Hiding a House in the Apocalypse

Let’s take a moment to examine the person known as IAmJesus.

He comes from a single-parent household. Only a father.

There’s no contact with grandparents or any other relatives.

IAmJesus’s temperament is rather timid. He has neither the courage nor the will to actively resist the outside world.

He simply lives as he's told, with just enough nerve to express mild dissatisfaction from time to time.

He does have the virtue of patience, but even patience can be a double-edged sword.

In situations where one should never endure, patience becomes nothing more than a curse—a divine punishment self-inflicted.

IAmJesus’s father is a controversial man.

He’s what they call a cult leader, known for harassing countless female followers and being the subject of numerous scandals.

Fortunately, he spared no expense when it came to financial support—but it didn’t seem like he truly loved his son.

Like any cowardly parent, he did the bare minimum as a father. He made no effort to talk to his son or try to inspire any kind of change.

Personally, I don’t find IAmJesus to be a particularly likable person.

Lacking in looks, personality, and charm—he never tried to hide his shortcomings or highlight his strengths to expand his social circle.

He always shut himself away in his own little world, and that's where he stayed.

For nearly three years, the boy was imprisoned in the darkness brought on by the war.

Anyone who shared time on the forum with him during that period would know what his mind is like.

It’s a broken and shattered soul.

I met him.

I pulled him out of his bunker and reached out to him.

But in the end, IAmJesus discovered his true calling and chose to remain in the city of death where he had lived with his father.

I walked away without regret.

But it’s not like I didn’t worry at all, like Jeon Sang-hee did.

As I left that city of death, I did wonder if that immature soul called IAmJesus would be able to grow up properly.

I sent him a few messages after that.

One-sided messages don’t last long.

After a few were ignored, I, like everyone else, completely forgot about him. He barely crossed my mind.

At most, I asked how he was during last winter’s brutal cold.

And now that kid appeared in front of me again.

In the way I vaguely anticipated... but never wanted to see.

"Skelton. My stuff. You brought it?"

His voice had gotten deeper, but also more sluggish.

His halting speech pattern, paired with the mask covering his face, made my old forum friend IAmJesus feel even less human.

"······."

Where do I even begin?

King’s face flickers in my mind.

First—talk.

Let’s talk it out.

“There aren’t many things in this world you can solve with words. But refusing to speak at all means you don’t even want to start. So talk. Don’t just assume it won’t work and give up—if there’s a chance, at least try. If it still doesn’t work, it’s not too late to throw a punch then.”

That was the teaching of my mentor, Jang Ki-young.

He said a lot of bullshit, but he said a lot of good stuff too.

For now, I’ll try to follow Jang Ki-young’s example and start a conversation.

IAmJesus led me to his room.

A pitch-dark chamber.

Thick blackout curtains had been meticulously sealed over the window frames, ensuring not a sliver of light could enter.

The only illumination came from an analog TV in the center, flickering with gray static, and the faintly glowing eyes of the zombies lined up like statues on either side of the room.

"······."

Among the zombies with their arms crossed like statues, there were some familiar faces.

For some reason, even Chairman Je Pung-ho—wearing a Santa hat—was there, standing among the spectators of IAmJesus’s gameplay session.

“Haha! This one! It’s been ages!”

IAmJesus smoothly connected the console I had brought, inserting the game cartridge—called a ROM pack—into the device.

“Dad brought this one home for the first time.”

When he powered it on, unfamiliar Japanese text popped up on the screen.

I watched him play for a while.

Saying nothing, just watching. In that moment, I wasn’t much different from the zombies standing beside us.

The first to break the silence was IAmJesus, after he beat what looked like the boss.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

“Well.”

He stuck out his tongue as he answered.

“Well?”

“Yeah. There was a lot of stuff in the city. We found it together. With friends.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And the winter?”

“Winter? It was cold.”

IAmJesus shivered, pretending to tremble.

That was it.

He didn’t say how he got through winter, or what he felt.

He wouldn’t tell me what he was thinking now, or what he planned to do.

He was just enjoying the moment, mindlessly.

I looked at IAmJesus’s face.

I couldn’t see his eyes behind the grotesque mask, but his lips—visible beneath it—were sealed shut like those of the zombies around us.

"······."

Was he bored?

When you’re trying to talk to someone—especially when you want something from them—there’s nothing more frustrating than the other person saying absolutely nothing.

But he wasn’t someone I could force into talking, nor someone who’d respond to pressure.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

I glanced around the room.

"Hm?"

Something caught my eye.

A laptop.

"Mind if I use the internet for a sec?"

“Internet?”

“Yeah.”

“Just wanna check something.”

“What?”

“Wanna see if that bastard Dongtanmom is still alive.”

“Oh. Oh. Go ahead. Sure.”

His fingers moved busily on the controller.

He must’ve been playing a tough part.

I turned on the laptop behind him and checked the screen.

A mess of pictures cluttered the desktop.

In the past, people said your clothes and behavior were a reflection of your character. In the 21st century, your computer desktop is now added to that list—a mirror of your soul.

And by that logic, IAmJesus’s desktop was pure chaos.

Grotesque mutilated corpses, unspeakable pornography, cheerful anime characters, flashy game avatars, news clippings about his father, various dog photos, what appeared to be his own (terribly drawn) anime girl sketches—just an unruly collage of images that defied any attempt at categorization.

“Hey. IAmJesus.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you organize your desktop?”

“Desktop?”

“Yeah. A man might not clean his room, but he should at least clean his desktop.”

For the record, my desktop only has two icons: the Skelton folder and Viva! Apocalypse!

