Chapter 61

“Fifty buttons. You can count them yourself,” Gi-hyeon stated, his tone completely detached.

His fingers felt sticky, having just dealt with a customer right after snacking on a pile of plums behind the glass partition with its semicircular cutout. He thumbed through the bills the man handed over with practiced apathy before shoving them into the cash register.

Wiping his hands clean with a damp towel, he observed the man meticulously counting the plastic buttons he had just purchased. The customer looked like absolute hell, a wreck who clearly slept and ate inside this joint where cup noodles were the sole culinary offering, yet his eyes gleamed with a feral, terrifying intensity.

Everyone trapped in this place shared that exact same manic glare.

It had taken Gi-hyeon barely a day to recognize it as the trademark look of a degenerate gambler.

Still, the crowd remained relatively thin today. The rumor that foot traffic trickled off during the peak farming season held true.

“Farmers actually have way more cash to burn,” Yang Jisu had once told him, flashing a knowing grin.

Gi-hyeon had merely shrugged it off, entirely indifferent to the local economics. His sole responsibility in this hellhole consisted of the mind-numbing task of exchanging cash for plastic buttons. It provided enough of a distraction to keep him clocking in steadily. However, the very man who had begged for his help, claiming to be swamped, hadn’t shown his face in days, seemingly forgetting even to collect the profits. Whenever Gi-hyeon tried calling, he only received automated “I’m busy” text replies, forcing him to simply exchange a curt nod with his shift replacement before clocking out.

Today promised the exact same routine. His relief was supposedly a bank teller working in town. From what Gi-hyeon had gathered, the guy pocketed a hefty chunk of change in hush money from the winners, yet remained cunning enough to avoid getting busted by his day job for moonlighting at an illegal gambling den, having assisted Jisu for several years already.

Offering the teller a brief nod, Gi-hyeon stepped away from the counter.

The man merely glanced at the plastic buttons acting as chips, instantly confirming the count with a subtle dip of his head. Perhaps it was his banking background, but his terrifyingly fast counting speed always fascinated Gi-hyeon. It was impressive enough to pry open the lips of a man who usually never spoke unless spoken to.

“Did you finish counting them all already?” Gi-hyeon asked.

“…Yes,” the man murmured.

Aside from the long bangs obscuring his eyes, the man exuded a distinctly neat, buttoned-up aura. Given his rather petite frame, Gi-hyeon privately hypothesized the teller might be an Omega, even though he couldn’t detect a single trace of pheromones. Regardless of the man’s secondary gender, Gi-hyeon had received his answer and decided it was time to leave. He didn’t work full days, but lingering in a confined space choked with thick cigarette smoke seemed disastrous for the child growing in his belly. Although he kept the semicircular window sealed when not dealing with customers and cracked the small door near the counter for ventilation, he refused to take unnecessary risks.

Grabbing his basket of half-eaten plums, Gi-hyeon exited the structure.

The degenerate addicts remained utterly entranced by their gambling, entirely oblivious to the shift change at the counter. Ignoring them completely, Gi-hyeon marched straight for the exit. The instant he pushed the door open, a suffocating wave of hot air slammed into him. He fished a plum from his basket, popping it whole into his mouth. Stripping the flesh with his molars, he spat the pit out with a sharp exhale. The hard seed sailed through the air, ricocheting off the plastic wall of the neighboring greenhouse with a dull thwack.

The dirt path stretched ahead, flanked by identical greenhouses lining the road for over a kilometer. Devoid of any sequential markings, the uniform structures made it absurdly easy to wander into the wrong tent if one failed to keep a strict mental count. Yet, once someone finally located the gambling den and stepped inside the deceivingly ordinary exterior, the spectacle that unfolded was truly breathtaking.

Dozens of addicts sat shrouded in thick clouds of cigarette smoke, their faces contorted in desperate concentration as they tried to wrangle the tumultuous highs and lows of human desire laid out on the tables before them. If it weren’t for the playing cards scattered across the military blankets, one might have successfully argued the place was just a rustic agricultural shed. However, the raw, undeniable degeneracy radiating from the patrons completely obliterated that excuse.

If the cops raided them, they were utterly fucked.

Gi-hyeon continually marveled at the sheer absurdity of Jisu’s career pivot; the man had somehow transitioned from an active-duty military officer to managing an illegal rural gambling ring post-discharge.

Gi-hyeon had been here for a considerable stretch himself. Arriving just on the precipice of summer, he had already weathered the end of the monsoon season. Chronologically, barely a month had passed, yet the agonizingly slow pace of his new reality made it feel like three.

He trudged onward, firmly crushing the weeds sprouting between the vinyl structures.

When a long-headed grasshopper fluttered onto his bare calf just beneath his shorts, he gently shook his leg to dislodge the insect. They were far more fragile than regular locusts; applying too much force would instantly crush the poor bastards to death. As he performed the delicate maneuver, he glanced down at his own shin and froze, overwhelmed by an unprecedented wave of unfamiliarity.

“Uh, what the fuck…” he mumbled, his articulation severely compromised by the second plum currently occupying his mouth.

Yet the shock obliterated his concern for table manners. The coarse hair that once coated his legs had completely vanished.

“This is fucking ridiculous…”

Contrary to the frantic research he had conducted upon initially transforming, his genitalia hadn’t shrunk, but his body hair was undeniably thinning out. He no longer needed to shave; his jawline and philtrum remained unnervingly smooth on their own. But to lose the hair on his shins as well? An abrupt, terrifying premonition seized him, sending a violent shiver down his spine.

Stopping dead in his tracks, he scanned his surroundings for any signs of life before discreetly pulling back the elastic waistband of his shorts to peek inside.

…The visual inspection confirmed his worst fears: his pubic hair had dramatically thinned as well. While he had never possessed a jungle down there, he had always maintained an average, respectable amount. Now, staring at the near-barren landscape of his own crotch, he felt utterly dumbfounded.

“Well, I’m fucked,” he muttered bitterly. “How the hell am I supposed to show my face in a public bathhouse now?”

Exhaling a heavy sigh, Gi-hyeon resumed his trek.

His emotions violently ping-ponged. Half of him felt deeply unsettled by the rapid erosion of his masculine traits, while the other half remained immensely relieved that his dick hadn’t suffered the miniaturization he had dreaded. However, barely a few steps later, the existential crisis evaporated, instantly replaced by a sudden, intense craving for braised spicy chicken. But not just any braised chicken; he specifically lusted after the exact dish served at the mom-and-pop joint near his old apartment.

“No. Endure it,” he scolded himself, gently patting his perfectly flat stomach.

Medical professionals had warned him that as a former Beta male blessed with a dense muscle mass and a spacious abdominal cavity, he might not even show a baby bump until delivery. Approaching his second month, he remained hyper-vigilant.

Looking back, the reckless stunts he had pulled to escape down here had demonstrated a horrifying lack of consideration for the child growing inside him.

***