CH 44
“Nahan, show me my current karma.”
Ding!
[Good Fortune: 2,532]
[Great Fortune: 7]
[Misfortune: 0]
[Great Misfortune: 0]
A whopping seven Great Fortunes.
Now I understood why the Department of Good Deeds in the underworld had contacted me.
In just two months, I’d acquired karma that would take others five years to earn.
With a pounding heart, I entered the karma shop.
There, I checked the wealth section and spotted an item labeled “Lottery Win.”
‘Please let it be Lotto, please let it be Lotto, please let it be Lotto.’
The lottery with the largest jackpot was the Lotto.
I wasn’t sure if Jeongjikhan’s fate included a Lotto jackpot, but surely it wouldn’t be a mere 200 million won prize?
With my heart racing, I purchased the item. A golden sphere appeared in a flash of light.
As I received it respectfully with both hands, the sphere dissolved into Jeongjikhan, and a message from Nahan materialized:
[Congratulations! You’ve obtained a chance to win a 500 million won lottery prize.]
“Oh… 500 million?”
[Tomorrow at 5 PM, visit the Daebak Lottery Store in OO-dong, Gwangjin-gu, Seoul, to claim your winning ticket.]
I hastily saved Nahan’s message on my phone before it vanished.
I couldn’t hide my disappointment.
Secretly, I’d hoped for the Lotto jackpot. Was winning really something predetermined by heaven?
It seemed beyond the realm of human effort.
Still, 500 million won was nothing to scoff at.
One should be grateful for what they receive.
After taxes, it’d be around 330 million won?
Burning five Great Fortunes for 330 million.
It was undeniably a life-changing sum—the kind that leaves you breathless…
Human greed truly knows no bounds.
Jeongjikhan shook his head sharply to dispel his lingering thoughts.
No point crunching numbers yet.
‘Focus on what needs to be done now.’
He cleared his mind and busied himself preparing for customers.
Ding-dong— Ding-dong—
At that moment, the café door opened, revealing a familiar face.
“Oh! Team Leader Cha!”
“You’re early as always.”
It was Cha Seung-pyo.
I’d worried something might have gone wrong, but thankfully, he seemed unharmed.
Jeongjikhan sighed in relief.
“Thank goodness.”
“Hm?”
“I thought you’d get an earful from King Yama.”
“I actually came for coffee before heading to my scolding. Needed to brace myself.”
Ah, so the storm was about to begin.
Jeongjikhan walked to the espresso machine with a grimace, preparing a warm Americano. As he handed over the mug, Cha Seung-pyo sighed deeply, his hands trembling faintly.
“Nervous?”
“A little.”
“Even Team Leader Cha gets nervous.”
“Of course. I’m human too.”
His tone was light, but his face told a different story—like a child trudging to school after forgetting homework.
Cha Seung-pyo took several steadying breaths before speaking between sips.
“I hear it’ll be a participatory trial.”
“Participatory trial?”
“The underworld kings who oversee judgment will gather to decide my punishment.”
“Can’t I testify?”
“As I said before, once you enter the underworld, there’s no return. I’ll handle this alone.”
Though Cha Seung-pyo sounded confident, unease prickled at Jeongjikhan.
He massaged his own shoulders and asked,
“What if I use my dokkaebi token? Couldn’t I visit the underworld with that?”
“Would holding a shield let you survive diving into hydrochloric acid?”
The analogy hit instantly.
Jeongjikhan grimaced.
“I hope it resolves smoothly.”
“I submitted a detailed report. It shouldn’t be an issue.”
Cha Seung-pyo drained his coffee in one gulp and exhaled sharply.
“I’ll be back.”
“See you soon. I’ll be rooting for you, Team Leader.”
To Jeongjikhan’s surprise, Cha Seung-pyo smiled warmly—a stark contrast to his usual stoicism—before vanishing into black smoke.
The unnatural cheer only deepened Jeongjikhan’s anxiety.
He sank into a chair, clasped his hands, and prayed fiercely:
Please, let him escape punishment.
“Welcome to Café Departed.”
Jeongjikhan greeted customers with his brightest smile, serving their usual orders from memory.
But that was all.
The departed souls who once lingered to chat had resolved their regrets and moved on.
Now, only hushed conversations filled the space, as they had when he first started working here.
Was it peaceful? Quiet?
No—what Jeongjikhan felt was…
‘Loneliness.’
The absence of familiar faces ached.
He slumped behind the counter, poring over his script for The Waves of That Winter.
Focusing on work might numb the hollow feeling.
Though he’d read Director Kim’s script countless times, each pass revealed new nuances.
