I dragged my feet through Yeouido's back alleys, the summer heat sticking my shirt to my back. At twenty, I felt like Seoul was sprinting while I crawled. My days were a blur of university lectures in Sinchon, nights stacking instant noodle packs at a Hongdae convenience store. My bank account? A pathetic 1.15 million won, barely enough for rent and cheap kimbap. The city's skyscrapers towered over me, their glass faces mocking my empty pockets.
My goshiwon was a fifth-floor shoebox, up a stairwell that smelled of fermented cabbage and old socks. I fumbled the key, the lock jamming like always, and stumbled into my room. A mattress on the floor, a wobbly table with a hotplate, a window showing the alley's clutter—home sweet home. I kicked off my sneakers, not caring where they landed, and flopped down, the springs poking my spine. My phone buzzed, and I squinted at the stock app I'd been messing with since high school. A dumb dream, sparked by online videos promising quick cash. My portfolio was a sad mix of tech startups, mostly red. Still, I checked it every night, hoping for a win.
"Down again," I grumbled, tossing the phone onto a pile of laundry. My eyes slipped shut, the city's drone—car horns, a distant K-pop beat—fading away.
That night, I dreamed. Not the usual stress dreams of late assignments or missed shifts. This was different, sharp, like I'd walked into a movie. Numbers swirled around me, glowing like fireflies in a dark void. Charts pulsed, lines climbing like they had a heartbeat. Something nudged me, not a voice but a feeling, saying look. A stock ticker flashed: DAWN BIOTECH. Its chart shot up, green and fierce. Numbers burned into me—buy at 12,000 won, sell at 18,000, two weeks.
I bolted awake, my heart hammering. The room was dark, my phone glowing 3:14 a.m. The dream didn't fade. It stuck, clear as the graffiti outside. I grabbed my phone, hands shaky, and searched DAWN BIOTECH. A real company, some small outfit working on cancer drugs, barely a blip online. Price? 12,000 won, dead on.
"No way," I muttered, rubbing my face. Just a coincidence, right? My brain screwing with me. But it felt real, like a map I couldn't ignore. My savings were 1.15 million won, scraped from skipped meals and overtime. Enough for 95 shares. If the dream was right, I'd make 570,000 won—half a year's rent. I stared at the "buy" button, my dad's voice in my head, yelling about dumb risks. But this wasn't a casino. It was… something else. I hit the button, my stomach lurching.
Morning came, and I could barely focus in my economics class. The professor's voice was white noise as I snuck glances at my phone. DAWN BIOTECH was at 12,100 won. A tiny jump, but my pulse raced. I doodled numbers in my notebook—12,000, 18,000—while the lecture droned on. At my store shift, I stocked shelves, the fluorescent lights buzzing, and checked the price between customers. By night, it hit 12,400 won. I grinned, hiding my phone as a coworker passed.
Another dream came that night, same glowing numbers, same pull to focus. This time, STAR CHIP, a smartphone processor company. Buy at 42,000 won, sell at 58,000, three weeks. I woke, checked the price—42,000 won, exactly—and felt a chill. This wasn't luck. I couldn't afford STAR CHIP yet, but DAWN BIOTECH kept climbing. Over a week, it hit 14,500 won, my account showing a paper profit I'd never seen. I wanted to cash out, but the dream said two weeks.
On day fourteen, a news alert pinged: DAWN BIOTECH had a drug trial breakthrough. The stock jumped to 18,000 won, just like the dream. I sold, my hands trembling, and my account hit 1.71 million won. I sat on my mattress, laughing like an idiot, the sound bouncing off the walls. 570,000 won in two weeks.
I bought STAR CHIP shares the next day, dumping in every won I could. Three weeks later, they unveiled a new chip, and the stock hit 58,000 won. I sold, my account at 2.8 million won. The dreams kept coming, new tickers every few nights. I started a notebook, scratching down symbols and prices like a madman. I didn't get it—why me, why this power? But I wasn't stopping.
I quit the store job, brushing off my boss's lecture about "responsibility." With some cash, I rented a tiny office in Yeouido, just a desk and a used laptop. I taped a sign on the door: PARK VENTURES. My last name, a half-joke, but it felt real. I kept trades small, using different apps to stay quiet. I didn't tell anyone, not even Soo-jin, my sister, who kept texting about eating right. The secret was heavy, though. What was this power? Would it vanish?
One night, as I wrote another ticker, my phone buzzed. A text, no name: Smart trades, Park Min-jae. Want to talk?
My blood froze. I stared at the screen, the city's hum gone silent. The dreams were my ticket out, but someone was watching. And I had no idea what they wanted.