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"Ji-Hoon-ah! Get the shovel and dig the backyard! The sewer smells like your socks again!"
Thus began the greatest tragedy—and comedy—of my life.
Hi. I'm Kim Ji-Hoon, 17 years old, proudly middle-class, painfully average, and mildly allergic to manual labor. Our house in Gyeonggi-do has one bathroom, a leaking roof, and a backyard that doubles as a graveyard for expired kimchi jars.
I was supposed to be relaxing on Saturday morning—watching mukbang videos, playing Clash of Dungeons, and pretending homework didn't exist.
Instead? I was knee-deep in suspiciously brown mud, holding a rusty shovel, sweating like I was being grilled on a barbecue skewer.
"Why do I have to do this?" I muttered, stabbing at the earth.
"Because you're the youngest," my older sister shouted from the window, sipping iced coffee like she was the CEO of Housework Avoidance Ltd.
"Mom, she's bossing me again!" I yelled back.
My mother, saint of patience and queen of sarcasm, called out, "Just dig, or no dinner tonight. I'll feed you soil!"
I sighed. There goes my weekend.
I poked the shovel into the dirt—CLANK! It hit something hard. My brain immediately shouted, "Buried treasure!" but my logical side said, "Probably an old kimchi pot full of disappointment."
But no... it was a phone.
A smartphone, sleek, shiny, unbranded. No logos, no scratches, no signs of age. Just a pure black screen that looked way too cool for our budget.
"Did someone bury their Galaxy Z Super Mega Fold here?"
I wiped the mud off and pressed the screen.
BZZZT!
The phone vibrated and lit up:
> Welcome, Ji-Hoon. Your new app has been installed.
MIND READ MODE – ACTIVE.
"...Huh?"
Suddenly, I heard a voice. A voice that didn't come from outside.
> "Why is that loser still digging? I hope a mole bites him."
– That was my sister, Bora. She wasn't even talking. She was thinking.
I blinked.
> "If I mix gochujang into ramen again, will my kids notice?"
– My mom, inside the kitchen, stirring with guilt.
> "Maybe I should fake a back injury to skip work."
– My dad, from the bathroom, groaning theatrically while brushing his teeth.
I dropped the phone.
"YAAAAH!" I screamed, staggering backward.
> "This idiot's probably screaming about a worm again."
– My sister's thoughts. Unfiltered. Brutal.
I picked the phone up with shaking hands.
"Is this... real?"
> "Yes, it's real, you slowpoke. I'm a MIND READING PHONE. Don't act like I'm a magic wand. I'm more useful."
– The phone replied. Out loud. In fluent sass.
My eyes widened.
"I can hear people's thoughts? Like... everyone around me?"
> "As long as they're within range. And yes, it includes your dog. Spoiler alert: he hates you."
This was the moment. My humble life—shovels, school bullies, secondhand shoes—had suddenly taken a detour into the Twilight Zone.
"Is this a prank? Am I on a hidden camera show? Where's Yoo Jae-suk?"
No answer.
Just the buzzing of the phone and a stream of thoughts flowing in like a mental tsunami:
> "I should've been born rich. This family's too noisy."
– Bora again. Someone get her a mirror and a reality check.
> "Please let tonight's chicken be crispy. PLEASE."
– Dad. Truly a man of culture.
> "What's that brat doing now? If he breaks another pipe, I swear I'm moving to Busan."
– Our next-door neighbor, old Mrs. Park.
I fell to my knees, gripping the phone with awe.
This wasn't just a phone.
This... was my ticket to chaos.
And thus began the legend of the boy who dug a hole and unearthed everybody's secrets.
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