Survive! Gwanggong?
<Welcome to the world of the “Project to Become a Gwanggong!”>
Seung-hyeon’s eyes, which had been shut tight, slowly opened. He could’ve sworn he’d just heard a voice… but he could tell immediately it wasn’t Gwak Seon-woo’s. Had he fallen asleep with the TV on or something? The thought came to him automatically as he glanced around the room.
But before his still-drowsy eyes fully adjusted to the light, the voice came again.
<Please state the player’s name.>
Sleep still clung to Seung-hyeon’s face, his expression slightly scrunched as he rose from the bed. Stretching with a long yawn, he heard the voice repeat itself word for word.
<Please state the player’s name.>
He still couldn’t figure out where the voice was coming from, but even in a groggy state, he knew better than to ignore someone asking for his name. That much courtesy remained. With a dazed look on his face, Seung-hyeon opened his mouth to answer.
“Gwak Seung-hyeon.”
He answered on reflex—but what the hell was going on here?
Now that he’d spoken, his head was clearing up a bit. Seung-hyeon frowned slightly and scanned the room again.
<Beginning Gwak Seung-hyeon’s Gwanggong Journey now!>
…Where is that voice coming from?
His first thought was that someone might be pulling a prank on him. Maybe they’d installed a speaker somewhere in the house while he was asleep? The idea popped into his head, and instinctively, he turned his head—toward the camera.
Installed in plain sight was the home cam Gwak Seon-woo had set up so he could always keep an eye on Seung-hyeon. The red recording light was clearly lit, proof that it was currently on.
A home cam. Not exactly the kind of gadget you’d expect in a house without pets. Sure, it’d be useful if you had a furry friend to check in on, but when it’s just watching a person, it felt more like a suffocating surveillance device.
Yet Seung-hyeon didn’t resent it in the slightest. If anything, he found comfort in knowing Seon-woo’s eyes were always on him. He was the one who’d first suggested installing the camera in the first place, after all. As far as he was concerned, Seon-woo had done nothing wrong.
Gwak Seon-woo, both Seung-hyeon’s lover and cousin, had never wanted to restrict his freedom. He’d gone so far as to install a camera, and yet, unless there was a situation that seemed genuinely dangerous, he rarely ever checked in on what was happening through it.
If only he’d try to control me a little more…
Ironically, that thought belonged to Seung-hyeon himself.
Still lost in thoughts of Seon-woo, Seung-hyeon got up from bed. If there was anyone who’d go through the trouble of installing speakers in the house, it could only be Seon-woo. More precisely, he was the only one capable of doing something like that. But pulling a weird prank like this? That just wasn’t like him.
So then… could Seung-hyeon have misheard something in his half-asleep state? The message had sounded bizarre, and he hadn’t been fully awake yet. It wasn’t impossible. Leaving his questions unanswered, Seung-hyeon tilted his head slightly in confusion and stepped out of his room.
The living room’s monochrome scenery spread before him. When he had first moved in, the place had been entirely in black and white—but now, here and there, signs of Gwak Seung-hyeon’s presence were clearly visible. A sansevieria plant by the window, a stuffed toy perched on the sofa, and a much cuter-looking clock than the original one—all of it bore his touch.
Only then did he bother checking the time. It was about fifteen minutes past when he usually woke up.
Did I miss the alarm?
Seung-hyeon usually woke up on time without even needing one, so the fact that he had overslept brought a puzzled expression to his face. Still, he didn’t stop walking.
Did he leave early because I was still asleep…?
He felt a small pang of disappointment that he hadn’t been woken up, but it wasn’t anything to get upset over—they’d see each other at work later anyway.
The first place Seung-hyeon headed to was the kitchen. He opened the fridge to make breakfast. Thanks to grocery shopping the day before, the refrigerator was well-stocked and fresh. Most of the ingredients were things that catered to Seon-woo’s tastes.
Seon-woo wasn’t someone who took meals seriously. That’s why, at the very least, Seung-hyeon made sure that whenever they ate at home, he’d prepare meals that were both healthy and delicious. Seon-woo often brushed off food with vague excuses like “It’s just a habit I picked up,” but even when he wasn’t hungry, he never left a single bite of anything Seung-hyeon cooked.
Just as Seung-hyeon’s thoughts drifted back to Seon-woo, his face softened into a gentle smile—and that’s when the mechanical voice came again.
At the same time, achromatic text appeared before his eyes.
<Gwanggong Score decreased by 4!>
<A Gwanggong never keeps their fridge fully stocked. The only thing allowed inside a Gwanggong’s refrigerator… is French mineral water.>
Startled, Seung-hyeon turned his head, fridge door still open, and looked around.
