Substitute-Chapter 1: Prologue

Dozing off in a convenience store chair, A jolted awake at the sound of his phone ringing. It was Han, from the Emperor Room Salon. Speaking in his usual friendly, easygoing tone, Han informed A of the customer’s destination.

A rushed out of the convenience store and sprinted toward the salon. It was only a stone’s throw away, but the clients hated waiting, so he moved with obsessive urgency.

“Here, drink this.”

Han handed A a vitamin drink as he arrived, panting and out of breath.

“I’m fine.”

A tried to wave it off, but Han didn’t pull his hand back until A accepted the bottle. Reluctantly, A took it and mumbled, “Thanks.” Only then did Han smile.

“You’re weird, you know that? Everyone else is happy to get something free. Why do you always refuse? You think I spiked it or something?”

His voice hovered between teasing and scolding, but he was all smiles.

“It’s not that...”

A tried to explain, but Han just laughed. “I’m joking.”

Feeling awkward, A tucked the bottle into the pocket of his jumper.

Moments later, a man who looked to be in his fifties stumbled up from the basement with two young women clinging to his arms. Clearly drunk. Han hurried over and slung the man’s arm over his right shoulder. Right on cue, a luxury car pulled up in front of the salon. A young man in the same waiter’s uniform as Han stepped out—his name was Kim.

Kim handed A the car keys and helped Han get the drunk man into the back seat. Only one of the women got in with him.

The middle-aged man, barely able to keep himself upright, still tried to grope the woman beside him. She giggled and didn’t resist.

“Driver, go.”

As soon as the command was given, A started the car.

Moans and lewd banter came from the back seat, but neither of them paid A any mind. As always, A acted like a ghost.

He escorted the man to the motel room and helped him into bed. By the time A came back down, it was already 3 a.m. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Standing with his back to the busy motel in the nightlife district, A took a deep breath.

Just that little bit of exertion left his whole body aching. Rubbing his right shoulder, he began walking toward Nonhyeon-dong.

A had been working as a designated driver for two years. From 7 p.m. each night, he worked independently until business dried up. But three nights a week—Friday through Sunday—he worked from midnight to 5 a.m. as a contracted driver for the Emperor Room Salon. He’d landed that gig three months ago.

It had been an unexpected stroke of luck.

He’d started driving after a traffic accident left him unable to do physical labor. It was supposed to be easier than warehouse or delivery jobs, but the mental stress was brutal.

Ninety-nine percent of his clients were drunk, which meant he saw it all. Sure, most of them went home quietly, but the other 20 percent made life hell. They’d act like kings, as if owning one car gave them a throne. The verbal abuse was routine; sometimes they lashed out physically too.

When the weather warmed up, it got even worse—complaining about how he smelled. Never mind the stench of booze, food, cigarettes, and sweat coming off of them; they focused on whatever faint odor they imagined from him.

You don’t avoid shit because it’s scary. You avoid it because it’s filthy.

So he started carrying a change of clothes and a cheap body spray in a sling bag. Strangely enough, people kept asking what cologne he wore. That felt kinda nice.

By March, after two years of this grind, he’d grown numb to it. Then one night, a customer demanded he arrive in five minutes. A made it in seven and a half—sweat-soaked and gasping for air. But the customer had already left with another driver.

Still breathless, A reported it to the office, then trudged to a nearby building to change clothes in the restroom.

That’s where he met Han.

Han recognized him immediately as a designated driver and asked if he wanted to work at their salon. A had never seen the guy before and didn’t trust his flashy looks, but beggars can’t be choosers. He followed Han and ended up with the job.

On his first day, A asked why Han offered him the gig.

“You reminded me of myself,” Han replied.

A didn’t see the resemblance—not even a little—but he nodded anyway.

Under the contract, A received a base pay of 300,000 won, plus additional earnings per drive.