Take an anger scene: should the lines be delivered through clenched restraint or explosive shouting?
The character’s emotions shifted based on interpretation.
‘Keep the Season 1 persona? Or reinvent completely?’
Jeongjikhan dissected every stage direction.
Once committed, he gave his all—half-heartedness wasn’t in his nature.
“Jeongjikhan?”
Jeongjikhan was practicing his expressions while reviewing the script when he heard a voice calling him from across the counter.
"Yes! How can I help you?"
He put down the script and stood up. A man who appeared to be in his early fifties was looking at him. The man pointed to the script and asked, "Is that a script?"
"Ah, yes, it is."
"Are you an actor, Mr. Jeongjikhan?"
"Haha! I’m still far from being called an actor, but I’m working hard."
Feeling self-conscious, Jeongjikhan fiddled with his earlobe as he spoke. The man adjusted his glasses and sat on a bar stool.
"May I take a look?"
"The script?"
"Yes."
"Do you work in this industry?"
"I used to be a film director."
Jeongjikhan looked at him in surprise. Given his age, the man must have had considerable experience in the field. When Jeongjikhan hesitated, the man smiled faintly. "I’m not here to gossip, so no need to be guarded."
"Ah, that’s not what I meant."
Showing the script to a customer here likely wouldn’t cause issues. Jeongjikhan handed him the script for The Waves of That Winter Season 2. The man scrutinized it, then raised the corners of his eyes. "A web drama script?"
"Yes."
"Unusually long for a web drama. Each episode must run about 25 minutes."
"You can tell just from the script?"
"From the number of scenes, dialogue volume, and how actor movements are written—yes."
It seemed true what they said about experts gauging skill at a glance. The man narrowed his eyes. "Too many movement cues here. Whose idea was this?"
"I’m not sure either."
"And frequent reverse angles."
He was analyzing it deeply. When Jeongjikhan stared blankly, the man scratched his sideburns awkwardly. "Did I overdo it?"
"Not at all. It shows your dedication."
The man handed back the script with a bitter smile. "Half-heartedness is harder than it looks."
"A common trait among artists, no?"
"You think so?"
Jeongjikhan nodded. "Directors endure staff criticism for one scene, writers trash dozens of drafts for a sentence, painters distinguish masterpieces by a single stroke, actors agonize over tiny gestures, athletes train years to shave 0.1 seconds."
"..."
"To some, these moments seem trivial. But pouring everything into them... I find that admirable."
The man listened, then laughed heartily. "Hahaha! Your life hasn’t been smooth either, Mr. Jeongjikhan."
"Ah, forgive me if I overstepped."
"Not at all. You spoke of detail-oriented people."
"Detail-oriented?"
"Perfectionists."
The man stared into his coffee mug. After a contemplative sip, he said, "Life demands knowing when to persist and when to yield."
"..."
"I failed at that. Focusing on trees... makes one miss the forest."
He sighed at the ceiling before meeting Jeongjikhan’s gaze. "Care to hear my story?"
"Of course. Anytime."
The man chuckled awkwardly. "I wanted to talk earlier, but people were always glued to the counter."
Was he referring to Sookhee and Yoon Hye-jeong? Yoon Hye-jeong often worked on side projects at the counter’s bar stool, while Sookhee lingered by the window before inevitably joining Jeongjikhan. Their presence had blocked others from approaching—a perspective he’d never considered.
I should remember this, Jeongjikhan thought.
"If I may ask... your name?"
"Ah! Forgive my rudeness." The man extended his hand. "Kwak Sang-hyeok."
"Jeongjikhan."
They shook hands. Jeongjikhan studied Kwak’s face while maintaining a respectful one-meter distance.
"Now that we’re talking," Kwak scratched his head, "I don’t know where to begin."
"Take your time. Any topic is fine."
After a pause, Kwak said, "I could share personal stories, but I’d rather discuss Korean cinema’s state."
"That’s beyond my judgment."
"I don’t seek answers. Just... needed to vent this frustration."
As Jeongjikhan nodded, Kwak’s expression darkened. What caused such hesitation?
After sipping coffee, Kwak finally spoke. "Korean cinema... might vanish someday."
"What?"
"Not anyone’s fault. Like jazz becoming a niche interest, films will follow."
"I don’t understand. Why would cinema die?"
"Don’t theaters feel different now?"
Jeongjikhan had no reply. He hadn’t visited a cinema in ten years—since middle school.
Kwak continued bitterly, "The word ‘movie’ may disappear, or survive as a niche like jazz."
"..."
"This shift will come globally, not just in Korea."
"..."
"Today just isn’t that day."
