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 ntioned this on the forum, it was obvious that the real bookkeeper had a strong attraction to .
“Look at this, Park Gyu.”
Perhaps that’s why one day she showed her favorite online community. She was likely trying to find common ground with , but even now, I’m not particularly warm toward won.
“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 left a strong impression, even on soone like , who was ntally and emotionally drained from constant debt collection calls and the looming fear of war.
I don’t recall its exact na, but it was an anonymous forum. Despite being anonymous, it wasn’t entirely private. The site had a unique feature: posts displayed the na 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 seed like a revival of South Korea’s deep-seated societal rot.
“Ta-da~ This is how our company shows up!” the bookkeeper exclaid as she posted sothing on the forum.
SeafoodPancakeLv.1 (New Company): Feeling down, sigh…
“New company?” I asked.
“Yes. Usually, companies like ours…”
She gestured for to co 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 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, sothing familiar hit 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 comnts. My post had none, while CorporateSlaveA’s had twelve. I read through so of them:
ㅇㅇ (Cheolju dia): 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 soone unfamiliar with internet culture at the ti, the unfairness felt glaring.
Had I done sothing 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 na, as the bookkeeper had ntioned.
Refreshed with a lingering sense of frustration, a new post caught my eye:
BonobonoHamster (Doctor): Our workplace summary.txt (13)
Overworked
Low pay
Dealing with elderly patients all day
No idea why I even studied dicine
“‘Doctor’ as a company na? 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 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.
“…”
Despite writing such a long post, I received zero comnts.
Browsing the popular posts later, I began to grasp the site’s culture. The company na next to a userna was more than just a label—it was a status symbol.
It reminded of old Korean class distinctions, where people were categorized as nobles or commoners, or even divided into factions like civil or military officials. More recently, it was akin to the social hierarchy imposed by apartnt nas or neighborhoods.
For soone from a “small company” like , the choices were limited: either avoid posting altogether or prepare to be mocked. Rarely were opinions or thoughts from “small company” employees taken seriously.
Even when a “New Company” user made a rational and objective argunt in a debate, a single dismissive comnt from a user with a prestigious company label could reduce their words to nothing more than a whining rant. I’d seen it happen several tis.
Maybe it was my heightened sensitivity, fueled by the debt collectors and the emotional strain I was under, but that was my impression of the site. I never visited it again.
Two years and seven months into the war, a similar situation unfolded. This ti, it wasn’t on so corporate forum. It was on Failnet, the symbol of freedom in this apocalyptic world.
*
ㅇㅇ (A13): Oh, what’s this? Sothing weird just popped up!
ㅇㅇ (B31): It’s real. What is this?
ㅇㅇ (F13): Purrrrrr
ㅇㅇ (D07): Is this so kind of ID system?
ㅇㅇ (E31): Test.
ㅇㅇ (E31): Huh? Why do you have the sa code as ?
I first heard about the chaos erupting on Failnet while sitting in front of my laptop, my body heavy like soaked cotton after a long day of labor.
Since early that morning, I had been busy filling in the main bunker I’d opened during the monsoon season. This ti, I didn’t seal it entirely with dirt. I figured there was a good chance I’d need to use it again within the next two years or so.
Frankly, survival for , the Legion faction, and even Kim Daram was uncertain at that point. So instead of fully covering it, I laid down plywood, draped waterproof tarps over it, and topped it with a layer of dirt. Once I’d finished camouflaging it with weeds from the surrounding area, I left the rest to the blazing sumr sun.
Whirrrr.
The air conditioner humd energetically as I sat in the cool bunker, powered on my laptop, and read the news about the upheaval on Failnet.
Apparently, strange codes had appeared next to usernas on the platform. Users, bored and likely hungry, speculated endlessly about the origin and purpose of these codes. Soon, an anonymous user cautiously shared a theory:
ㅇㅇ (D13): Hey, could this be the camp codes? Rember when they set up those base stations at each camp?
