I slumped in my goshiwon, the room's bulb humming like a tired bug. Rain tapped the window, turning the alley's lights into a smeary glow. Soo-jin's text—Jjigae's coming—sat unanswered, her care a pang in my chest. Kang's card was on my table, its number glaring. His words from the park—You're not invisible—stuck like gum on my shoe. My account was at 4.6 million won, a miracle from dreams, but Kang's offer felt like a leash.
I opened my notebook, the pages creased and smudged. HORIZON METALS was at 36,000 won, heading for 42,000 in ten days. CRESCENT LOGISTICS, my newest, was at 23,800 won, aiming for 30,000. AURORA TEXTILES sat at 16,500, up from 15,000. The dreams were still spot-on, but Kang's list of my trades made me feel exposed, like a kid caught cheating on a test.
I grabbed a soda can, the metal cold, and took a flat sip. The goshiwon's walls were closing in, the air sour with old kimbap wrappers. Sleep was risky now—every dream brought a ticker, but what if they led me straight to Kang? I thought of Soo-jin, her laugh when she'd sneak me rice cakes as kids. I needed her normal, not this.
Morning hit with a drizzle, the alley slick under my sneakers. I took the subway to Sinchon, the carriage packed, smelling of wet coats and fried chicken. HORIZON METALS was at 37,000 won, a 700,000 won gain. I should've been stoked, but Kang's partnership loomed. I checked a financial blog, some guy warning about "consultants" who prey on young traders. My gut said Kang was one of them.
At university, Ji-hoon was outside, eating a mandoo skewer, steam rising. "Yo, you're alive," he said, tossing me one. The pork was hot, juicy, a taste of simpler days.
"Barely," I said, grinning. Ji-hoon was my rock, but the dreams were a wall I couldn't climb.
In class, the professor rambled about risk, her chalk squeaking. I doodled Kang's name, scratching it out. CRESCENT LOGISTICS hit 24,500 won. I wanted to tell Ji-hoon, but his world was beers and bad grades, not mine. After class, Soo-jin called, her voice sharp from Busan.
"You dodging me?" she said. "Jjigae's there tomorrow."
"Got it, noona," I said, sitting on a campus bench, leaves crunching underfoot. I almost told her about Kang, but her worry would bury me. We talked about her hospital chaos, and I hung up, feeling lighter but still lost.
That evening, I hit a Hongdae tteokbokki stall, the air spicy and warm under a red awning. The sauce burned my tongue, grounding me. Across the street, kids spilled out of a PC bang, laughing, free. I checked AURORA TEXTILES—17,000 won. A blog post warned about firms using traders as fronts. Was that Kang's plan?
Back in my goshiwon, the alley's bins clinked, a stray cat prowling. My account was near 5 million won, a dream I couldn't touch. I typed a text to Kang—What's the catch?—but didn't send it. A new dream came, murkier, with a shadow behind the charts. AURORA TEXTILES glowed, but VISTA ENERGY—buy at 28,000 won, sell at 40,000, twelve days—flashed and faded. I woke, scribbling both, the split vision freaking me out.
The next morning, I held off on VISTA, the dream too weird. HORIZON METALS was at 38,000 won. I headed to Yeouido for Kang's coffee meet, the subway's hum steadying me. The café's glass walls were fogged, Kang in a corner booth, his blazer crisp. I sat, the table's wood smooth, and stared him down.
"Punctual," Kang said, smiling. "Ready for the big leagues?"
"Tell me who you are first," I said, my voice steady but my heart racing.
Kang leaned back, his coffee steaming, and I braced for whatever came next