Pitbabe S2, Chapter 30 pg 1
. Pitbabe S2, Chapter 30 pg 1
KIM:.
The time on my phone read 09:32 AM. Not only was this the perfect time for me to head to the training track, but it was also when someone should’ve emerged from their bedroom by now. Yet, the door remained firmly shut. Not a single sound escaped, which was unmistakably unusual.
“Ken.”
I knocked on the door, but there was no response. I strained to listen for any noise from the other side—no rustling, no movement. A sudden thought flashed through my mind.
Is he dead?
“Ken,” I called again, louder this time. “Kenta.”
Still nothing but silence. My unease grew because it was now well past Kenta’s usual wake-up time by an hour. He’d been Tony’s work robot since he could remember, waking at the same time every day without needing an alarm. Kenta would be up at 8:00 AM sharp, wash his face, brush his teeth, go for a 30-minute run, come back, shower, and then eat breakfast. He did this every single day, weekday or weekend. Sleeping in until 9:30 wasn’t like him at all.
I rushed to my bedroom, yanked open the bedside drawer, and grabbed the largest keyring in the house. I flipped through the keys until I found the one with a sticker labeled Bedroom 2, then strode back to the door of our houseguest. I jammed the key into the lock and turned it, opening the door without permission.
What I saw was Kenta still lying in bed, fast asleep, completely undisturbed by my intrusion into his room. Normally, just the sound of my footsteps passing by would’ve jolted him awake.
“Ken.”
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently. After a few shakes, the sleepy guy jolted awake, eyes snapping open.
“Kim…”
Kenta’s voice was hoarse, worse than the usual morning rasp. His face was pale, lips colorless and visibly dry. “What’s up? Nothing wrong, right?”
“You’re still not up, and it’s late. Knocked and got no answer, thought you were dead or something,” I said, relieved that Kenta hadn’t kicked the bucket like I’d feared. He seemed to just have a regular cold.
“What time is it?” Kenta asked, looking confused, his eyes scanning the room like he didn’t recognize it, even though he’d been crashing here long enough to call it home.
“Nine-thirty.”
“Whoa…” Even he seemed surprised he’d slept that long. Both of us are early risers. I find waking up early refreshing, gives me more time to get stuff done. As for Kenta, like he’s said, he was trained to rise early since forever. So sleeping in late was a pretty clear sign his body was struggling. “Slept like I was out cold.”
“You’re sick, dumbass,” I said, pressing my hand to his forehead. Just as I thought—Kenta’s forehead was burning hot. No wonder he was so out of it. “Rest today. Need to call anyone?”
I meant the folks at his “big house.” I didn’t know if disappearing for a day would get him in trouble or if they had a system like office workers for taking leave. Kenta seemed to work every single day, never getting a break like normal people.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Nothing’s on today. They won’t care if I’m gone.”
I knew Kenta wasn’t saying it out of self-pity, just stating the cold truth: the people at the big house didn’t care much about whether he lived or died.
Unless they needed him for something, they didn’t think of him. They never checked in or asked how he was doing, not once. Kenta seemed used to it, but I was the one who felt a pang of sadness that he’d been forced to get comfortable with being abandoned like this.
“Well, that’s good then. You can rest properly,” I said. “I’ll go make some porridge.”
I was about to get up and start prepping breakfast for him, but the sick guy grabbed my arm first.
“Aren’t you going to practice?” Kenta asked, his eyes scanning my outfit—jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. Probably didn’t look much like lounging-around-the-house clothes.
“Was gonna, but I changed my mind.”
“It’s fine,” the sick guy said, sounding almost apologetic, even though I hadn’t explained why I’d changed my mind. “Go practice. I’ll manage.”
“What’s that?” I narrowed my eyes at the guy on the bed. “You some kinda hero?”
“Huh?”
“Missing one day of practice won’t kill me.”
“Hey! It’s me…”
“Today, your job is to lie down and do nothing, and don’t you dare argue with me.”
Kenta’s jaw dropped, but he slowly closed his mouth as if he didn’t dare to argue further. Honestly, I don’t like this approach at all, but when Kenta gets stubborn, the only way to make him listen is to give orders. He’s spent his whole life following commands, so he doesn’t understand requests, cooperation, or help. He doesn’t even grasp accepting concern from others. No matter how nicely I say, “I’m doing this because I care,” it doesn’t touch him enough to make him want to comply. If you want a robot to listen, you have to input clear, firm, emotionless commands. That’s the only way he understands best.
“I’m just sick, not dying…” the patient muttered softly.
“What did I just say?”
“Fine, fine, do whatever. Make me something to eat.”
In the end, he could only grumble. Kenta pulled the blanket up to his neck and turned his back to me, looking like he’d given up arguing and decided to sulk instead. I don’t know if he was expecting me to coax him or not, but whether he was or wasn’t, that wasn’t going to happen. Telling a sick person to rest isn’t a mistake—it’s care, isn’t it?
I left the sulky Japanese guy in the room and went to prepare ingredients for rice porridge in the kitchen. In the fridge, there was some ground pork left from making stuffed omelets the other day, a bit of pork ribs just enough to simmer for broth, a new carton of eggs with only two used, and some pre-fried garlic (I wasn’t going to fry it myself—simmering broth instead of using stock cubes is already fancy enough). Green onions and cilantro were ready, and I had seasoning sauce and pepper… what else was missing?
Oh, rice.
The rice bin was empty, which instantly deflated my spirits. Even the cooked rice from yesterday was down to half a cup. No way that’d be enough to fill Kenta’s stomach, sick or not. So, I had no choice but to grab my wallet and head to the supermarket. Luckily, it wasn’t far—just a five-minute walk. But if Kenta were the one going, he’d drive every time. That guy refuses to walk on sidewalks, roads, or anywhere outside a building. The only place he’ll walk is where he can’t drive, which doesn’t seem very Japanese at all. I thought Japanese people loved walking.
That ordinary morning was chaotic enough to give me a headache just stepping out of the house. The streets were packed with cars, and everywhere I looked, there were office workers dragging themselves to work. It was almost ten o’clock, so most people I saw were probably working for Western companies or new startups with later start times or flexible hours. They dressed casually, free to express themselves without uniforms, not looking stiff or uncomfortable. Seeing them made me think of myself. If I hadn’t fallen in love with car racing and pushed myself to become a racer like I am now, I’d probably be no different from them—or worse. Being an office worker in Korea, bound by a rigid seniority system, is no fun at all.
Good thing I chose to race cars here.
I took a small alley one street over from the apartment as a shortcut. It’s quieter, with fewer cars passing through, and just a short walk to the supermarket. I’ve walked this alley so often I know it by heart: three giant trash bins, one always tipped over; a small shop with an old lady sitting out front from morning to evening; a house mid-alley with three red bicycles—small, medium, large—lined up during school hours and gone after school ends; and next to the bicycle house, a house that blocks its own entrance with a parked car every day. That blue Subaru Forester never looks old; it’s so shiny it catches my eye every time I pass by.
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