Before the war, I briefly worked at a company. I had even shared a candid and unembellished account of my experience on our forum.

    The company had two bookkeepers—one was the boss’s girlfriend, and the other was the actual bookkeeper. Neither of them did much work, but at least the real bookkeeper pretended to be productive. While I hadn’t mentioned this on the forum, it was obvious that the real bookkeeper had a strong attraction to me.

    “Look at this, Park Gyu.”

    Perhaps that’s why one day she showed me her favorite online community. She was likely trying to find common ground with me, but even now, I’m not particularly warm toward women.

    “I don’t use the internet. I don’t do KakaoTalk or any of those apps. I don’t do group chats at all.”

    It wasn’t just because she wasn’t my type. That was part of it, sure, but not the whole reason.

    “Then what’s that group chat?”

    “It’s for business. I’d like my personal life to remain private.”

    Even if she’d been more attractive, it wouldn’t have made a difference. My focus was solely on surviving alone—I had no interest in shared survival or any such indulgence.

    Still, the community she showed me left a strong impression, even on someone like me, who was mentally and emotionally drained from constant debt collection calls and the looming fear of war.

    I don’t recall its exact name, but it was an anonymous forum. Despite being anonymous, it wasn’t entirely private. The site had a unique feature: posts displayed the name of the poster’s company. It was designed to create a space where workers could openly and honestly discuss the inner workings of their workplaces, fostering transparency and protecting employee rights.

    The intent was noble. It sounded good in theory.

    But through my eyes, that system seemed like a revival of South Korea’s deep-seated societal rot.

    “Ta-da~ This is how our company shows up!” the bookkeeper exclaimed as she posted something on the forum.

    SeafoodPancakeLv.1 (New Company): Feeling down, sigh...

    “New company?” I asked.

    “Yes. Usually, companies like ours...”

    She gestured for me to come closer.

    “You can just explain from there,” I said, not moving.

    She pouted, turned her head away, and replied curtly, “This is how it shows up for small companies like ours.”

    Out of curiosity, I secretly accessed the site and registered. It required a business card and company phone number. Since my company hadn’t issued me a card, I had to use a 2,500-won template to create one and entered the phone number for verification. I managed to get an account.

    Once I joined, I browsed the posts to get a feel for the site. It was practical and realistic, with plenty of information that reflected the lives of office workers. But even amidst this, something familiar hit me like a punch to the throat.

    SKELTON (New Company): Work is so exhausting.

    Three seconds later, a similar post appeared:

    CorporateSlaveA (Jepho Motors Headquarters): Life is so hard (12)

    There was no difference between the two posts—except for the number of comments. My post had none, while CorporateSlaveA’s had twelve. I read through some of them:

    ?? (Cheolju Media): I feel you, sigh...

    TomorrowWillShine (Cocao): Still gotta work tomorrow...

    SatoriGeneration (CK Telecom): Let’s hang in there.

    SlamDunk123 (Civil Servant): I want to take a vacation.

    I couldn’t understand it. Even as someone unfamiliar with internet culture at the time, the unfairness felt glaring.

    Had I done something wrong? No, I hadn’t.

    But being human, I couldn’t help but wonder if the problem lay in the “New Company” label next to my name, as the bookkeeper had mentioned.

    Refreshed with a lingering sense of frustration, a new post caught my eye:

    BonobonoHamster (Doctor): Our workplace summary.txt (13)

    OverworkedLow payDealing with elderly patients all dayNo idea why I even studied medicine

    “‘Doctor’ as a company name? That’s odd,” I thought, finding it curious. Inspired, I decided to write my own post:

    SKELTON (New Company): Our workplace summary.txt

    Always told to arrive ten minutes early, but they want me to show up even earlier.Get called back during lunch break walks for no reason.If I ask questions, I’m told I lack initiative; if I don’t ask, I’m scolded for not asking.

    The final outcome was nothing short of a spectacle:

    ?? (A18): Code-based hierarchy (Final Edition).txt

    A01–A10: RoyaltyA11–A23: Noble familiesB01–B18: AristocratsB19–B33: Yangban (Traditional elite)

    --- Line of Nobility ---

    C01–C14: Middle-classC15–C32: Commoners

    --- Line of Humanity ---

    D~: SlavesE~: ServantsF~: Zombies

    “...”

    Failnet, once a platform where everyone could speak freely and equally under anonymous “??” usernames, had now devolved into a hierarchy.

    ????????? (D18): This isn’t right. What difference does it make between camps? I’m heading to Jeju Island anyway.

    ?? (B11): Sure, beggar. Enjoy your Jeju trip in your dreams.

    ?? (A22): This hierarchy is spot-on. Our camp has tons of doctors and even celebrities. I was a fund manager in Yeouido.

    ?? (A23): Our camp gathered many survivors from Gangnam. Seems like the government really did filter and sort us.

    ?? (E22): What a load of crap. Seriously, what did you eat today? Beef? Is that why you’re acting so arrogant?

    ?? (A15): E-class reeks. Disgusting.

    ?? (A02): Yum-yum... filthy beggars... Yum-yum... finally putting this board in order... Yum-yum...

    People who once laughed and chatted together were now scrutinizing each other based on the codes next to their usernames. It reminded me of the forum I once visited before the war, where company names beside usernames served as a similar status symbol.

    Witnessing this debacle, I immediately reached out to one of John Nae-non’s subordinates.

    SKELTON: What’s going on? Failnet is in chaos.

    After a short while, a reply came:

    171cm54kg13cm: Ah, SKELTON...

    SKELTON: (Shocked SKELTON) Wait, your username is...?!

    171cm54kg13cm: Yeah, it’s basically my account now. I’m not a fan of lying.

    SKELTON: (Deep breath SKELTON) I see... Anyway, what’s happening?

    They explained the situation. When their equipment broke during the monsoon season, they were forced to rely on government assistance, effectively bowing to them.

    While John Nae-non’s vision for the site was revolutionary, maintaining it required resources—resources that had nearly been depleted during the monsoon. Left with no choice, they compromised, which led to the current pandemonium.

    171cm54kg13cm: Also...

    I could almost picture the thin, bespectacled man hesitating as he typed, his frail figure vividly forming in my mind. Then, the next message came:

    171cm54kg13cm: John Nae-non doesn’t have much time left. I think this month might be the end...

    “...”

    I closed my eyes and let out a deep sigh. It wasn’t surprising. The concept of death had lingered over John Nae-non from the moment I met him.

    But knowing his time was almost up still hit me like a hammer to the head. I had hoped he’d live a little longer, even if he no longer participated in the forums.

    SKELTON: I see... ????

    171cm54kg13cm: It’s heartbreaking. Truly...

    SKELTON: Why?

    171cm54kg13cm: John Nae-non is tormented. Watching the site he built turn into this government-controlled nightmare... Yesterday, he didn’t sleep at all. He just kept staring at the forums, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with regret.

    I could only imagine the despair of watching the utopia he traded his life for become tainted by the government’s influence.

    “...”

    Once again, I felt powerless. There was little I could do to fix this. Not everything could be solved by wielding an axe.

    Then, a thought struck me.

    “Wait...”

    This is John Nae-non we’re talking about. As a long-time admirer, I knew him well. I knew what he liked, what he wanted.

    Tap, tap, tap.

    SKELTON: (Strategist SKELTON) I’ve got an idea.