3: A Family of Three
Chapter Text
The November sun slants through the crooked blinds of Kim Dokja's apartment, a weak, grayish light that barely warms the room.
It's past twelve when he stirs, the mattress sinking under him as he shifts, one arm flung over his eyes. He'd meant to set an alarm, somewhere in the haze of ramen and Sooyoung's voice, he'd thought about it, but it's usually never loud enough to wake him.
He works the late shift anyway, 2 PM to midnight, so the morning's his to waste, and he's good at wasting it.
He groans, rolling upright, the springs protesting with a faint twang. His hair's a mess, sticking up in odd angles, and his flannel's wrinkled from sleep, but he doesn't bother with a mirror. It totally slipped his mind to change out of his day old clothes.
Breakfast's a fleeting thought, there's cereal, sure, but the milk's been sour since Tuesday, and anything else is too much effort for daylight. He rubs his eyes, stomach grumbling a quiet complaint, and shuffles to the kitchen counter anyway, snagging a small bottle of Pocari Sweat from the fridge.
It's flat, but he downs it in three gulps, the cool aftertaste clinging to his tongue.
Good enough, way better than beer, which he only keeps around just in case he has guests.
He dials the store's number next, leaning against the wall as it rings. He's got to check on Lee Hyunsung—delivery day's today, new tapes coming in, and Gong Pildu will grumble if Kim Dokja is not there to sign for it.
The line clicks, and a gravelly voice answers, thick with years of smoke and Soju.
"Star Stream. What?"
"Morning, Pildu-ssi," Dokja says, keeping his tone light.
Gong Pildu, the owner, used to be a real bastard—late fifty-something, broad as a barrel, with a face like weathered leather and a temper that could clear the store in ten seconds flat.
Back when Dokja started, three years after his graduation from a third-rate university, Pildu had been a heavy drinker, barking orders and slamming doors, the kind of guy who'd fire you for breathing wrong. But Dokja's stubborn streak, showing up on time, fixing the rewinder with a screwdriver and spite, arguing back just enough.
Well, he never could say no.
It also helps that they have a bit of history.
Now Pildu's gruffness has a softer edge, like a blade dulled by rust. He still drinks, but it's cheap beer, not the hard stuff, and he keeps a stash of barley tea in the back just for Kim Dokja.
"Morning, my ass," Pildu grunts, and he hears the creak of his chair, the faint clink of a can opening.
"You're late calling. Hyunsung's comin' at two. Better be here, kid, or I'm signing for it myself and docking your pay."
Dokja smirks, twirling the cord. "You hate paperwork, old man. I'll be there."
He knows the latter isn't doing anything, probably slumped in the cramped office behind the counter, feet up on a milk crate, dark hair thinning around the sides of his face, and still bald as ever under a cap he's worn since the 70's. The man's a relic, built the store with his own hands and he runs it like a king guarding a crumbling castle.
Sangah's probably there already, restocking shelves, while Pildu pretends to count receipts.
"Hyunsung better not be late again," he mutters. "Last time, half the tapes were Home Alone dupes. Who's watching that in November?"
There's a pause, then a reluctant huff. "Tea's in the fridge. Don't drink it all."
Dokja's smirk softens. "Thanks, Pildu-ssi. See you soon." He hangs up, the dial tone buzzing briefly before he lets the receiver clatter back into place.
Hyunsung's reliable enough, ex-military, all muscle and quiet nods, driving that battered van with the Metallica sticker. But Dokja has got to be there, if only to keep Pildu from scowling at the guy too hard.
The delivery's mostly junk anyway; old rom-coms, comedy flicks, a few horror rentals for the weekend crowd, but it's something to do, something to break the day.
He feels so grimy, last night's sweat and the store's dust clinging to him like a second skin.
Thankfully, the bathroom is just a closet off from the main room, its door warped so it never quite shuts. He shuffles in, kicking aside a towel crumpled on the tile. The shower's just a spigot jutting from the wall, the curtain a cheap plastic thing with goldfish, faded from too many washes.
He twists the knob, and the pipes groan, spitting a lukewarm spray that takes a full minute to heat up.
Kim Dokja strips down, tossing the flannel and Nirvana tee into a pile, and steps under it. The water's just shy of scalding now, drumming against his shoulders and collecting in a pool at his feet. Steam fogs the cracked mirror above the sink as water swirls down the drain, which turns his reflection into a blurry smear—dark eyes, slender jaw, a face he doesn't bother scrutinizing.
He scrubs with a bar of soap, lathering it through his hair since the shampoo ran out yesterday. All while the heat loosens the knots in his neck and back, and it takes an agonizing amount of time before Dokja ends up turning it off.
A fresh towel gets run through his head until his hair's a damp, tousled mess when he steps out.
Not long after, he pulls on some trousers, elbows catching hastily on the white hoodie he slips over his head next that's absurdly soft.
