Sale price: 800 million…!
For now, the price of the studio apartment I live in hasn’t been listed.
But when I looked at another studio in a similar location that’s up for sale, this is the price.
I visited that place when I was house-hunting, and whether it’s because the construction company is similar or studios are just like that, they felt pretty much the same.
“800 million, 800 million.”
It’s too much.
Gold is pretty expensive too.
But in terms of grams, it’s not even worth half a penny compared to 800 million.
I want to earn money and buy this studio.
For now, my options are street performances or a superpower show.
Or maybe stealing using teleportation or flight?
Or, since I have a luck stat, I could max it out and buy lottery tickets like crazy.
“For now, let’s just quit.”
And so, I decided to resign.
Sure, preventing the appearance of a Level 100 cockroach is one thing, but I concluded that staying a salaried worker wouldn’t get me this studio.
[Teacher, you know you have to fulfill the contract period, right?]
After deciding to resign, I checked a message from the person who receives resignation letters.
I typed a reply but didn’t hit send.
[The contract period is your…]
Of course, I held back from sending it.
I’m a contract teacher, as the kids mockingly call me, a “contract worker.”
Last year, and probably this year too, no schools nationwide are hiring for my subject.
Due to the Ministry of Education’s failure to predict demand, they hired hundreds of teachers right before I graduated, with a competition rate of 2:1.
Now, there’s a backlog, and getting a placement is tough.
Luckily, there was a one-year position at a private school that didn’t require passing the public teacher exam. I started working after graduation.
But the person who vacated that position is returning around the summer break.
So, my contract ends on the first day of the break.
I was already feeling skeptical about teaching.
I thought I could recharge during the break and endure another year.
But when the break and my one-year job were taken away, I was cornered to the point of hating going to school.
The school broke the contract first but is now demanding I complete the remaining month or so of the semester.
“If you get a bad reputation at school, you know what happens, right?”
The vice-principal, who treated me kindly, comforted me while badmouthing the teacher returning from leave.
But even while comforting me in a gentle tone, they subtly pressured me.
***
I submitted my resignation letter again as soon as I got to work.
“I’m quitting.”
“Teacher, didn’t we already discuss this? Of course, I know that teacher is being unreasonable. But still.”
“This isn’t the path for me. I’m done.”
The vice-principal shakes their head.
“No way. Are you sick? If you were sick, maybe I’d understand. Are you pregnant? No, right? Did you have a baby? No, right?”
Unless it’s for health reasons or maternity leave, they absolutely won’t accept my resignation.
“My heart hurts.”
“I know keeping someone whose heart isn’t in it isn’t good for the school or the kids. But for for the kids, as an adult, you should take some responsibility.”
“I’m not an adult. I’m sorry.”
It felt like a rerun of Thursday when I said I was quitting, so I just cut it off.
The vice-principal sighs and shakes their head.
“I can’t do it. Let’s talk when the principal comes.”
“You could just approve it yourself. Why not?”
“Fine, sure. But finding a replacement for a month is tough.”
“Just tell the permanent teacher to come back a month early.”
“Teacher, new teacher. At least until this week.”
I just blocked a gate with a rice cooker, and if the cooker breaks, I’ll go hungry.
Are you going to feed me for life?
“I’ll assume you’ll handle it. Otherwise.”
“Just for today, hold on. We’ll talk later. Later.”
The vice-principal knew this would happen.
It’s hard to find a new short-term contract teacher now.
But can’t they just call in a permanent teacher to work instead?
The person on sick leave conveniently recovers right at the break, and I heard they’re showing signs of improvement to return.
As I left the staff room, I mulled it over.
“Let’s beat them up.”
There was a way.
The conclusion was clear.
I’m going to beat up the delinquents.
I’d been planning to do it while quitting since way back.
The kids are cute, of course, but some aren’t.
I started my first day dreaming of teaching with love, not hitting or yelling at my first students, or losing my temper.
But.
My father, wearing worn-out shoes, gave me a 300,000 won gift card for Kangkang shoes to buy new ones.
“You can’t go to work with shoes like that.”
The new shoes he bought me disappeared on my first day at school.
“Where are your shoes, teacher?”
I went home wearing staff slippers, and one of my shoes came back as a rag.
The other was never found.
If it was a prank, shouldn’t they eventually return it?
Did they really throw it away?
As a homeroom teacher for a year, no matter what I said, the word “contract worker” shut me up.
My patience wasn’t great enough to live as a non-violent teacher against kids like that.
And.
“…..”
Because I was a contract worker with no voice, there was a student I couldn’t save.
That’s why the kids’ “contract worker” jabs stung so much.
So, I’m done with this contract job.
I went to the classroom.
There, I saw a scene I’d been ignoring until now.
“Pretending to sleep so well. Not waking up even when hit? Hey, hey.”
“It hurts, stop it.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to? Does it hurt? Hurt? How much does it hurt?”
“Get me a gym uniform.”
“No, I said no.”
“Damn, you don’t listen. Hey, bitch, get a gym uniform.”
As expected, during the break, I saw a kid who was lying down being woken up and hit on the arm to get a gym uniform.
It’s probably for third-period PE.
I took out my phone and started recording as I walked in.
