1RomanceEB Chapter 26 | Instant Noodles
Chapter 26 | Instant Noodles
On the day he got off work, Cao Yisen followed a group of people out of the subway station, his mind still replaying the day's reports and the two "New York jokes" Xu Yunzhen had thrown at him. By the time he got back to his apartment building, he had completely switched from "work mode" to "lazy mode".
When the door opened, the room was completely dark.
"Hi??"
No one answered.
He habitually reached for the light switch on the wall, and with a "click," the light came on. The living room was exactly the same as when he left in the morning—a thin blanket was draped over the sofa, two half-empty bottles of sparkling water lay on the coffee table, and the TV remote was carelessly tossed under the cushion.
Most importantly, the kitchen was suspiciously quiet.
Cao Yisen walked over, opened the refrigerator door, and a blast of cool air rushed out. The contents inside were so simple that they could be written on a convenience store notepad: half a box of nearly dried-out kimchi, two pitiful sausages, an onion that looked rather worn out, and a box of tofu in the corner that had been sitting there for who knows how long.
"...Goodness." He closed the refrigerator, leaned on the door, and remained silent for two seconds.
My stomach rumbled honestly.
He instinctively reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and rummaged through it. Inside lay a crumpled 10,000 won banknote, its edges curled up, a sight that tugged at his heartstrings.
"That's it?" He looked down to confirm. "Me... a big Wall Street short seller, reduced to only ten thousand?"
He tried hard to recall his recent cash flow—when he first arrived in Seoul, he spent money on various credit cards, transportation, meals with colleagues, and the occasional coffee; little by little, his cash ran out. He still had money on his cards, but he mentally labeled that little bit of money: he couldn't touch it.
The issue is--
He still has to eat dinner tonight.
He glanced up at the clock on the wall, then at his phone, and suddenly a more pressing question occurred to him: "Speaking of which... why haven't I been paid yet?"
Based on his experience from his previous life, shouldn't it normally be issued every two weeks? Bi-weekly? He took out his phone, opened his history, and scrolled through it. He had been with the company for quite some time now, so there should be some news by now.
He squatted on the ground, clutching the 10,000 won note in his hand, his brow furrowed in serious concern: "Could it be that this company has financial problems?"
After thinking for two seconds, he was amused by the thought: "Forget it, PLEDIS is a subsidiary of HYBE after all. They can't possibly hold back a newcomer's monthly salary of more than three million won."
Then he checked Naver, and a more stark reality hit him—
In South Korea, salaries are paid monthly, not bi-weekly.
He paused for a moment, then said, "...Oh..."
Having grown accustomed to the pace of Wall Street in his previous life—a plethora of bonuses, quarterly, annual payments, and all sorts of fancy structures distributed every two weeks—he hadn't fully adjusted to the sudden shift to "a single payment at the end of the month." After calculating the days, he honestly concluded that payday was still some time away.
"Very well." He sighed. "Then we'll have to live on this ten thousand today."
He glanced at the darkened room, then, as if remembering something, gave Cao Rou a KakaoTalk haircut.
[Yisen]: Hi...where are you?
[Cao Rouli]: In the company practice room. I have a schedule tomorrow.
[Cao Rouli]: What's wrong?
[Yisen]: It's nothing, just asking if you've eaten.
[Cao Rouli]: We ordered fried chicken!
Immediately afterwards, a picture of fried chicken was sent, glistening with oil, accompanied by a "짱맛" emoji sticker.
Cao Yisen stared at the photo, remained silent for a few seconds, and then his stomach growled again, much to his dismay.
[Cao Rouli]: What about you? Are you home?
[Yisen]: Yeah, at home.
[Cao Rouli]: Then order some takeout and eat something nice. I'll send you my card number.
It was followed by a string of numbers.
Looking at the string of numbers, Cao Yisen felt a pang of tenderness mixed with a sense of unease.
In his previous life, he was used to giving money to others; in this life, asking for money felt awkward. He quickly typed a line:
[Yisen]: No need, I have food at home, I'll just make something simple.
As he sent it, he glanced at the refrigerator door that had just been closed, and his soul let out a silent mockery.
[Cao Rouli]: Really??
[Cao Rouli]: Don't lie to me.
[Cao Rouli]: I'll get angry if you eat instant noodles (angry emoji x3)
Cao Yisen rubbed his temples and decisively chose to tactically change the subject.
[Yi Sen]: Practice hard, don't stay up too late.
[Cao Rouli]: Okay, little brother~~
[Cao Rouli]: I'll cook for you when I get back this weekend!
【Yisen】:. . . ?