He glances at the clock— 1:22 now. Plenty of time.
He tosses the empty can from earlier into a pile by the sink, grabs his bag, and laces up his sneakers, the soles comfy but worn.
In order to pass time and because he's feeling good, he decides to walk today.
He shoves his mobile phone into his back pocket and pulls his earphones up, clicking a fresh tape, "Smells Like Teen Spirit," into the Walkman.
The stairwell spits Kim Dokja out onto the cracked sidewalk, the cool air nipping at his ears as he tucks his hands deeper into the hoodie's kangaroo pocket. The street's a stretch of low buildings, laundromat on one side, its dryers rumbling through the glass, the vacant lot on the other, overgrown with brittle weeds and a rusted bike frame half-buried in the dirt.
He lets a pickup truck rattle past him before he crosses, squinting against the sun, low and watery, barely cutting through the haze that clings to the rooftops.
The town's not big—ten blocks end to end, a grid of faded brick and peeling paint, but it sprawls in a way that feels tired, like it's been here too long and doesn't care to prove it.
The corner store's open, a clerk inside flipping through a magazine behind a counter stacked with cigarette packs and lottery tickets.There's a kid on a skateboard, maybe thirteen, all baggy jeans and a backwards cap, that zips by, and Dokja side steps without looking up.
The train tracks hum again too, a low vibration he feels more than hears, threading through from somewhere east.
It's always there, a background noise he's stopped noticing until it sharpens like that.
Eventually, the strip comes into view after a half hour, just a few more paces. Star Stream Video's pink neon is still off in the afternoon and the diner next door's got a couple regulars: old guys in blazers, hunched over a table, while the adjacent pawn shop shutter is half-up, a guitar leaning crooked in the display.
The air smells faintly of grease and something sharper, metallic, drifting from the railroad. Dokja cuts across the parking lot, gravel crunching underfoot, and checks his watch—1:52 PM.
Hyunsung's due any minute, and Pildu's probably already griping about it.
He reaches the door, glass smudged with fingerprints, and fishes the key from his backpack. It turns easier than last night's lock, a small mercy, and the bell jangles as he steps inside.
It's dim, the CRT television blank for once.
Yoo Sangah's voice floats from the back, "Dokja-ssi, that you?" Soft and bright, cutting through the quiet.
He calls back a lazy "Yeah," dropping his bag behind the counter. The rewinder's quiet, the popcorn machine cold, and Pildu's chair creaks from the office, a low grunt signaling he's awake, or close to it.
Kim Dokja flips on the lights and lets his earphones dangle around his neck. He scans the shelves out of habit, then glances out the window in expectation.
Sure enough, a beat-up van rolls up, engine coughing as it double parks.
Lee Hyunsung climbs out, broad shoulders tensed slightly as he slams the door. He's a big guy—six-foot-something, built like he could lift the counter with one hand—but there's a gentleness to him, all soft around the edges. His camo jacket's faded, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his buzzcut's starting to grow out, a little messy under the afternoon light.
Dokja likes him, always has. Hyunsung's the kind of man who says "sorry" to a shelf he bumps into, who carries himself like he's still surprised the world hasn't crushed him yet.
They'd met years back, during the military entrance exams, two nervous kids in a sea of pre-army brutes, lined up for push-ups and paperwork.
Kim Dokja remembers Lee Hyunsung's awkward grin, the way he'd offered half a candy bar when the wait dragged on. "Keeps the nerves down," he'd said, and Dokja had taken it, mostly to be polite.
Hyunsung didn't make it through the whole enlistment, and he never asked the details because he never seemed to want to talk. But Dokja got out before it even started.
Flat feet, of all things, before the policy changed.
The doctor had poked at his arches, scribbled something on a clipboard, and sent him home with a shrug: "Not fit for service."
Dokja hadn't argued, two years of marching didn't sound like his idea of fun anyway, but he'd felt a weird pang watching Hyunsung and the others ship off. Now, years later, the man himself is here, hauling tapes instead of rifles, and he's glad for it.
The door swings open, bell chiming, and Hyunsung steps in, a cardboard box tucked under one arm, clipboard in the other. "Hello, Dokja-nim," he says, voice low and overly polite, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the box on the counter with a soft thud, probably more knockoffs or some slasher flick no one's renting.
"Got the usual. Pildu-ssi around?"
"In the back, pretending he's busy," Kim Dokja says, leaning forward to peek into the box. He pulls out a copy of Predator, the cover faded, and flips it over, scanning the back out of habit. "You're on time today. He might not growl at you for once."
Lee Hyunsung chuckles, a quiet rumble, and rubs the back of his neck. "Had to dodge a flat tire on the way. Van's falling apart, I think it's older than me."