The theory turned out to be correct. The codes displayed next to usernas indicated the base station from which the user was accessing Failnet.
For those of us connecting via satellite, like the Viva! Apocalypse! users, the system displayed this:
ㅁㅁ (Unknown): Test.
Unknown. In other words, untraceable.
It ant that no matter how anonymous soone like or any other user appeared, their origins could no longer remain hidden. In short, the likelihood of another “Eomchang” appearing on Failnet had disappeared forever.
But that wasn’t the only problem.
A user soon posted a new thread:
ㅇㅇ (D13): Code-based regions.txt
Using the codes, they had identified the corresponding base station locations and organized them into a neat list. While their intent might have been innocent, the post was interpreted in a way the author likely didn’t anticipate.
Shortly after, another post appeared:
ㅇㅇ (A18): Code-based hierarchy.txt
This post copied the content of the previous thread but replaced “regions” with “social ranks.”
Although I didn’t know much about refugee camps since I’d only dipped my toes into them, it seed there were significant disparities between camps in Incheon. A strange conspiracy theory began circulating: while camps seed equal on the surface, the governnt had allegedly sorted refugees into categories. The wealthy and capable were placed in certain camps, the diocre in others, and those deed worthless were reluctantly housed in the least desirable locations.
There were rebuttals, of course. So argued that the chaos of Seoul’s fall forced the governnt to sort people hastily, resulting in inevitable differences between camps. Talking about averages and hierarchies, they claid, was a ridiculous leap in logic.
I agreed with the latter.
There’s no way the governnt—struggling to survive itself—would bother with such discrimination. From what I’d observed, the only individuals they cared about were those with potential for Awakened abilities.
But logic often falls to illogical narratives.
Those in relatively well-regarded camps began to act as if their locations inherently made them superior. They pushed their argunt relentlessly, and soon the “camp hierarchy theory” spread across all of Incheon.
The final outco was nothing short of a spectacle:
ㅇㅇ (A18): Code-based hierarchy (Final Edition).txt
A01–A10: Royalty
A11–A23: Noble families
B01–B18: Aristocrats
B19–B33: Yangban (Traditional elite)
--- Line of Nobility ---
C01–C14: Middle-class
C15–C32: Commoners
--- Line of Humanity ---
D~: Slaves
E~: Servants
F~: Zombies
“…”
Failnet, once a platform where everyone could speak freely and equally under anonymous “ㅇㅇ” usernas, had now devolved into a hierarchy.
형우아빠 (D18): This isn’t right. What difference does it make between camps? I’m heading to Jeju Island anyway.
ㅇㅇ (B11): Sure, beggar. Enjoy your Jeju trip in your dreams.
ㅇㅇ (A22): This hierarchy is spot-on. Our camp has tons of doctors and even celebrities. I was a fund manager in Yeouido.
ㅇㅇ (A23): Our camp gathered many survivors from Gangnam. Seems like the governnt really did filter and sort us.
ㅇㅇ (E22): What a load of crap. Seriously, what did you eat today? Beef? Is that why you’re acting so arrogant?
ㅇㅇ (A15): E-class reeks. Disgusting.
ㅇㅇ (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 usernas. It reminded of the forum I once visited before the war, where company nas beside usernas served as a similar status symbol.
Witnessing this debacle, I imdiately 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 ca:
171cm54kg13cm: Ah, SKELTON…
SKELTON: (Shocked SKELTON) Wait, your userna 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 equipnt broke during the monsoon season, they were forced to rely on governnt 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 ssage ca:
171cm54kg13cm: John Nae-non doesn’t have much ti 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 mont I t him.
But knowing his ti was almost up still hit like a hamr 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 tornted. Watching the site he built turn into this governnt-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 beco tainted by the governnt’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 .
“Wait…”
This is John Nae-non we’re talking about. As a long-ti admirer, I knew him well. I knew what he liked, what he wanted.
Tap, tap, tap.
SKELTON: (Strategist SKELTON) I’ve got an idea.
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