His job was simple. As soon as he arrived, he’d drive a beat-up van wrapped with the salon’s branding to pick up late-arriving hostesses. He also helped the manager and waitstaff get home and ran the occasional errand.

Except for the kitchen lady, all the staff lived nearby, and errands never took more than thirty minutes.

His main role, though, was chauffeuring guests and hostesses to motels for “round two.” Just like a normal designated driver—except the destination was always a love motel.

He’d drive the client’s car, drop them off, and walk back. It wasn’t far. The motels were ten minutes away—close enough for a round trip on foot.

A’s job didn’t end at just driving. Most customers were blackout drunk, so he had to guide them to their motel rooms, sometimes even to the bed. Almost none behaved decently on the way, but it was only ten minutes. Easy enough to endure.

He earned 15,000 won per trip. For barely ten minutes of driving, it was a good deal. There were no commission cuts either. At the time, his earnings from regular driving were dwindling, so this came as a relief. That was three months ago.

Two months into the job, Han started asking A personal questions. You’d think A was the first driver they ever hired. But the reason was obvious—drivers as young as A were rare.

It wasn’t just Han. Almost every drunk client asked how someone so young ended up doing this job.

At first, it was awkward to answer. But over time, A learned to lie smoothly. Said he was a college student on leave, working to pay for tuition and living expenses.

Most people thought he was three or four years younger than he really was, so the lie worked. Some were kind enough to give him tips. Others looked down on him—talked down to him, compared him to their own kids.

A was mostly honest with Han. He told him about his older brother, who had been swindled by a business partner, leaving the family deep in debt. He talked about bouncing from warehouse jobs to manual labor, about getting into delivery work during the pandemic and doing well—until a bad traffic accident nearly killed him. The guy who hit him had no insurance and no remorse, so A had to cover all the medical and rental costs.

It was a fellow patient in the hospital—a veteran driver—who introduced him to the designated driving gig.

But Han never shared anything about himself. A, preoccupied with surviving, didn’t bother to ask.

Han handled client relations, served drinks, carried drunk men to their cars, and rode back to his apartment in the van A drove. It was a small villa with four rooms and two bathrooms. Han lived there with the madam and two of the girls.

After dropping them off, A’s day was over.

While others were commuting to work, A would take a bus home. His home was a tiny, 5-square-meter room in a goshiwon—an ultra-cheap boarding house—an hour away from Nonhyeon-dong. He’d shower in the shared bathroom, crawl into bed, and sleep for four hours.

Then he’d head to a frozen food warehouse in Gyeonggi-do. It was a fill-in gig he got from another driver who’d injured his back. The job was unpacking frozen pollock from China and repackaging it. Not as backbreaking as parcel work, and the pay wasn’t bad for six-hour shifts.

His body was still messed up, but he could manage. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. His right arm ached so badly afterward that he needed stronger painkillers.

Ordinary ones didn’t work. He relied on opioids. He also used to take anxiety meds to deal with panic attacks caused by his brother’s situation, but he’d quit them—driving required a clear head.

“Why the hell do I have to live like this?”

He asked himself that a dozen times a day. But there was no answer. Nothing to do but endure it.

Working 18 to 20 hours a day, every day, he scraped together about 4.5 million won a month. The salon gig added 500,000. Not bad money. But every bit of it went toward paying off debts, interest, and loan sharks.

Other expenses—driver app licenses, insurance, meals, transportation, rent—were barely covered by taking out new loans.

Food, clothing, shelter—none were secure. «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» New clothes were out of the question. Most days, he ate whatever rice and kimchi the goshiwon provided. Eggs and dried seaweed were a luxury.

Even for a healthy man in his twenties, this life was unsustainable. His skin grew dull. Dark circles hung under his eyes. People who used to ask if he was a college student now said he looked older than his age.

The grind was eating away at his youth, piece by piece.

As always, A showered in the shared stall and lay down in his tiny room.

He dreamed of a time when life was still ordinary.

And woke up bitter, mourning what he had become.