"Better than walking," he replies, grabbing the clipboard and scrawling his name in the signature line—Kim Dokja, a quick slash of ink. He hands it back, and Hyunsung takes it with a nod. "They still got you hauling this junk solo? No helper yet?"
"Nah, just me," Hyunsung says, shifting the box to his hip. "Boss says it's cheaper. Keeps me busy, though." He pauses, then adds, "You still at this place full-time? Thought you'd be off writing books or something by now."
Dokja snorts at the thought of Han Sooyoung and what she'd say if she heard that, leaning back against the counter. "Books don't pay rent. Besides, I prefer reading them and Pildu would miss me too much."
It's half a joke, Pildu'd never admit it, but Hyunsung grins anyway, a flash of teeth that's gone as quick as it comes. They chat a bit longer, Hyunsung asking about the store's slow days and Dokja ribbing him about his dating life just to see the man act like a blushing bride.
Pildu's chair creaks louder and there's a bang on the wall, a warning, and Hyunsung glances toward the office. "Better get the rest," he says, jerking a thumb at the door. "Two more boxes. Don't let him dock you for this one."
The bell jangles as Hyunsung ducks back out, leaving Dokja with the box of tapes. He pulls RoboCop aside, stacking it on the counter, and digs deeper—Commando, The Running Man, a couple of no-name kung fu flicks with covers so grainy the titles blur.
It's the usual haul, action-heavy and worn, the kind of stuff that sits on the shelf until some bored teenager grabs it for a weekend.
Yoo Sangah emerges from the back, her arms free now, a soft clack of her flats against the floor as she drifts towards him. She's got a scrunchie in her hair today, a pale blue one that matches the cardigan draped over her shoulders, and a smile that's warm without trying too hard.
"Hyunsung-ssi's early," she says, leaning on the edge of the counter. Her voice is a gentle lift, as lovely as a Lark. "Did he bring anything good this time?"
Dokja snorts, holding up Commando with a mock flourish. "If you count Schwarzenegger grunting like a Gorilla for two hours, sure." He tosses it onto the stack, and Sangah laughs.
She's been at Star Stream almost as long as he has—started a few months after, back when Pildu still scared off half the hires but was the first older man that didn't give her the creeps— she's the kind of person who makes the place feel less like a dead-end job. She's steady, not in a boring way, just solid, keeps the logs neat, chats up the regulars, even hums little tunes when she thinks no one's listening. Dokja likes her for it, the way she balances out his corners without poking at them.
"Better than last month's Home Alone mess," she says, reaching into the box to pull out a tape, this time it's Bloodsport, the cover creased down the middle. She turns it over, scanning the back, then sets it down with a small nod. "Pildu-ssi was ready to throw them at Hyunsung-ssi's van." Her eyes crinkle, and Dokja huffs in amusement.
"Would've been the most action this place has seen all year," he says, and they fall into an easy rhythm, him unpacking, her sorting, the tapes piling up between them. She asks about his morning, and he shrugs. "Slept in, skipped breakfast, the usual," and she tuts, half-serious, promising to bring him a rice ball tomorrow if he keeps starving himself. He waves it off, but there's a flicker of warmth in his chest, the kind he doesn't dwell on.
The office door flies open a bit later while they're mid-stack, and Gong Pildu shuffles out, his bulk filling the narrow frame.
He's a wall of a man, even now—shoulders wide, pot belly held up by his suspenders, hands thick from years of hauling crates before the store was in business—but age has mellowed him out, left him slower. His cap's tilted back, stroking his stubble in thought as his eyes narrowed at the scene.
"You two kids gossiping or working?" he grumbles, voice like gravel scraped over concrete. He's got a can of Hite in one hand.
"Both," Dokja says, not looking up as he pulls out another tape: Rambo III. "Hyunsung's grabbing the rest. You're welcome, by the way."
Pildu huffs, a sound that's more air than anger, and shuffles closer, peering into the box like he's inspecting a battlefield.
"Eesh, buncha Junk," he mutters, poking at Bloodsport with a thick finger. "Who rents this crap? Should've stuck to westerns."
He's got a thing for John Wayne. Keeps a battered True Grit poster tacked up in the office, but the customers don't bite, and he knows it. Sangah smiles and says, "Maybe we'll get a martial arts fan this weekend," but he just waves her off, unconvinced.
Hyunsung's boots thud back in, and he hauls two more boxes, bigger ones, stacked awkwardly under his arms. "Last of it," he says, setting them down and wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
Pildu eyes him, a flicker of approval buried in the scowl.
Not long after and Hyunsung's already halfway out the door, muttering about checking the van's oil, and Sangah's sorting the kung fu flicks with a hum that sounds vaguely like "I Will Always Love You."
Pildu lingers by the counter, Hite can still in hand, his big build casting a shadow over his two employees.
Gong Pildu and a video store—it's an odd fit, if you don't know the story.
