Chapter 77: Soju, Sundubu, and Salvation

Jeon Min-jung wanted to use me, an assistant writer who grew up in an orphanage, as nothing more than a cheap trash bag.

A convenient trash bag she could easily throw away whenever and wherever, while dispelling any misunderstandings about her own sordid affairs.

If, like most chaebols, she had married a man with good family background and connections, it would have been much harder for her to get a divorce if her secrets were ever exposed.

And when the news spread that she was marrying a young assistant writer with no backing, no family, and nothing else to his name, most people actually praised Jeon Min-jung's character, saying a third-generation chaebol had chosen love over a political marriage.

So, in the end, I was a high-performance trash bag—easy to throw away and even useful for creating a touching story.

No matter how little social skill I had, no matter how filled I was with paranoia, or how much I looked at the world with a twisted view, seeing it as a paradise for outsiders and hell for insiders—

Even so, I was hurt, naturally.

When I saw the wife I’d never doubted lying in bed with her half-brother, and when I accepted that even the daughter I’d raised as my life's love wasn't actually my child.

I was in so much pain I even considered the extreme option of death.

That pain left a horrific scar that I will never, ever be able to erase.

Wounds like these often leave behind PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder).

So the moment Sakura said she needed me, I felt a cold, sharp sensation, as if I’d been cut by a razor-thin piece of paper.

The words “Actress Ishihara Sakura needs Writer Lee Junghyuk” prodded at my wound.

Of course, Sakura had confessed that she’d gone through her own hard, anonymous years, and she’d admitted she’d learned her own lessons from her scars.

But people always feel more pain from a single cut on their own finger than from someone else losing one entirely.

That’s why I was able to refuse Sakura’s proposal without a shred of guilt.

She’d spilled secrets she’d never told anyone else before.

She practically begged, clinging to me.

I answered her.

“No.”

“Ah, I see.”

In that moment, Sakura’s bright eyes flicked off like someone had hit a power switch.

Even behind the mask, I could clearly see the change in her expression.

For a while, Sakura said nothing, just fidgeting with the glass of liquor in front of her.

I was confused.

Maybe this sense of betrayal I felt wasn’t entirely justified.

It was hard to say Sakura was the same as Jeon Min-jung, who had deceived me about both her relationship with her half-brother and her marriage.

At the very least, Sakura, even if she’d started with a lie, had revealed her true intentions in the end.

Still, without another word, I stood up from my seat.

Looking down at Sakura, who sat dazed, I asked in a dry voice.

“I’ll be going now. Do you have any cash?”

“…I don’t.”

“Then I’ll pay.”

I took my wallet from my inside pocket, pulled out a few thousand-yen bills, and handed them to the smiling food cart owner.

Then I reached my hand out to Sakura.

She stared at me blankly, not understanding my meaning, so I spoke in a voice colder than I expected, “My coat, please.”

Startled, Sakura took off the coat draped over her shoulders. Now, she stood there in a thin, flashy mini dress that looked totally out of place at a street food cart.

She hugged her bare shoulders as if she’d been stripped naked, but I still took back the coat I’d lent her.

Without looking back, I walked away, blending into the Halloween crowd in their masks.

For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, after hearing Sakura’s story, I didn’t feel a shred of sympathy, pity, or tenderness for her and her difficult past.

All I wanted was to get away and go somewhere else.

The streets were packed with Halloween revelers.

“Uwaaa!”

As I walked, a man dressed as a zombie with half his head smashed in leaped at me, arms wide, trying to startle me.

“……”

But I, expressionless, walked past him as if I were dressed as an emotionless psychopath killer.

I continued on through the bustling main street until I reached a quiet alley.

Since it was quite far from the main shopping district, most stores were closed, and a small Japanese-style lantern flickered inside the dim alley.

From afar, I couldn’t make out the writing, and even up close, I couldn’t read kanji or hiragana anyway, except for the character ‘酒’ meaning ‘alcohol.’

I’d been wandering without a destination for a while, and since I hadn’t had a proper meal at the food cart earlier, I was hungry.

‘They must sell something here.’

As I drew closer to the light, I realized this place was a little different from ordinary Japanese bars.

The shop sign was written boldly in Korean, not Japanese, with small Japanese subtitles underneath.

[Jangsakkoon]

[商売人]

For a bar in a quiet alley, there were actually quite a lot of customers inside.

As I stepped in, the Japanese owner greeted me in a loud, welcoming voice.

