.”

If the government had taken his son from him, it’s not hard to imagine his fervor for wealth transforming into fury against authority.

While I was lost in thought, a new update popped up on PaleNet.

Apparently, Eom Nak-soo’s rebellion was motivated by his child.

“...”

So, it was him.

A lifetime spent exploiting desperate people for profit, climbing to the rank of director of Refuge 13 after losing everything in the war, only to turn into a revolutionary after losing his child.

I remember parting with him on relatively good terms.

It was about a month before the war broke out.

A distant junior informed me that China was planning to start a war.

At the time, I didn’t know who was behind that junior, but now I’m sure—it was likely Gong Gyeong-min, an old acquaintance.

It must’ve been his final gift to me before cutting ties completely.

When I told Eom Nak-soo I was leaving, he tried to stop me. Perhaps he’d grown fond of me, or maybe he valued my knack for handling difficult customers.

“Manager Park.”

Somehow, I’d been promoted to “manager” without knowing it. Of course, my pay remained the same as the part-timers.

With an air of sagely wisdom, he spoke while staring into the void.

“If you want to make real money, you need to run a business. Doctors? They have to work until they drop, dealing with people directly. Real wealth comes when you don’t have to work.

You let others do the heavy lifting, like an automated workshop, and watch the money roll in. Don’t you want to learn? I can teach you. You won’t learn this in school.

How about it? I’ll give you 3.5 million won a month as a site manager.”

I figured he saw my middling credentials—bankrupt, undereducated, unfit for conscription—and thought I was the perfect “nowhere-to-go” employee he favored.

Still, I sensed a grudging acknowledgment of my abilities.

He hadn’t offered to “teach” any of my predecessors.

With a touch of gratitude, I replied, “A war is coming—this year.”

Though I was sincere, his response was a smirk and a mocking comment.

“Manager Park, are you a doomsday prepper?”

He laughed heartily and walked away.

That was our last conversation.

Despite recovering from bankruptcy three times, it seemed he couldn’t rise again after the fourth.

Just an hour ago, PaleNet reported that Eom Nak-soo had been executed by firing squad behind a military tribunal.

It was revealed that his rebellion stemmed from the disappearance of his daughter, who had boarded an evacuation fleet.

“Daughter...?”

So, it wasn’t my old boss.

I rummaged through a cabinet filled with disorganized papers and found an old employment contract from the gas station.

The result was clear.

“...It was Jang, not Eom.”

I had guessed wrong, but it wasn’t a wasted endeavor.

After all, it kept me entertained for most of the day.

The sourc𝗲 of this content is freēwēbηovel.c૦m.

Yesterday, after Defender and his sister departed, Rebecca and her daughter unexpectedly left my territory as well.