Back in the 1960's, he'd been a worse man: younger, sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued, a long time landlord with a fistful of properties scattered across the county. Tenements, warehouses, a couple of diners, he'd owned them all, built a small empire on rent checks and grit. The drinking was heavier then, the temper hotter, and he'd ruled it like a king who didn't care who bowed.
But by '70, the game soured. Tenants skipped out, buildings crumbled, and a bad loan left him with a patch of shapeless land on the edge of town, a nothing plot he couldn't sell or build on. He'd sit there sometimes, staring at the dirt, trying to figure out what to do with a kingdom that'd shrunk to a sandbox.
That's when he'd stumbled into the orphanage gig, not by choice, mind you.
A buddy from the old days, some do-gooder type, dragged him along to a rundown place an hour south of Seoul Town, a gothic sprawl of weathered stone and sagging eaves, all southern gloom and stained-glass guilt. Pildu hated it on sight, too many kids, too loud, shrieking and tugging at his coat, the nuns droning hymns and prayers he didn't care for.
He'd gone to unload some old furniture, maybe write off a tax, nothing noble. The kids were a swarm, sticky hands, whiny voices.
He'd been ready to bolt when he saw one off to the side, a scrawny thing, maybe five, sitting mute on a bench with a book clutched tight.
Dark eyes, staring at nothing but words on a page.
Kim Dokja.
Pildu didn't mean to care. The kid didn't talk, hadn't since his mother dropped him off a year back, or so the nuns said. The place wasn't cruel, not in the beat-you-bloody way, but it was cold, strict rules, gray meals, a quiet that pressed down like damp rot.
Dokja didn't fit, didn't try to. The other kids ignored him, and he ignored them back, lost in those books, tattered fairy tales, the only thing left from a mom he barely remembered. Pildu watched him that first day, saw him trace a leather-bound cover with a finger, and something stuck. Maybe it was the stillness, the way the kid didn't beg or bawl like the rest. Maybe it was the way he didn't flinch when Pildu growled at a nun to shut up.
He kept coming back, once a week, then twice.
Brought tools, fixed a leaking roof, patched a wall, grumbling the whole time. The nuns thought he'd adopt someone. Hah, fat chance!
One day, Pildu hauled in a clunky VCR and a tape, the first of VHS and Betamax. It was to display a commercial for some newfangled gadget or toy, all bright colors and a jingle, cutting-edge for '74.
An episode of the cartoon that the toy was advertised for keyed up afterwards.
He'd set it up in the common room, mostly to test it, and the kids swarmed again, oohing and aahing. They had never seen a moving screen before, didn't know what it was.
Kim Dokja was there, but he didn't move, just stared from his bench, his book forgotten.
Then, a small voice—cracked, unused—cut through the noise: "What's that?"
Pildu froze.
He was the only one who had heard it.
Dokja's eyes were wide, locked on the screen, and Pildu, gruff, hungover Pildu, crouched down to his level, voice softer than he meant. "It's a video, kid. Moving pictures. Like yer' books comin' to life."
The little boy nodded, slow, and that was it, the first crack in the shell.
Pildu didn't adopt him, couldn't, wouldn't. But he kept visiting, kept fixing, and when he sold off the last of his properties, that shapeless land turned into Star Stream Video. A place for tapes, for revived stories, for those unfortunate, all because of a mute kid who'd spoken for a screen.
Many years later, Kim Dokja showed up looking for a job, stubborn, sharp, a little lost, and Pildu hired him without a second thought.
In present times, Gong Pildu is still grumbling, eying Rambo III like it's insulted him.
"Trash," he mutters, but his eyes twitch, quick and unreadable.
Dokja's throat itches, that barley tea from the fridge sounding better by the second, and he's about to head back when the old man beats him to it, shuffling to the office and returning with a glass bottle, condensation beading on the side.
He sets it on the counter, no words, and Dokja takes it with a smile, the chill biting his palm. "Thanks, Pildu-ssi," he says, popping the cap with a soft hiss, and he sniffs, like it's nothing.
They stand there a minute, quiet. Pildu sipping his Hite, Dokja nursing the tea, and Sangah lighting up in joy when she spots a copy of Beetlejuice.
For just a fraction, Dokja sees the man's eyes soften before he clears his throat.
"Sangah-ya, order some food. That diner's got bibimbap—get three." He glances at Dokja, scowling again. "You're skin and bones, kid. Eat something for once."
The younger man blinks while Yoo Sangah looks up, surprised, but nods with a proud giggle of mischief. "Right away, your majesty," and heads for the phone.
Pildu huffs, shaking his head and turning back to his office, but not before his hand lands on Dokja's shoulder. A quick, firm pat.
The tea is tangy on his tongue, the day stretching out slow, and for a moment, the store feels less like a stuffy drag and more like a home for the three of them.