Chapter 59 : Masks, Monsters, and Missteps

Finally, the day has come when we have to go outside wearing masks, as if it’s the end of the world.

The white masks, rarely used in everyday life, are now indispensable.

I still vividly remember disliking those thick cloth masks, even taking them off despite catching colds because they were uncomfortable.

But now, disposable masks have become a daily necessity.

The only solace is that neither Siyeon nor I wear glasses, so at least we’re spared that annoyance.

On the way to school, the streets are full of people wearing masks.

Especially among kids my age—elementary schoolers—every single one of them, without exception, has a mask on.

Some older folks, frustrated by the discomfort, hang their masks below their chins. Others wear cloth masks they found lying around at home.

And then there’s…

“What the heck is wrong with that guy?”

A man dressed in a black robe, holding a staff, wearing a mask with a long beak like a crow’s—a full-on plague doctor cosplay.

Seeing him nonchalantly walking around in broad daylight, I couldn’t help but think the world had truly gone mad.

Still, that distinctive outfit, as if he had stepped straight out of a fantasy world, seemed to catch the attention of some passing boys.

Even though I’d heard those plague doctor masks were useless against the Black Death, they do look cool.

But public opinion? It’s not a cosplay festival, so someone dressed like that on the street is undoubtedly labeled crazy.

Siyeon, carrying her indoor shoe bag, points at the man in black and asks,

“Marie, what’s that?”

“A crazy person. Don’t give him any attention.”

I quickly pulled her along, holding hands, hurrying toward school so she wouldn’t get too curious.

Why on earth would someone do that, especially during the kids’ morning commute?

During the weeks I stayed holed up at home, it wasn’t just the streets—the whole atmosphere of school had transformed into a completely different world.

From kids to teachers, everyone was wearing masks—cloth or disposable—without exception.
Sometimes, I’d spot a kid with their mask pulled down below their nose, but at least they were wearing one.

I’d never seen people so universally compliant about wearing masks, no matter the illness before.

After swapping my white indoor shoes for sneakers, I took a brief moment in the classroom to browse the community app on my phone.

It was just a way to kill time, scrolling through popular posts in the gallery.

[Real-time: What’s with this guy on the subway? (55)]

“Huh?”

The title alone was enough to spark curiosity.

I tapped the title with my small finger, and after a moment of loading, a large photo appeared.

The picture showed the interior of a subway car during someone’s commute, with a person leaning against the subway wall, wearing a gas mask that completely covered their face.

They were casually using a smartphone.

Scrolling down a bit further, I saw another picture, where the gas mask wearer held up a peace sign with their fingers as if responding to the photographer.

The poster had written a caption for what they couldn’t say aloud at the time:

[They even posed for me when I took the picture.]

[Crazy person.]

The bizarre content piqued my curiosity, and I began scrolling through the comments.

[Holy crap lol gas masks lololol]

[Is it the infamous Line 1 again?]

[Why is Line 1 always the source of the fun???????]

[Only people in Seoul get to enjoy this.]

[Why do people even buy that kind of thing?]

[That one’s not even bad, lol. I saw some lunatic dressed as a plague doctor a few days ago, lol.]

[Their fanservice is crazy, lol. What even is that guy?]

[Attention-seeking is clearly something you need to be born into these days.]

The comments ranged between people reacting as if they’d seen all sorts of craziness and others claiming they’d seen even wilder things, creating a chaotic mess of conflicting responses.

Even so, a gas mask was definitely taking things too far.

And a plague doctor crow mask? Absolutely crazy.

“Alright, everyone, put your phones away and hold out your hands.”

In the age of the great plague, the school added a small new ritual to the morning assembly.

The teacher would walk between desks carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer, squeezing a dollop into each student’s hand.

The cool, slippery substance, a jelly-like mix between solid and liquid, swirled around in the palm with an icy sensation.

To avoid spilling sanitizer on the desks, students rubbed their hands together just above the floor, letting the excess drip down.

The usual lecture followed:

Don’t let your mask slip below your nose.

Tell someone immediately if you feel feverish.

Wash your hands often.

Etcetera.

Parents were understandably concerned, and this made the teachers extra sensitive about everything.

“Achoo!”

Even a quick sneeze from a student drew the teachers’ attention.

Especially those who whined about how suffocating their masks felt—teachers would threaten to call their parents, making them pull their masks back up.

