IGWKE Episode 25

Episode 25

Joo-min’s new strategy boiled down to targeting the director of the center, who didn’t care about anything as long as there were no deaths or headline-grabbing incidents on the reports, regardless of whether employees were tearing each other apart inside the center or risking their lives in the field. Her reasoning was clear:

“If the director approves your transfer, do you think Manager Im would dare to refuse to sign off?”

Ordinarily, bypassing the proper chain of command to seek direct approval from the center director was unheard of in such a hierarchical organization. Nobody would dare to approach the top without first going through their immediate supervisor.

But for an outsider like Jung Yoon-ui, already branded as a troublemaker and pushed to the sidelines, it was a gamble worth taking.

“Skipping your manager is risky. Manager Im might hold it against you for the next ten years, but since you’re transferring out, you might as well try,” Woo-joo added with his usual calm pragmatism.

“Even if the director rejects it, your career as a guide is already in ruins. You might as well shove the paperwork onto their desk,” chimed in Analyst Kim Woo-joo, his words delivered with the bluntness of someone with a PhD who’d long learned to embrace inconvenient truths.

Yoon-ui couldn’t find a rebuttal, so he nodded.

‘Right. My guide career is already over. What’s the point of tiptoeing around?’

Armed with a surge of courage—if not exactly optimism—he was still left unsettled. After all, running away to administration was one thing, but the fact that even the administrative department didn’t welcome him with open arms stung.

---

“Ah, seriously. This is so infuriating.”

At the office, he tried to keep his emotions in check, wary of others’ gazes. But once he returned home and found himself alone, his feelings ricocheted wildly. The simmering anger, frustration, and sudden waves of anxiety were difficult to suppress. These were the scars left by his time in this role.

The emotional instability felt like a disciplinary record etched into his personnel file—a blemish that might fade someday but would never truly disappear. It lurked in the background, surfacing unbidden like a dull ache.

Throwing himself onto his bed, he idly fidgeted with his phone. For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Manager Im or Manager Park to hurl insults at them. Thankfully, sobriety kept him from causing such a disaster. Instead, a more soothing distraction arrived at the perfect time.

[Training is over.]

[(Photo)]

These days, Heon-ju sent him photos three or four times a day: what he ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, along with various desserts. Every single one included a selfie. Sometimes, he even sent pictures of himself drenched in sweat after training, clad in his gray fire-resistant gear, clearly seeking praise for his hard work.

Today’s photo showed him sweating but not overly flushed. Clicking his tongue, Yoon-ui replied:

[Looks like you’re taking it easy.]

[You even have the energy to take photos.]

[Back in my day, we were so wiped out after training we’d collapse from dehydration.]

He wanted to say something nice to the eager junior wagging his metaphorical tail for approval, but his twisted nature couldn’t produce words of encouragement. Still, Heon-ju responded instantly, clearly delighted just to receive a reply:

[So mean.]

[Praise me, please.]

The audacity of it made Yoon-ui shake his head, smirking despite himself. At first, Heon-ju had been polite and formal, but ever since being rejected from calling him ‘hyung’, his tone had become more playful and filled with endearing charm.

‘Does he act this way with everyone?’

Yoon-ui wondered, suddenly annoyed.

‘Does everyone else just shower him with praise, making him so comfortable asking for it?’

Considering how easily Heon-ju befriended others—calling someone like Lee Hyun-ji ‘nuna’ and being chummy with people he barely met—it was clear he wasn’t shy about approaching older folks with affection. Maybe his familiarity with Yoon-ui was just an extension of that.

“…Does this kid even like me for real?”

Wasn’t it normal to be awkward or shy around someone you liked? Yet, here was Heon-ju, barreling forward without hesitation. With no real dating experience and only secondhand knowledge of relationships, Yoon-ui found Heon-ju’s unreserved approach baffling.

As the 30-something ruminated over whether to give the praise, the youthful 20-something pushed ahead energetically:

[Can I call you?]

“Ah, this kid….”

Startled by the idea, Yoon-ui quickly typed a reply. They’d already spoken on the phone a few times since Heon-ju moved to Busan, but never when he was in a sour mood like this.

Though his words were playful and affectionate, his voice was unmistakably that of a mature man—deep and soothing. Listening to it had a way of kneading his frazzled emotions, which made it dangerous. If they talked now, he’d probably end up venting to a much younger junior as if he’d had a few drinks. That was too pathetic to bear. Resolving to avoid it, he typed firmly:

[No.]

