Page 10 of Break Room

Had these two been sharing their hints with each other?

Or was Tumbler being deceived by Cake, who’d probably exaggerated how far behind she was in the game?

Either way, Tumbler seemed to hang on her every word with absolute conviction, as if he were incapable of critical thinking when it came to her.

It seemed unlikely that he would have ever thought to question her.

While the rest of us continued playing the game in our own ways, Coffee Mix suddenly let out a loud burp, drawing everyone’s attention.

For a brief moment, people genuinely pondered whether something as natural as that could count as breaking the rules.

But the absurdity didn’t end there. Inspired by her act, Tumbler adopted a look of deep contemplation, clearly considering whether farting might count as well.

Before he could put the thought into action, I cut him off sharply. ‘Burping, farting and any other bodily functions definitely won’t count, because they are basically in the same category of what Coffee Mix has done.’ Tumbler seemed to regain his composure and nodded at me in deep gratitude.

With every passing minute potentially altering the course of the game, we all tried to spend as much time in or around the break room as possible, afraid of falling behind in this increasingly competitive environment.

Staying in our rooms felt like admitting defeat or indifference.

That day, we even decided to have a late lunch together, sitting in the hallway outside the break room.

Our lunch was bunsik; Tumbler and Monologue ordered naengmyeon despite the freezing winter weather, while Coffee Mix, Cake and I went for kalguksu. To share, we got a large plate of vegetable bibim mandu. I took charge of calling to place the order at the bunsik diner.

When the delivery arrived, the others seemed mildly surprised.

‘Extra danmuji, and noodles separate from the broth . . . How did you know my preferences so well?’ Tumbler asked, genuinely amazed.

We crouched in front of the break room, unpacking our meals. Cake hesitated for a moment, glancing left and right as though searching for someone to make eye contact with. I quickly dismissed it as just my imagination, but then she spoke up, breaking the silence.

‘Ice Cube, you like observing people, huh?’ she asked, and then added, with a giggle, ‘No, you must really love it.’ She grabbed her food and started eating, not even waiting for a response.

I was too preoccupied with peeling off the packaging from my meal to say anything anyway.

She giggled again, this time glancing at the others, as if fishing for a reaction. It reminded me of an unpleasant classmate who couldn’t stand it when people disagreed with them.

Meanwhile, Tumbler and Monologue were bonding over their shared belief that naengmyeon tastes best in winter.

It was their first real connection, but it didn’t last long.

After Monologue carefully cut his naengmyeon with the kitchen scissors and, without noticing Tumbler’s outstretched hand waiting to take them, dashed into the break room to thoroughly wash them, dry them and place them neatly on the dish rack, Tumbler’s expression turned icy.

Rather than getting up to retrieve the scissors for himself, Tumbler widened his mouth and attempted to chew through the stubborn, springy noodles, his yellow teeth on full display as he struggled.

Meanwhile, Coffee Mix tore open the bibim mandu container and quickly transferred four napjak mandu –thin flat dumplings that looked more like wrappers – on to her plate, while Cake, oblivious, focused on mixing the bibim sauce into the vegetables.

Then Coffee Mix put the mixed vegetables on a napjak mandu, popped it in her mouth, and slyly added another dumpling sheet back on to her plate so that her stash remained the same.

She reminded me of a frantic squirrel, endlessly hoarding acorns, bracing for a long winter or a years-long famine. Pathetic.

After lunch, everyone left the hallway one by one, but I wandered back into the break room and found Cake still there, alone.

I felt awkward being alone with her, so I busied myself by brewing a drip coffee, hoping she’d leave soon.

The nauseating mix of lingering delivery food smells gradually gave way to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Cake stood silently for a while, holding a packet of white tea in one hand and chrysanthemum tea in the other, seemingly lost in thought. Then, as if on a whim, she turned towards me, pulled a coffee mug from the upper cabinet, and held it out.

‘Can you share a bit of coffee with me?’ she asked.

I blinked, puzzled. Why would she ask to share from the mere twenty drops of coffee I had painstakingly brewed?

I was already regretting wasting so much of my precious break-room time – out of the hundred minutes allotted for the day – just on making this single cup.

Starting over again for her would be unreasonable.

‘Um . . . I’m sorry to say this, but maybe you could make your own coffee instead?’ I replied, trying to sound as apologetic as possible.

‘Very funny, Ice Cube. You’re a very funny guy.

’ She chuckled, covering her mouth with one hand.

But her eyebrows – even more prominent now that her mouth was hidden – didn’t seem to match her smile at all.

The contrast gave her an unsettling resemblance to someone wearing a dokkaebi mask. I couldn’t figure out her intentions.

‘What is so funny?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ she replied. ‘It’s just . . . Don’t you think it’s funny? This whole situation. Everything.’

I decided to interpret her interaction as an awkward attempt at reaching out, perhaps looking to form a pact with me, similar to the one she seemed to have with Tumbler.

‘Do you want to share hints with me?’ I cautiously asked.

‘No,’ Cake said, shutting down my offer.

I went back to my room and decided to use the hint card I had earned from microwaving cheonggukjang on Cake. When I opened the hint box, I found a simple steamed bun wrapped in a transparent plastic wrapper. As expected, Cake’s face was printed all over the packaging. The label read:

Shelf life is short as there are no preservatives.

I peeled off the surface film, revealing the hidden message underneath:

The shelf life is short for relationships due to habitual lying.

Curious, I scanned the QR code linked to the hint and played the audio file. The voice on the recording was calm and measured, speaking with a detached yet deliberate tone. It didn’t provide specific examples, but instead stated:

‘She says a lot about things, but it’s hard to understand her intentions. It feels as though she can’t stand a situation where she’s not the centre of attention. Sometimes, I’d hear her say things and wonder, “Why would she go to such lengths to lie about that?”’

The witness’s words lingered in my mind. I moved Cake to the bottom of my list of mole suspects by eighty per cent.