It was the ultimate weapon. Nothing worked better on kids than a warning involving their parents.

The only time students were allowed to take off their masks was during lunch.

Today’s lunch menu: steamed white rice, bulgogi with soy sauce, miso soup, napa cabbage kimchi, and cucumber salad.

After receiving the standard portion, students would often ask for extra bulgogi sauce, mixing it into the rice to finish their meal quickly.

There’s a peculiar satisfaction unique to school lunches—the strange gratification of finishing a meal made up of a precise balance of bland and tasty dishes within the constraints of limited resources.

Finishing it off with a small yogurt drink for dessert made it perfect.

The slight thirst left behind by the yogurt’s inadequate size added to its charm.

Drinking from a larger bottle of yogurt somehow didn’t taste the same.

“Why are you drinking it upside-down?”

“Because it tastes better this way!”

Some kids insisted on tearing the yogurt lid open upside-down and slurping it like that.

There was no actual difference in taste, but to them, it felt different.

Looking back at one’s own silly childhood antics, it didn’t feel right to judge these kids for doing the same.

‘Come to think of it…

Isn’t there a yogurt designed with the cap at the bottom because of this habit?

I’ve only ever heard of it, never tried it myself.’

Anyway, the meaningless, empty five hours of the school day passed, and I walked home with Siyeon, who diligently wore her mask.

As agreed, we waited until we got home to pull our smartphones out of our pockets.

For some reason, I had several missed calls and text messages.

Seeing a restricted caller ID, it was clear that it was something related to the magical girl stuff again.

This time, my eyes shifted to a message I hadn’t seen before.

It seemed like they couldn’t get in touch with me, so they left a message instead.

The content of the message read as follows:

“Due to the recent random stabbing incidents, the magical girls have been called to support the police in an emergency. It’ll only be temporary until things settle down. They’re starting from middle schoolers, so you don’t need to worry. I was going to call to let you know, but since you didn’t answer, I’m leaving the message here.”

In the end, it was news that even magical girls were being mobilized to assist the police during this emergency situation.

Fortunately, it seemed like they had taken mental age into account, so only middle school-aged magical girls and older were required to participate. For us, it didn’t apply.

“Ugh,” I sighed briefly at the unilateral policy imposed on magical girls without their consent.

Still, once you hit middle school, it sets a precedent where you could easily be pulled into these situations.

Just because it’s not my turn now doesn’t mean I can rest easy—it’s something my future self might have to deal with eventually.

The words “just until things settle down” simply created an excuse to bring this up again whenever there’s an emergency.

From around middle school, they can’t just dismiss it by saying academics take precedence. Besides, the welfare system for magical girls who retire is pretty decent.

If you do decide to retire, the system ensures that someone who used to fight monsters day and night can easily transition into a comfortable office job without needing interviews or anything.

So, unless you have a strong passion for something else, it’s a job you might as well stick with, at least until you can retire.

I opened my smartphone to check the messages and missed calls before heading to the internet. Somehow, the media had already caught wind of the news and were flooding the web with headlines.

• “Magical Girls Who Fight Monsters Now Lending a Hand to the Police.”
• “‘Wow, It’s a Real Magical Girl!’ Crowds Gather Around Magical Girls on the Streets.”
• “Citizens Flock to Predicted Crime Sites to See Magical Girls, Police: ‘Even More Dangerous.’”
• “Man Who Posted ‘Stabbing Threat’ Online Arrested: ‘Where Are the Magical Girls?’ Says Bizarrely.”
• “Outrage Over Policy: Police Struggle to Control Crowds as Critics Slam It as a Desk Job Decision.”

Even before clicking on any of the articles, a single photo caught my eye.
A huge crowd had gathered in the streets, as if for a fan signing event, all to see the magical girls.

But this wasn’t a fan signing. It was a site flagged as a potential stabbing incident, already under police watch.
Let me repeat that: it was a site where a stabbing was predicted to occur.

“Looking at this mess, it won’t last long…”

That article confirmed my thoughts.

In a time already overlapping with an epidemic, deploying magical girls—practically celebrities—as part of an operational strategy?
This policy wasn’t going to last.

“I wonder how many people will get infected over there.”
Probably dozens, I idly speculated, as I turned off my phone screen.

The world is truly a chaotic place.

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