A Resume That Shouldn’t Exist, and a Bolt from the Blue
At Jeonghwa Girls’ High School, there was a saying: by the time you graduate after three years, you’ll have at least one ghost you’ve seen face-to-face. That alone says it all.
Around the time evening self-study began each year, there were always two or three students per class claiming they’d fallen asleep, been paralyzed in their sleep, and seen a ghost.
The teachers would casually ask what the ghost looked like, saying things like “That one’s an old spirit,” or “That’s a new one,” and help the freshmen determine how long the ghost they’d seen had been around. It had practically become an annual ritual.
Looking back, it was a truly bizarre school.
“Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone in our class ever got sleep paralysis…”
I’d heard rumors about students in other classes having it, but I don’t recall anyone in ours ever saying they saw a ghost.
Back then, we just laughed it off, thinking our classroom must have had good feng shui…
“No, wait, there was one.”
“Who?”
“Park Eun-seon. Remember the day you had food poisoning and didn’t come to school? She got sleep paralysis and collapsed, foaming at the mouth.”
The memory of getting food poisoning from gorging on fried snacks at the local tteokbokki place was still vivid, like it happened yesterday. I could still recall my grandma bursting into the shop with a ladle, yelling at the owner when her precious grandchild fell sick.
Strangely though, I couldn’t quite recall that classmate’s face or name.
She had pale skin and seemed like someone who did well in school… She quietly studied every day and never really stood out.
When Haeyoung furrowed her brow, trying to recall more, Jeongseok chuckled in disbelief.
“Her parents ran to the teachers’ office the next day and begged them to keep her in the same class as you for all three years. They said a shaman told them it had to be that way.”
“What? I didn’t know anything about that.”
“It happened when you were in the hospital with food poisoning. And even if you were there, it’s not like the teachers would tell you that. I only overheard it because I was on cleanup duty in the office.”
Jeongseok had a way of casually dropping shocking comments like it was nothing.
When Haeyoung looked at him, stunned, he simply shrugged.
“Anyway, my point is you’ve got strong energy. People with powerful auras can do anything if they just set their mind to it. So stop sulking and get back to job hunting.”
“Isn’t it really because you don’t want to work with me?”
“Well, there’s that too. You’ve got a college degree and still can’t memorize how to use the POS machine.”
Just like in high school, laughter bubbled up. After letting out a burst of laughter, Jeongseok wiggled a finger at Haeyoung’s eyebrows and said:
“…My mom used to say you’ve got tiger eyebrows.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is it a good thing?”
“It’s a tiger, so obviously it’s a good thing.”
So things will go well for you. His voice, flat and matter-of-fact as always, felt oddly comforting today.
Haeyoung rubbed her rough, furrowed brows and smiled.
All day, the office pillars were intact, and no ownerless shoes wandered about.
Was all of this really thanks to that energy drink?
Jeongseok stared at the bottle still sitting on his desk, doubting and doubting again.
The absence of further strange occurrences was something to be glad about, but without knowing the reason, he couldn’t fully relax.
Especially with this case—he had a gut feeling it wasn’t over yet.
He wasn’t someone who usually trusted his instincts, but for this particular matter, his raw intuition felt more reliable than any reasoned thought.
After all, if you’ve ever had the experience of being chased by a horde of monstrous rats in your office lobby, something inside you is bound to change.
He needed to take action somehow—but the problem was, he had far too little information.
His monitor was cluttered with random content: news articles about luxury apartments along the Han River overrun by rats, pest control ads claiming to get rid of all bugs and rodents, and dream interpretations of rat-infested nightmares—but none of it seemed relevant to what he needed.
It made sense that no answers were coming—he didn’t even know what he was looking for.
Still, he did know one thing: if he wanted to get closer to an answer, he had to…
Jeongseok pulled his phone toward him. On the screen was Chairman Go’s phone number.
It sounded crazy, but Jeongseok had a strange certainty that all of this was somehow connected to his grandfather.
He had just been putting off calling, unsure whether doing so would help or hurt him.
“Oh—it’s raining,” someone in the office clicked their tongue.
