Chapter 4: Mapo Madness

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for five years.

For the first three, I scraped by with manual labor and part-time jobs.

From the fourth year, I cut back on part-time work and started earning money by writing.

Of course, I only reduced my part-time gigs because I could make enough to get by with writing.

Otherwise, I’d still be juggling jobs to survive.

Anyway, the transition from my third to fourth year was when my sleep schedule—and the number of zeros in my bank account—changed.

Back then, I was intoxicated by the unexpected money and threw myself into writing.

Cooking felt like a waste of time, so I relied on delivery for nearly every meal.

My card statement showed over 600,000 won a month spent on dining out—says it all, doesn’t it?

“Ugh, my head…”

Why bring this up now?

Because of what that girl said about the flyer being “over a year old.”

Sure, I ordered delivery a lot, but I’d never heard of a Chinese place called Taesan.

To begin with, I hate sticking things on my fridge—I always tuck flyers in the drawer under the TV.

So, a flyer on the fridge is already weird.

The idea that I stuck it there and forgot doesn’t hold up either.

I open the fridge door multiple times a day—how could I not notice something for a whole year?

That’s ridiculous, but if I had to consider a possibility…

Grrr—

My stomach, with its impeccable timing, refused to let my brain keep working and broke my focus.

Whatever I was about to figure out vanished like bubbles in water.

Guess it’s true—you’ve got to eat before you can do anything.

An empty stomach ruins everything.

“Let’s eat first. Don’t want it getting cold.”

Muttering a sudden worry, I reached for the neatly arranged dishes by the front door.

Thankfully, the food was still warm, and I nodded with satisfaction, feeling the heat in my hands.

I mean, it’s only been a few minutes since I was lost in thought—food wouldn’t cool that fast.

Chuckling, I carried the food to the dining table.

The table, unused for a while, had some dust, but it wasn’t bad enough to bother wiping down, so I set the dishes on it.

I grabbed utensils from the kitchen and peeled off the plastic wrap covering the food.

The Chinese fried rice shimmered golden, coated perfectly with egg, looking incredibly appetizing.

Nodding with approval, I moved to uncover the Mapo Tofu, tearing the plastic along the edge of the dish.

“Cough! Ugh, hack… This is insane…”

The spicy aroma hit me like a bomb through a small tear in the plastic.

A few hours ago, I’d thought, “How spicy could it be?”—that naive face of mine flashed in my mind.

This wasn’t your average spicy food; the smell alone screamed it.

The nose-stinging spice was enough to make my eyes water.

It was a scent that perfectly suited the name “Mapo” (numbing) Tofu.

But once I got used to it, the smell started to seem appetizing.

Or rather, I started to perceive it that way.

It looks a bit spicy, though.

Bubble—

Correction: very spicy.

I let out a short breath and picked up my spoon.

I couldn’t dump spicy food into an empty stomach, so I started with a bite of the fried rice.

It was standard Chinese fried rice—nothing extraordinary.

Not to say it wasn’t delicious; it was definitely tastier than other fried rice I’d had.

But, you know, fried rice is fried rice.

After a couple of bites, figuring it was enough to settle my stomach, I glanced at the Mapo Tofu.

Still looks spicy.

Hesitating briefly, I thought, “What’s the worst that could happen?” and scooped up a big bite.

“Hm, it’s… edible?”

Spiciness isn’t classified as a taste like sweet, sour, salty, bitter, or umami.

What does that mean?

Spicy isn’t a flavor—it’s treated as a sensation of “pain” or “heat,” a type of discomfort.

“Hiss… Haa…”

The moment I thought, “It’s a little spicy,” what hit me wasn’t a pleasant burn.

It was pain—pure, unadulterated pain.

Like my tongue was being seared with fire, like my mouth was being sliced open with a knife.

Calling this a “taste” would be an insult to every other food.

“Hic… This is insane… Hic… They sell this for money? Hiss, hic…”

Hiccups started.

My body twitched intermittently, making strange noises with each hiccup, but my mind couldn’t process the absurdity of the situation.

All I could feel was relentless pain flooding my mouth, leaving no room for thought.

How much time passed?

When I finally came to, I stared blankly at the wreckage of my apartment.

What the hell happened to make it look like this?

The Mapo Tofu I ordered was dumped in the sink, dish and all.

The pillow, for some reason, was torn to shreds, with stuffing scattered across the room.

That’s not all—the desk’s leg was bent, the bathroom door had a gaping hole in the middle, and the closet door was completely ripped off, lying on the floor.

Thankfully, my clothes were fine.

“What…”

What happened?

Wiping the drool-soaked drool from my chin with my arm, I slowly pieced together my memories.

I woke up as a woman, panicked for a while, got hungry, and ordered food—fried rice and Mapo… Tofu.

I glanced at the sink.

The spicy smell, so intense it stung my nose, hit me again.

It felt even stronger than before.

Did the spiciest parts settle at the bottom?

Frowning, I turned on the faucet to rinse out the sink.

“Ugh, my stomach’s killing me…”

No more Mapo Tofu, ever.

Rubbing my stomach to soothe the burning, I wished I had milk.

But my fridge, fresh off deadline season, was completely empty.

Normally, I’d have gone shopping for a week’s worth of food on a day like today…

I glanced at the mirror beyond the hole in the bathroom door.

“Sigh…”

A man worn out by a tough life turning into a girl, or an ordinary guy waking up as a girl, or being chosen as a magical girl—stories you’d see in novels or comics.

“Never thought I’d be the main character.”

Reading about it in novels or comics for fun was one thing, but when it becomes reality, it’s a different story.

Can someone who’s lived as a man for over 20 years adjust to a woman’s body?

Sure, it’d be tough, but probably possible.

That’s not what I’m getting at, though.

First, who’d believe I woke up as a woman?

Most would call me crazy and contact a hospital or the police.

My relationships would obviously fall apart.

Second, if I got dragged to a hospital or police station, how would I prove my identity?

There’s no way.

My old ID card would be useless—the photo wouldn’t match.

Medical records?

Good luck getting those.

Third, following from identity—how would I get a job?

Without proof of identity, how do I find work or make a living?

Just thinking about it makes my head spin and my future feel bleak.

I’m better off since I make a living writing, but if I didn’t…
Physical labor would be my only option.

It’s a grim thought, but for a woman without ID, job options are limited in this world.

“Phew… Man, this is driving me crazy.”

What’s the point of thinking about this now?

First, let’s clean up the place.

I started picking up the torn-off closet door, muttering to myself.

How the hell did I rip this off, anyway?