“Stop it. Want to send another one away?”
When I burst in, the four kids who were hitting a sleeping student to get three gym uniforms turned to look at me.
“Why are you recording?”
“Are you a perv? Is it okay for a guy to record secretly?”
They sound like they’ll live ignorantly, but they say the darndest things.
“Yeah, so I can report you for bullying later.”
“They just asked for a gym uniform, a little tap.”
“Wow, the contract worker is making friends with the loser.”
“Wow, contract worker. Working hard.”
“Contract worker.”
They mocked me with “contract worker” in unison, but I recorded it all.
Kids are young but politically savvy.
Once they found out I was a contract worker, they labeled me as such, stripping away any authority I had as a teacher and turning me into an easy target, a pushover.
They didn’t even do it knowingly, but that’s how it happened.
Even if they’re kids, dealing with multiple people in a way that suits them?
That’s something I found hard.
“Give me your phone.”
They’re annoyed about being recorded and try to grab my phone.
I dodged.
Then the teasing continued from the start of the semester.
“Where are my shoes, teacherrrr?”
“Where are my shoes, teacherrrr?”
“Damn, just give it to me.”
Such noisy kids.
“Oh, nice cursing. Keep going. It’ll look great in the parent group chat.”
They even cursed.
I should feel bad when cursed at, but since I plan to beat them up and quit, I’m actually happy to have a reason.
They cursed at a teacher.
I’m a contract worker, but I’m still a teacher and an adult, so I need a justifiable reason.
“Damn, crazy bastard. Wanna die? Huh? A contract worker bastard.”
Finally, their leader stands up, trying to intimidate me with curses.
Meanwhile, one kid sneaks behind me and grabs me.
“Let’s wrestle, teacher. Wrestle.”
Wrestling was their excuse to disguise violence as play.
They did it to me before, messing around.
We’re about the same size, but maybe their strength hasn’t fully developed, so I could handle one or two.
But these guys come at me as a group of four.
At first, I thought they were just being friendly like boys, but I realized too late they were trying to mess with the teacher.
“Fine.”
I agreed and twisted my body, pushing the kid who was trying to hold me from behind, making him fly back.
***
“Aaaaaah!”
It worked.
The situation is weird now. I’m holding the ankles of a kid who fell out of a fifth-floor classroom window.
“Just hold on, I’ll pull you up soon.”
“Arghhh!”
I said that but shook him a bit.
And I looked at him with a grin.
I don’t know why, but I like physical stuff, and while wrestling with these kids who seem like they’ll do manual labor someday, it just happened.
The classroom window broke, and one of our students almost fell.
I just threw a telegraphed punch, not even hitting hard, just swinging in the air.
But this kid dramatically flew back, the window broke, and he lost balance on the window frame, flailing until I grabbed him.
There are bars to prevent falls and a structure to keep the window from opening too wide.
But those broke at the exact moment I threw the punch?
These kids might be natural troublemakers, but making them pay with their lives is a bit much, so I grabbed his ankles.
This kid probably weighs about 80 kilos, and I initially grabbed both ankles, but I could lift him easily.
I have a flight level.
“Argh, arghhhh! Stop shaking me, you lunatic!”
So I let go of one ankle.
“Hey, I’m trying to save you, and you’re cursing? That’s harsh. One arm’s getting tired.”
“Hey, you damn contract worker! Hold on! Ah, ahhhh!”
“I’m sad from the cursing, and my strength’s fading.”
“You’re laughing!”
He must feel my grip loosening.
Of course, I was acting like I was letting go, putting on a full performance.
“I laugh when I’m tired. Hahaha, hahahahaha.”
I laughed heartily.
While doing so, I opened my mouth, letting drool drip.
This kid sits at the back and spits on the backs of kids in front during class, giggling.
“Argh, ah, ahhh! Teacher, teacherrrr! Save me, damn it! Argh, ahhh!”
He screams as he feels my grip loosen, then starts crying, even wetting his pants.
He’s leaking everywhere.
“What was that?”
“Save me!”
“If you say, ‘Teacher, I’m sorry, please save me,’ with some reflection, I might get more strength. Try it. ‘Teacher, please save me,’ politely.”
“Damn, no, I’m sorry! Save me, please! You’re strong, save me!”
“I said once, but you said it twice, so no good.”
“No, reallyyyy!”
Satisfied with the scene, I pulled him up and set him down.
The classroom was a mess.
The three kids he hangs with were stacked on desks after I gorilla-pressed and threw them.
One was sitting there, dazed, having wet himself.
Yet, they still cursed at the watching kids.
“Damn, what are you looking at, you bastards?”
“Wanna say that again?”
The kids flinched at the harsh curses, but I shoved the camera back in their faces.
“Stop recording!”
“Gotta record in case I need to make you pay for the uniform later.”
***
“Now can I quit?”
“You saved Gyuhyung, didn’t you? Sure, you hit the other kids, but it was a joke, right? You didn’t really hit them.”
I threw them. People and all.
“Pranks the kids don’t like legalization aren’t pranks. They’re violence. Are you defending a violent teacher?”
“Why are you being like this?”
The vice-principal presses their forehead, clearly exasperated.