Jeongseok looked up at the sound, eyes drawn to the steel-gray sky outside the window. It had been gloomy all afternoon, and now raindrops had finally started to fall.
As his coworkers grumbled about their rainy commutes, Jeongseok froze, staring out the window.
A black rat was standing on the windowsill, staring straight at him.
Its glowing red eyes locked with his for a moment before it scurried out of view. Jeongseok snatched up his phone and leapt to his feet.
Time was running out.
He called Chairman Go as he hurried out of the office, listening to the dial tone.
But even by the time he reached the elevator, all he could hear was the beeping of unanswered rings.
When the voicemail finally cut in, unease swelled inside him. He hung up.
He hit the button for the 24th floor—where the chairman’s office was. The old elevator groaned and shook like it was protesting.
He stared at the flickering overhead lights. The elevator was old, yes, but this was the first time they looked ready to give out entirely.
And they weren’t even halfway up yet—but it already felt like the elevator was slowing down. Like something was deliberately trying to stop him from reaching the 24th floor.
Ding!
The elevator finally arrived, the doors creaking open with an unnatural, grating sound. As soon as he stepped out, the doors slammed shut behind him with a loud bang!
Had the elevator always closed so fast and hard?
Still dazed, Jeongseok stared at the descending floor numbers. He decided he’d use the stairs on the way down.
If the chairman really was connected to all this, the clues would definitely be in his office.
Jeongseok looked around. As far as he knew, Secretary Han—Chairman Go’s aide—was at the hospital with his grandfather today. With both the office and secretary’s desk empty, the 24th floor was deserted.
He tried the door carefully—and it opened smoothly, almost like it had been waiting for him.
The chairman’s office was dim, made gloomier by the rain. Thunder rumbled, and the steady sound of pouring rain made the atmosphere even more eerie.
Why had they built the chairman’s office here, of all places?
Though it was technically the top floor of Dokgap Group’s headquarters, the 24th floor felt like an awkward halfway point. And even as renovations and expansions changed the layout of the building over the years, the chairman’s office always remained in the same place.
The massive central pillar cut into the room, and sunlight barely reached it. It was one of the worst spots for an office.
And yet his grandfather had never once considered moving.
Was there a reason for that too?
Looking around the sparse space—furnished only with essentials—Jeongseok headed toward the chairman’s desk.
His eyes landed on a drawer labeled Complaint Box. Only then did he remember that Chairman Go had once put him in charge of handling it.
Who knew how many complaints had been filed since then? But lately, he hadn’t had time to care.
Sitting down, Jeongseok opened the drawer.
“…What is this?”
Instead of complaint slips filled with petty gripes, the drawer was stuffed full of resumes.
There had to be hundreds.
Excluding the plant workers they hired year-round, Jeongseok was pretty sure no department at Dokgap Group was currently recruiting. It wasn’t hiring season, and no team urgently needed extra staff.
Even if they did, it wasn’t something the chairman would personally handle. That was HR’s job.
Jeongseok grabbed a stack and flipped through them.
He quickly ruled out the possibility that meticulous Secretary Han had misfiled something—especially this badly. That made this whole situation even more mysterious.
Then he found a memo in Secretary Han’s handwriting.
Request to postpone interviews.
Along with the note was a set of documents detailing this particular recruitment. Though calling them “detailed” was generous.
Jeongseok scowled at the absurd job posting.
No assigned position. No start date. No requirements. No education or experience restrictions. Anyone with the “passion to work” could apply.
It was the first time he’d seen such ludicrous conditions. With no set position, what were they even hiring for?
And yet, all these people had still applied? The job market must be rough.
He skimmed the top resume and clicked his tongue.
The GPA was acceptable, but not great. Extracurriculars were abysmal. The TOEIC score was average. Most notably, this applicant had an odd pattern of leaving every job in under a year.
Jeongseok felt a little bad, but if he were in HR, this resume would’ve been tossed at first glance.
And there was even a seal stamped at the bottom. Who even stamps resumes these days?
Then something caught his eye.
Among all the applicants—who came from different places with varied backgrounds—there was one strange commonality: they had all been born on the same day.