The thing floating in front of him looked like some kind of internet pop-up window. But there was no projector, and he definitely wasn’t wearing any kind of VR headset.
He hadn’t imagined it. He was certain he hadn’t misheard anything either. And on top of that, the voice didn’t even sound like it was coming from a speaker.
It was more like… the sound had echoed from inside his own head.
The sound seemed to echo directly from inside his head—like something was whispering within his mind.
The real problem was that he couldn’t make sense of it at all.
“What the hell is this…”
A small, incredulous chuckle slipped from Seung-hyeon’s lips, the kind of laugh that bubbles up when something’s so ridiculous it’s funny. But rather than trying to make sense of the bizarre situation, he chose to ignore it—for now. He simply grabbed the vegetables he’d been about to take out from the fridge and closed the door.
Sure, it was strange, but he wasn’t the type to panic and flail around trying to chase down the source of a weird voice.
A moment later, he unfolded the cutting board and, as if nothing had happened, began chopping vegetables. Since he’d gotten up a little later than usual and didn’t have time to cook a full meal, he figured he’d make a quick salad instead.
<Gwanggong Score decreased by 2!>
<A Gwanggong does not prepare their own meals.>
The mysterious voice rang out once again, but Seung-hyeon didn’t miss a beat. He neatly plated the salad on a dish decorated with cute polka dots, drizzled dressing on top, and set it on the table. Even though no one was eating with him, he opened his mouth out of habit and said a polite greeting.
“Thanks for the food.”
<Gwanggong Score decreased by 1!>
<A Gwanggong does not speak before eating.>
<Gwanggong Score decreased by 2!>
<A Gwanggong does not put dressing on their salad…>
Even Seung-hyeon, who’d been pretending not to hear the voice, couldn’t help but get curious at this point. The constant stream of remarks was growing increasingly absurd. Saying “Thanks for the food” when no one else was around—sure, maybe that was a little odd. But why on earth couldn’t he use dressing on his salad? He wasn’t on a diet!
And it didn’t end there.
The mysterious voice kept bombarding him with nonsense throughout the entire meal. Strange pop-up messages kept appearing in his line of sight, making it a hassle just to pick up his fork. But even with all that going on, Seung-hyeon stubbornly finished his salad.
It was only after the meal that he finally reacted.
With a sharp clack, he set his fork down and spoke.
“What is this? Am I dreaming or something?”
<Current Gwanggong Score: 87.>
The response had nothing to do with the question he’d asked—just another completely unrelated, tone-deaf remark.
Eighty-seven? So it had started at a hundred, then? They’d kept yammering on about point deductions, and now it seemed like the number had taken a noticeable drop just while he was eating.
“I asked if this was a dream or not.”
<A Gwanggong does not grumble.>
Seung-hyeon frowned slightly and gave his cheek a pinch. It stung—not much, but enough to be sure it was real.
So this wasn’t a dream.
That only made things more confusing.
The truth was, Seung-hyeon wasn’t exactly the most imaginative or creative person. He didn’t really enjoy mystery or fantasy genres, and he had zero interest in virtual reality. That probably explained why he was taking this bizarre situation with such unshaken calm.
After a moment of deliberation, he finally opened his mouth again to ask,
“What exactly is this ‘Gwanggong Project’? Is it, like… some kind of game? A VR game or something?”
<It’s not “advertising”—it’s “Gwanggong!”>
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. What is it, then?”
Talking into thin air was definitely a strange experience. But after exchanging a few words, he felt like he was starting to get used to it. Not that he had much of a choice—he was hearing voices in his head and seeing floating interface windows in front of his eyes.
Silence followed.
The voice had always sounded like a soulless AI, monotone and robotic—but right now, it almost felt like it was hesitating.
Finally, it spoke again.
<Gwanggong Score decreased by 2.>
<A Gwanggong must end their sentences with “-da,” “-naga,” or similar commanding tones. The current player’s speech is far too casual and un-Gwanggong-like.>
<If the Gwanggong Score drops below 50, penalties may be applied.>
<Maintain your Gwanggong Score through Gwanggong-worthy behavior.>
Still, the voice didn’t actually answer Seung-hyeon’s question.
He fell into quiet contemplation.
“So, let’s try to break this down…”
It seemed like things boiled down to two possibilities.
Either Gwak Seung-hyeon had completely lost his mind from overwork at the office… Or—as ridiculous as it sounded—he was inside some kind of game.
