Chapter 1 — The Day We Moved In, My Wife Became a Snail

On an ordinary weekday in 2019, fine dust blanketed the entire sky.

Housing prices in Seoul might have been falling, but last year's skyrocketing lease rates had pushed our little nest further and further from the city center.

We'd already moved all our belongings, but after finishing up the endless cleaning—dust, clutter, the usual chaos—the short winter day had already slipped away, and outside had grown dark.

“Ugh, I thought the moving company would handle everything, but there's still so much to do. I'm starving, honey.”

My wife, Hannah Baek, 37, crouched on the floor, rubbing the kitchen sink until it gleamed. Her legs must've been sore; she stayed hunched over, catching her breath.

She runs her own clothing boutique—technically a “boss”—but hasn't escaped the chill of the prolonged economic slump. Month after month, she clings on, surviving on the dream of a boom that may never come.

We don't have kids yet. Just the two of us, scraping by in a modest 33-square-meters two-room apartment. It's small, but it's enough for our bickering, loving little life.

“Tell me about it. I'd forgotten how rough it is being a tenant again. We've inhaled enough dust today. How about pork belly and a round of soju?”

“Oh? For once, my husband says something I actually like. I'm starving—let's get ready and go, honey.”

There wasn't much to prepare. We threw on sweatpants and light coats and headed toward a pork belly joint near the station.

The realtor had called it “five minutes from the station,” but that was by car. On foot, it took ten—just far enough to be annoying.

The cheap rent was the only reason we tolerated the inconvenience, so I swallowed my irritation and walked.

“Cold, honey? It's farther than I thought.”

“Ugh, what can we do? Just gotta earn more money fast and move into an apartment right next to the subway.”

It was a weekday evening, so the place was quiet. In one corner, an elderly couple doted on their grandchild, grilling meat for him. In another, two laborers in work jackets—probably from a nearby construction site—were knocking back soju, unwinding after a long day.

“The server, three orders of pork belly, one bottle of soju, and one beer, please!”

“Hey, babe, don't pour it strong. Last time you passed out, I had to carry you home. ”

“Pfft, I'll be fine. My throat's so dry today—just one strong cup, and I'll feel so refreshed.”

My wife Hannah has an absurdly low alcohol tolerance, yet she loves drinking more than anyone I know.

More than once, I've gotten frantic calls from her after business dinners—“I can't walk”—and rushed to pick her up, slinging her over my shoulder like a sack of rice.

But today, after a whole day buried in dust and boxes, even I was craving a stiff drink. The thought of a soju bomb made my mouth water.

Hiss.

We laid the meat on the sizzling grill and poured our beer-soju mix to the brim, clinking glasses in celebration of our fresh start.

“Cheers, honey! You worked hard!”

“Damn, that's refreshing. One more, please!”

“Look at you, all excited! Fine, fine—eat your fill. I've got your back tonight. ”

“Mmm, when I'm with my husband, what's there to worry about? Hehe.”

She'd downed a soju bomb on an empty stomach, and her face was flushed bright red. Somehow, she looked adorable.

At 162 cm and 52 kg, she had a modest, balanced figure. Her chest wasn't large, but her hips were wide—curvy in a way that made her tight leggings cling to every line.

To my slightly drunk eyes, she looked undeniably sexy.

“Honey… you're really beautiful tonight. Are you already tipsy?”

“Oh? You're just now noticing your wife's pretty? Tsk tsk.

You know, some of my clients still think I'm an unmarried virgin. One even asked me to set him up with a 'nice single girl'—me!”

“Really? Let's meet him. Imagine the thrill—pretending you're not married. That'd be fun.”

“What are you saying? That would be fun, sure… But it's wrong. I'd have to be attractive enough to pull it off, anyway!”

“Oh, please. Your back view—especially that ass—is definitely attractive.”

“Oh my god! People are right here!!”

She startled, her already flushed face turning even redder.

And then I saw it—those two middle-aged laborers behind us, their eyes flicking toward her ass the moment I mentioned it.

A surge of anger burned through me. But then I looked at their rough, weathered skin, their thick, calloused fingers—men who swung hammers all day. If it came to a fight, I'd lose.

I forced myself to look away, raised my glass, and tried to erase the awkwardness.

“Hey, don't drink alone. We're here together.”

“Honey, are you sure you should drink like that?”

“Yeah, tonight the alcohol's going down so smooth. Feels good. Hehe.”

Then she stood up, leaned close to my ear, and whispered:

“I'm happy you think my ass is sexy,” she purred, giving me a sultry smile.

As she stood, her leggings-clad backside was fully exposed to the laborers behind us.

And I saw it—clear as day—their eyes locked onto her curves.

The older one on the right glanced at me, then twitched the corner of his mouth—just slightly—as if mocking me.

In that instant, my heart plummeted.