He seemed to be asking something, and though my Japanese wasn’t perfect, I guessed, from my years of watching Japanese dramas as a student, that he was asking how many people were in my party.

“Hitōri.”

I couldn’t speak fluent Japanese, so I held up one finger and nodded.

Thanks to the friendly owner, I was guided to a small two-person table in the back.

The menu was full of Japanese words I couldn’t read, but true to the Korean sign, the photos made it easy to understand what was on offer.

I raised my hand to call the owner and managed to place my order using simple gestures.

A short while later,

Boiling soon tofu stew and a familiar green bottle of alcohol were set on my table.

It looked like this place specialized in Korean-style snacks and drinks.

Come to think of it, the owner’s distinctive hairstyle looked familiar.

If my memory was correct, it resembled the male lead’s style from .

There were a few Korean soju posters on the walls, clearly shipped over from Korea.

As I’d expected, stills from  were stuck up all around the bar.

‘This place is really influenced by the Korean Wave.’

I picked up the green soju bottle and filled my glass.

‘How ironic.’

Just a short while ago, I’d come to Japan to observe the Japanese drama production process, eating dinner at a local spot recommended by a Japanese actress.

Yet now, just seeing a Korean soju bottle here brought me more comfort than anything else.

The soon tofu stew here was definitely milder than back in Korea, but after a spoonful of the warm broth, I felt my body relax and refilled my soju glass.

- Who are you to decide my life!

A familiar Korean voice rang out in the bar, filled with Japanese customers and staff.

On a TV near the kitchen, a highlight reel from the wildly popular Korean drama  was playing.

, based on a Korean webtoon, had dominated its timeslot with ratings over 18% in the capital region when it aired in Korea.

The story follows a protagonist who, after being wrongly accused and branded a criminal, starts a bar in Itaewon and, from rock bottom, rises to the very top of the restaurant business.

The show inspired young people in their 20s and 30s with dreams of starting their own businesses and helped expand the Korean drama market’s share of webtoon-based works.

It was so popular in Japan that it spawned countless videos and memes—and now even restaurants themed after the drama.

- Can’t a man with a red mark against his name live with conviction?
- The price for my convictions isn’t even enough at a hundred billion won.

‘It’s fun to see this again.’

Drinking soju and eating the same dishes the main character eats in the actual show made me feel even more immersed.

As I lost myself in the drama, the tangled mess of thoughts in my head seemed to unravel bit by bit.

People are all the same.

Even when the world feels like it’s crashing down, just some warm soup, soju, and a drama can quickly heal your heart.

For me, I don’t even need the soup or soju—just the drama itself is enough to bring me peace.

It’s not because I love or am better at dramas than anyone else. It’s just how it’s always been, since I was very young.

When I was in elementary school, I would fight off sleep every evening to sit with my parents on the living room sofa and watch dramas.

The dramas that aired then were a bit complicated and mature for a kid, but I’d stubbornly watch anyway, asking my parents about scenes I didn’t understand.

Sometimes my mother would hand me sliced apples, and sometimes I’d doze off on the sofa, drifting to sleep to the drama’s OST.

From those earliest, half-remembered childhood days, I’ve lived with dramas.

Sure, memories with my parents played a part, but I loved the very essence of drama itself more than anything.

That’s right.

What I felt from Sakura might not have been just betrayal, human to human.

When I heard her plea, I also felt like my love for drama was being denied.

For me, drama is the crystallization of longing, something I want to write, even if I have to beg or steal for it. It’s my only remaining dream.

Even if one day, all my secrets are laid bare, I will never give up on drama.

Even if I get exposed for having copied the content of  from Godflix, and even if the name ‘Star Writer Lee Junghyuk’—which I earned thanks to Godflix—turns out to be built on lies and all comes crashing down.

Even if every last bit of my fake reputation disappears.

The desire to write dramas will never disappear.

So, my dramas cannot be written just for an actress like Sakura.

My dramas must be written for myself alone.

“Mōshiwake arimasen. Kore de eigyō shūryō jikan desu.”

(Sorry, but it’s closing time.)

The owner came over and bowed his head.

I didn’t understand, so I reached for my phone to open a translation app—then realized it was almost midnight.

Behind the kitchen, I saw staff dragging out a large trash bag.

‘They must be closing up.’

I quickly gathered my things, stood up, and bowed politely to the owner.

“Thank you for the meal.”

As I stepped outside, the air had grown even colder than before, stinging my nose.

It was a late autumn night.