The chat window is stuck on this sentence, which looks quite heartwarming, but thinking about Cao Rouli's cooking skills, it's really not something to brag about.
He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and silently made a decision for himself: he absolutely couldn't ask her for money today, otherwise she would definitely start nagging for years about "my brother is starving in Seoul".
That leaves only one option—
Convenience store.
He picked up his coat hanging by the door and put it on while comforting himself, "Ten thousand won isn't enough to live on. Convenience stores are so common in Korea, I can easily make a meal."
Turn off the lights, lock the door, and go downstairs.
The night breeze was light in the alley downstairs, and the blue and white sign of GS52 at the corner was particularly eye-catching, like a beam of relief for people like him who were "penniless in the middle of the month but did not want to ask for money".
As soon as the convenience store door opened, warm air and the aroma of oden wafted out, along with laughter from a variety show playing on the small TV near the cashier.
His first instinct was to touch the 10,000 won note in his pocket and carefully mentally budget for it.
"Okay, ten thousand. A pack of instant noodles is about a thousand, rice balls are a thousand, oden is sold by the skewer... Hmm, today is about pragmatism, no emotional spending."
He used to be calculating the fluctuations of positions worth millions of dollars, but now in Seoul he's calculating "whether this fish cake is worth it." The difference is so big it's almost funny, and he himself finds the contrast amusing.
Neither gambling nor empty-handed.
Holding only 10,000 won, she carefully considered how to put together her dinner in front of the convenience store shelf.
Cao Yisen pushed his small basket, swaying from the first row to the last row, and then back from the last row to the first row—
I checked the instant noodle section several times, the oden section several times, and various rice balls, cabbage salads, but in the end, my basket was still empty.
"A pack of instant noodles costs 1200, a rice ball costs 1500, and a skewer of oden costs 700 or 800..."
He quickly did the calculations in his mind, and the more he calculated, the more he felt like he was conducting a stress test on a small-cap stock.
The issue is--
My stomach is growling, but I'm still struggling with this decision.
He stood in front of the refrigerated display case, staring at the rows of drinks, his gaze sweeping back and forth between Coca-Cola, Sprite, and a certain brand of soda.
Suddenly, a gaze, not intense but still quite noticeable, came from behind.
The cashier was right across the street. The clerk was behind the counter scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up at him with a concerned look that seemed to say, "This guy has circled around three times and still hasn't taken anything. Is he here to steal Wi-Fi or is he heartbroken?"
Cao Yisen felt a strange heat in his back.
He cleared his throat, looked at the row of drinks, and made a decision for himself—
"Okay, but you can't let people feel like you're just taking advantage of the heating."
So he reached out and decisively pulled out a bottle of Sprite from the middle.
He definitely wouldn't take the 1.5L one, it's too unhealthy. He tilted his hand and picked out a small bottle, the label of which was slightly wrinkled, as if he was giving himself a discount.
"...Two thousand." He read the price tag to himself.
Spending almost half his fortune on a bottle of Sprite—if he told his former colleagues about it, they'd probably laugh at him for a whole year—their half-hour bonus would be enough for him to drink until next year.
He touched the 10,000 won note in his pocket again, knowing full well that this would cost him one-fifth of his money.
But it's better than going out empty-handed.
Otherwise, the cashier's gaze would probably send him to "The Heart-Fluttering Convenience Store Customer Observation Diary".
He put the Sprite in the basket, instantly making the basket more noticeable. As he turned to walk towards the cashier, the clerk visibly paused—probably assuming he'd at least take a packet of instant noodles or a sausage.
As a result, the person dressed like a white-collar worker hesitated for a long time before coming to pay with a very ordinary bottle of Sprite.
"Do you need a bag?" the shop assistant asked.
"No need." Cao Yisen shook his head, holding the bottle of Sprite, and shook it casually. "I live nearby."
—The kind of neighborhood where you're hungry.
After paying, he walked out of the convenience store. The little bell on the door jingled, and a bit of cold air blew back in.
He carried the bottle of Sprite back home, trying to reassure himself as he went:
"At least it has bubbles, so it'll last me a meal. When I get paid, I'm definitely going to order the whole menu from this convenience store."
He laughed after he finished speaking.
Cao Yisen was strolling down the street, clutching a bottle of Sprite.
The sparkling water at the convenience store made his stomach feel even emptier, ironically stimulating his appetite. He glanced at the time, then at the few thousand won in his wallet that had shrunk to a mere sheet, and made a decision in his mind—
I can't go into convenience stores anymore, or I'll just have to take instant noodles home and eat them dry.
Then try your luck in the alleys; you might just stumble upon some hidden gem restaurants.
