— “You’re barred from the building. Hand over the wallet.”
In front of the elevator on the oncology ward, eighth floor, Taelim Hospital. Yoon Chaeryeong—the HR director who’d fired me—stood clutching a blood-stained handkerchief. I slipped her wallet deeper into my pocket and turned away. At the far end of the corridor, the green signboard glinted: Chief of Oncology, Dr. Yoon Chaeryeong.
“That’s mine.”
“It’s mine now.”
Seventeen hours after she’d hurled my resignation letter at me, she was back in the same spot. Seventeen hours later, I began inventorying her life.
Item One: “Bladder Capsule”
Compartment 1. One white cylindrical pill. The label read only: Take before urination. A pharmacy receipt was stapled to it.
- Date: the day I was fired.
- Time: 7:13 p.m.
- Price: ₩4,500.
After firing me, she’d walked to the pharmacy and bought this single capsule—two hours later, inside a stall on the twelfth floor of HomePlus. I photographed the pill and posted it on the company intranet under the title “Where Director Yoon Will Pee Today.” Two-hundred-thirty comments. From the next morning, she avoided the third-floor restroom entirely. One pill rerouted an entire hallway.
Item Two: “Future”
Compartment 2. One check card. On the back, embossed in gold: Our Life, the Day We First Met. Balance: ₩3,892,700. I went shopping.
| Item | Purpose | Price |
|---|---|---|
| Smart door lock | Her apartment entrance | ₩79,000 |
| Three CCTV cameras | Corridors of her building | ₩127,500 |
| Shipping box | Addressed to her | ₩2,300 |
The courier redirected the parcel to the post office; she would have to pick it up—captured on CCTV in the process. Her future sold for ₩209,800.
Item Three: “Another Person’s Death”
Compartment 3. A matte-black card. Death benefit ₩50 million. Beneficiary: Yoon Chaeryeong. Insured: her husband, Park Jong-ha.
I texted him anonymously:
Your wife is purchasing your death.
Four minutes later:
I’ve been waiting for her to kill me.
That evening the husband walked out. She was left alone. The fifty million remained unpaid.
Item Four: “My Job Title”
Compartment 4. A business card: HR Director, CareRoad Co., Yoon Chaeryeong. On the reverse, a memo in my handwriting:
Reason for firing me: “Unnecessary talent.”
I scanned the card and uploaded it to a job site under the headline “₩90 million salary, seeking director position.” Her cell number listed. Seventeen interview appointments. Each interview day she sprinted back to the hospital. Patients recognized her: “That woman—our department head?”
Item Five: “Forgiveness”
A month later, Yoon Chaeryeong found me in the hospital basement parking garage. She bowed her head.
“Return the wallet. Please.”
“Which item do you need?”
“Forgiveness.”
I opened the last compartment. A slip of paper: Forgiveness—price on request. I tore it out.
“This one isn’t for sale.”
She dropped to her knees. The moment the wallet touched the concrete, every item on her invoice vanished. I did not buy her forgiveness. She would have to purchase my revenge.
Final Receipt
That night I burned the wallet. Black ash drifted above the ashtray—her bladder pill, her future, her husband’s death, my job title, and forgiveness all mingled in the soot. I scooped the ashes into an envelope and slipped it into the hospital director’s mailbox. Addressed to: Director Yoon Chaeryeong.
- Contents: What you took from me.
- Price: Revenge—settled.
- Tax: Humanity.
If you ever open someone’s wallet, don’t count the cash first. Count the wounds they’ve left on you. Once you tally the damage, you’ll know the exact cost of vengeance. It may sound trite to say a single receipt can change a life, but that day I truly did bring someone to ruin for 2.37 million won. The twist? Some of that money had once been mine.