[Why not? Are you still at work? Have you eaten dinner?]

With three questions following a single rejection, it was easy to picture the expression behind them. Yoon-ui couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘This kid’s heart is just too soft.’

Even as he hesitated to respond, Heon-ju continued to bombard him with unfiltered warmth:

[If you’re still at the office, you must be really tired.]
[But hearing my voice might give you some energy!]

For someone as emotionally stunted as Yoon-ui, such lines were as mortifying to hear as they were difficult to say. Putting his phone down, he physically recoiled.

“Wow… how does he say stuff like that so naturally?”

It was clear that Heon-ju had grown up loved and adored. How else could someone standing nearly 190cm tall, with a commanding presence, confidently say such things with the expectation they’d be taken as cute? Carefully, he typed back:

[Heon-ju.]
[It seems like you haven’t been through enough hardship.]
[You still have too much energy.]

His affection for the boy aside, he couldn’t fully let down his guard. First loves for Espers rarely lasted longer than six months. Judging by the slow pace of Heon-ju’s training, it would probably fade by the time his basic training concluded.

While he liked the vibrant kindness Heon-ju exuded, he also feared it. If he grew too accustomed to it, the moment Heon-ju matured as an Esper and distanced himself, the void left behind would be unbearable. To shield himself, he deliberately replied with blunt scolding:

[I should’ve been your trainer.]
[Then you’d have sweated so much you wouldn’t even have the energy to cry.]

Too young to lean on, but too kind to ignore. That was how Heon-ju felt to Yoon-ui. He couldn’t bring himself to completely ignore the younger man’s messages, but neither could he straightforwardly say what Heon-ju wanted to hear.

Even after his message was marked as read, a reply didn’t come immediately.

‘Was I too harsh?’

It was one of his bad habits—speaking his mind bluntly, only to second-guess himself afterward. But what could he do? That’s just how he was wired. As he regretted the automatic, gruff remark he’d made, a lively reply from Heon-ju popped up, just a little late.

[Oh! Great idea!]
[I want to train with you, Deputy Director!]
[When you guided me, I trained so well, but here in Busan, I haven’t made any progress.]

Each word seemed to carry the sound of Heon-ju’s whining voice.

‘Thank goodness,’ Yoon-ui thought, ‘he doesn’t seem hurt.’

Unconsciously, a smile crept onto his face. The message content pleased him, too. Whether it was the truth or an exaggeration, hearing that he was needed was a balm to his pride—especially after a day spent feeling so undervalued.

[The guiding here is weak, but everyone’s so kind I can’t complain.]
[They always treat me to delicious food.]
[But I’m sick of gomtang now.]

Even though Yoon-ui didn’t reply, the messages kept coming. It was as if Heon-ju knew he was being watched. And he was right—lying on his side in bed, Yoon-ui read the stream of messages repeatedly. The mundane, everyday details were oddly entertaining, perhaps because he could imagine them in Heon-ju’s voice.

‘I want to hear it out loud.’

Without realizing it, he tapped on Heon-ju’s number. As the call tone buzzed in his ear, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t checked if it was a good time to call. Panicking, he considered hanging up, but it was too late—Heon-ju answered immediately.

― Oh? Are you calling now?

Even in his deep voice, Heon-ju’s energy was unmistakable. His playful tone, paired with his naturally rounded inflections, felt like the visual equivalent of soft, curved eyes. Listening to him had a peculiar way of smoothing out Yoon-ui’s sharp edges.

― I was just thinking how small my phone feels—typing is so inconvenient. Isn’t calling more comfortable for you too, Deputy Director?

‘Your hands are just big,’ Yoon-ui thought but said nothing, feeling too relaxed by Heon-ju’s voice to bother responding.

As he listened silently, suppressing even the sound of his breathing, Heon-ju seemed to grow uneasy. When the quiet stretched on, he called out repeatedly:

― Deputy Director? Deputy Director?

Finally, as though steeling himself, he spoke up with unwarranted boldness.

― … Hyung?

“I told you to call me Deputy Director.”

― Oh, you’re listening!

Heon-ju laughed, a cheerful, mischievous sound. ‘This kid,* Yoon-ui thought, ‘always testing boundaries whenever I let my guard down.’ Sighing, he sat up and leaned against the headboard.

― But why can’t I call you hyung?

“We don’t do that at work.”

― Why not?

“Why do you have so many questions?”