Sure enough, after turning a corner, he saw a shop with a rather prominent sign.
Lanterns hung at the entrance, and the sizzling sound of grilled meat could be faintly heard from inside. He leaned forward and saw a menu pasted on the glass.
— Roasted pork belly, 18,000 yuan a serving.
"..."
He looked down and saw that the beef cost 32,000 yuan a serving, with a thoughtful note that it was "recommended for two people".
"Less than half a pound?" Cao Yisen did some mental calculations, roughly converting it to US dollars and then to the 10,000 Korean won he had in his pocket, and came to the conclusion: He wasn't qualified.
He nodded slightly to the air in the doorway with politeness: "Excuse me."
Then he silently turned around and took his leave.
He walked around a few more streets, the lights of barbecue restaurants, izakayas, and fried chicken shops flashing by one by one. They were either too expensive or looked like the kind of places where "you have to order a drink as soon as you sit down." In his current "cash flow management state," none of them were suitable.
Just as he was about to resign himself to going home and eating Sprite, a small, inconspicuous sign caught his eye.
A handwritten sign was posted on the door with a few words written on it:
24-hour self-service ramen
The next line:
"Welcome students on a tight budget/night owls/heartbroken individuals."
"That's quite honest," Cao Yisen couldn't help but chuckle.
He pushed the door open and went in.
The shop wasn't big, but it was more lively than I'd imagined. Several small single tables were lined up along the wall, each table uniformly set with an induction cooker, a small stainless steel pot, tissues, and disposable chopsticks. The background music was a song by a girl group, played at a low volume, which ironically made it feel like a scene from a late-night anime.
To the right of the entrance is a whole wall of shelves.
The instant noodles were neatly arranged on the table, each with a different brand, color, and font. There were bright red and yellow spicy ones, green ones labeled "mild," black ones labeled "fiery hell," and a few understated white ones in the corner labeled "vegetarian ramen."
"Vegetarian instant noodles?" He raised an eyebrow. "This market segmentation is a bit excessive."
Price tags were affixed to the edge of the shelf, all uniformly reading "1 pack 3,300".
Three thousand three hundred and one pack of noodles.
He subconsciously started doing the math:
I have 8,000 left in my pocket. After subtracting 3,300, I still have more than 4,000 left. Theoretically, I can even plan out an egg and a rice ball at cost price.
The problem is—there are just too many kinds of instant noodles.
Kimchi, creamy chicken, seafood, miso, cheese, rich beef bone broth, and even a seemingly unconventional flavor like "tomato basil ramen." Every package seems to be shouting at him:
"Choose me, you'll feel it's worth the price."
"Choose me, you'll regret it all night."
Standing in front of the shelves, Cao Yisen suddenly had a familiar feeling—
It's like standing in front of a bunch of small-cap stocks, watching each one tell its own story.
He held onto the edge of the shelf and looked at it carefully several times, from the ingredient list to the calories, and from the calories to the recommended popularity label.
"This is the legendary option," he thought to himself. "The strike price is 3,300, and the exercise asset is only half a meal."
He reached for a packet of spicy red-packaged food, then hesitated and put it back.
I picked up another packet labeled "Seafood Chowder," but then I thought, what if it turns out badly and my stomach feels even worse?
Upon seeing the vegetarian option, he couldn't help but comment, "This is just like bonds in the market; it looks safe, but it's not exciting at all."
The surveillance camera on the shelf quietly watched him repeatedly reach out, withdraw, and reach out again, probably already labeling him as a "severe decision-making disorder sufferer".
He held the bag of noodles in his hand and examined it, then suddenly realized that he had spent more time agonizing over spending 3,300 won than he had decided to add tens of millions of US dollars to his position in a certain stock years ago.
Thinking about this, he found it somewhat amusing.
"C, this is life's way of crushing us," he sighed. "Okay, pick one, don't make a combination."
So he closed his eyes, and relying on a very unscientific intuition, pulled out a packet from the middle—
The brand is normal, and the flavor is "spicy beef bone soup," which is neither too bland nor too spicy, making it a moderate asset.
"You're the one," he announced quietly to the bag of noodles.
When he took the noodles to the counter to pay, he added an extra egg.
The cashier skillfully processed the payment and explained how to use the service: "Cook the noodles yourself, the tap is over there, set the timer for three minutes, and be careful not to overcook the eggs."
Cao Yisen nodded and carried his "asset portfolio" to a single table in the corner.
A pot, a stove, a spice packet, and a small earthenware pot were placed next to it.
As he unpacked the package, he tried to reassure himself:
"At least I was sitting down and eating hot noodles... so it wasn't too bad."