My wallpaper is an AI-generated image of a muscular warrior standing with his back turned, holding dual axes. The artist’s signature—Skelton—is in the bottom-left corner.

“R-Really? Am I supposed to?”

IAmJesus turned to me, his eyes wide.

For a moment, I felt a small shock.

It was something I’d said offhandedly, with no real meaning.

Telling someone to tidy up their desktop—that’s the kind of nitpick you can throw at someone you’re not even close with.

But to that minor comment, IAmJesus reacted as if startled.

It might seem trivial, but in that moment, I saw a sliver of hope.

That maybe, just maybe, this friend who seemed broken could still be reached.

“Want me to do it for you?”

“Oh—I can do it.”

Well, now we had a point of connection.

Something his father probably never found.

“You into this stuff?”

Start small.

“Ah, that one’s... kind of hard to show.”

“What’s the big deal? Guys can look at this stuff too. Wanna just clear it all at once?”

“······.”

Organizing a desktop is like cleaning a room.

It’s a mundane act, easy to overlook, but absolutely necessary.

Just putting things in order around you brings psychological relief, comfort—sometimes even clarity.

I think desktops are no different.

Even the smallest distraction that flits across ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ your screen can, when left to build up, leave a residue on your mind.

Like a weight pressing down on you.

“Hey. What the hell is this? Why would you save something like this?”

I expand the scope as I clean.

“What’s the point of collecting pictures of dead people? Isn’t the whole city already crawling with corpses? These don’t even rot, but most of them just decay into nothing. Not even a trace left behind.”

“T-That one’s just... out of curiosity.”

“This one’s getting deleted, okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

There’s something else I realize all over again.

Our forum isn’t exactly a great educational space.

I vaguely understood that, and logically, I knew it—but I never truly felt it. Probably because I never had a kid to raise, and the kids around me had grown up relatively well.

The forum left a heavy imprint on IAmJesus.

His pictures weren’t just from the new wave of malicious users I’ve been blocking lately—they also included plenty from older, already-banned toxic users.

One common type in his collection: women who’d been raped and killed.

Tragic, but depressingly frequent in IAmJesus’s saved files.

I didn’t bother pointing it out.

Twisted habits like that don’t disappear just because someone lectures you.

So I moved on without a word.

Instead, I found something worth bringing up.

“What’s this?”

A family photo.

The faded picture wasn’t taken in a chapel or an independent house—just a modest corner of a commercial building, used as a tiny church. In it stood a younger, still-living version of IAmJesus’s father, a child-aged IAmJesus, and an unfamiliar woman, all posing together with warm expressions.

“Your father and mother?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“When was this taken?”

That’s when I finally looked directly at IAmJesus’s mask.

Up until now, I had been deliberately avoiding it—ignoring it.

“Why’d you make that thing look like your father’s face?”

I figured it was time we could talk about this.

It must have been a heavy question, because IAmJesus just kept staring at the photo, silent.

Then, a moment later, he opened his mouth.

“Just because.”

A lukewarm answer.

Not that I expected much of one.

Just bringing it up was already a big enough step forward compared to the awkward silence earlier.

Click—click—

Most of the mess on the desktop was now sorted.

I saved what needed saving, put away what could be filed, and deleted what deserved to be erased.

What remained were several old family photos that could never be recreated again.

I looked at one of them.

In the photo, likely taken by his father, a young IAmJesus was playing with an old console—even by that era’s standards.

And there wasn’t just one. There were several.

From the number of pictures alone, you could feel the father’s love.

And from the fact that those photos had survived, intact, in the middle of that chaotic desktop—you could tell the son loved his father too.

People say the human heart is like a magnet, with two poles, but that’s not quite right.

Just because you have a north and south pole doesn’t mean hearts attract like magnets.

Even among families—those who should be closest—that rule doesn’t always apply.

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Time to start wrapping things up.

Night is falling.

More than that—I’m certain now that staying here any longer won’t lead to anything.

“King sent me here.”

IAmJesus stared at me blankly.

Then he lowered his head and muttered,

“...I figured.”

There was something King hadn’t told me.

“······.”

Click.

<Welcome to Viva! Apocalypse!>

I logged into his account.

Hundreds of unread messages sat untouched.

The sender of those messages—

Message from CrunchRoll: Hey~ IAmJesus! How long are you gonna hole up in there?!

Message from CrunchRoll: What do you think of this chick? You like her? Just say the word and I’ll send her over.

Message from CrunchRoll: What’s a guy doing holed up like that? Gonna do nothing but jerk off all day? Just come over already.

Message from CrunchRoll: Sex has a prime window, you know. Once you get old, it’s game over! Right now’s the best time, lol.

Message from CrunchRoll: Had a drink.

Message from CrunchRoll: (photo)

...

...

It’s King.

Wow. Even sending a love call, he’s got to be clingy about it.

Seems like King’s communication skills are just as underdeveloped as the mask-wearing father of IAmJesus.

In short, they’re both still immature.

King and IAmJesus.

“What the hell is this? Did you send these?”

Turns out IAmJesus did send something back to King.

And to match King’s offer of a living woman... he replied with a dead one.

That cleared up a few things.

The mystery surrounding the female zombies dressed up in various outfits—Jane and the others.

But really, was it necessary?

Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to show off this Skelton’s communication prowess.

iamjesus: maem maem~

“Skelton? What are you doing?”

I sent a message to King.

Message from CrunchRoll: Oh! Jesus! Long time no see! Maem maem!

iamjesus: maem maem!

Message from CrunchRoll: maem maem!

“Watch this.”

With a soft smile, I typed.

“······.”

Tap tap tap

iamjesus: yourmam