Prodding fingers of light gouge deep into the darkness, illuminating gloomy avenues between the comatose arcade cabinets. The soft pitter-patter of worn sneakers, smooth, carbon rubber soles, go unnoticed, unheard by the shrewd security guard as he meanders the byways of blank screens, big buttons and joysticks. Unwittingly, as he searches for someone that he doesn’t imagine is there, routinely doing his rounds, he plays the part of the ghost in what is very much like a real-life game of Pac-Man.

Man-Young, whose name means ten-thousand prosperous years, is a young man, nowhere near ten centuries old, but at nineteen, thus far, he deems his life to have been a prosperous one. Presently, he evades the searching beams that race out towards him from a stern, imposing MagLite. He avoids detection, the penetrating gaze of an astute security guard whose experience is well-honed, whose acute skill is worthy of praise, deserving of respect, whose keen ability to smoke out evasive prowlers is only marginally dulled in this instant because he is at the very end of his shift, tired and eager to crawl into bed with his wife who has slept soundly at home while he has wandered unlit corridors.

There is another factor at play. Another reason an intruder has gone unnoticed. There is the security guard, yes. His many talents, his notable skill, a shining example with his shining MagLite. But do not forget, there is the trespasser himself. There is Pac-Man in this arcade game of cat and mouse. There is Man-Young, a young man, his own skill at concealment equally great, worthy of veneration.

With one last sweep of light, one final wave of his Mag-Lite, the security guard stands tall and addresses the darkness itself. ‘I see you,’ he says to no one. He says this every night. He says it just in case there is someone, unseen, who is there to hear his words. It is the guard’s estimation that if someone were hiding, these words would draw them out, would prompt them to make a run for it, giving away their concealment.

Man-Young, crouched low, hugs his denim-clad knees against his chest. He holds his breath when he hears that he has been seen. His heart is beating, a proud drum in a brash parade. To him, it seems deafening. It seems like an alarm that gives his presence away. Even so, he knows that his accelerated pulse, each rapid thud to its allegro tempo, is well contained within himself, muted by the liquid that makes up his body, insulated by muscle, caged in bone, blanketed by a tarp of taut epidermis, muffled, anyhow, by the nocturnal noises of bustling Itaewon. Man-Young calls the security guard’s bluff. He remains motionless, completely silent, huddled against the protective bulk of a clunky cabinet, a Street Fighter II.

The Mag-Lite clicks into submissive darkness. The security guard turns his back to the rows of arcade machines and reaches upward to pull down the metal shutters, the security curtains. His job complete, the arcade believed to be secure, the guard turns the key and locks the metal partition. At long last, his shift has ended.

Inside, darkness gives way, bit by bit, submitting to light as machines are powered up, turned on and brought back to life. Screens, one by one, illuminate the night. Sound and song, digital reveries, fill the quiet with heralding blares of fun and challenges to be had. Man-Young smiles. He allows himself, unabashed in his happy place, to feel the absurd arousal that accompanies the moment his fingers gently caress the big, bold, red buttons, the phallic joy-stick, the blatant, yellow bulge of Ms. Pac-Man’s spherical body painted on the overhead, plastic marquee. Sensing hours of impending delight, a young man quivers.

In the bathroom, Man-Young removes the lid of the toilet tank, pulls up his sleeve to retrieve the tied plastic bag full of coins submerged within, anchored at the base. The coins are the plunder he has obtained from picking the locks of the vending machines earlier that morning. Between the many silver, gold, and copper colored discs, the contents of his plastic sack, and the bank notes which lie neatly folded in his pockets, Man-Young holds approximately 70,000 South Korean won.

As he replaces the heavy, ceramic lid back on the toilet, he marvels at how much money people spend on Chilsung Cider and Choco Pie, how they willingly propel themselves towards diabetic cliff edges and chasms of obesity. It is not his concern, however, and in fact, he grins, jiggling his hefty sack of booty, knowing those people’s bad habits fuel his own enterprises, fill his own pockets. With his coins and bank notes, Man-Young exits the bathroom to enter a room awash in the glow of dozens of active arcade cabinets. For the next ten-thousand seconds, perhaps more, his time will be spent prosperously.

Man-Young feeds coins to fall into the hollow belly of a greedy arcade cabinet as music and lights come alive to express 16-bit gratitude. His hands hover over chunky buttons. His face is illuminated in bright colors, animated in shifting, flickering hues. His wide eyes stare, mirroring the pixelated landscapes that they eagerly take in. With high hopes, a young man enters an international martial arts tournament. An arcade prowler turns over a new leaf. He has dedicated his future to the mastery of Shotokan Karate, to harness his inner chi.

More coins will divert his attention, alter his ambitions. Now, his preferred method of combat is through sumo wresting. He dons the loincloth and puts on weight. Man-Young considers how Chilsung Cider and Choco Pie could help him achieve this faster.

Bested in the ring by a fire-breathing yoga master from India, Man-Young forks over more coins to bribe his way into the United States Air Force special forces. As an operative, he spends hours a day perfecting his body in the gym, his hair in front of a mirror, and nearly saves the world while looking good. Ultimately, an American hero is slain, bested in combat by a mutant, beast-like man who has been raised deep within the jungles of Brazil. On the fringes of a thick swathe of Amazonian rainforest, in a slash-and burn, clear-cut field, a grotesque creature, an amalgamation of man and beast, feasts on the dead flesh of an upstanding American man.

The coins are endless. They have been furnished in droves by the bad habits and hunger of Seoul’s citizens. There is little sense of loss when Man-Young slots more minted shrapnel into the slit of the service door. There is virtually no sense of forfeiture when the young man makes major changes, becomes a woman, rededicating herself back to the ways of ancient martial arts, achieving high rank as an Interpol officer. In this form, under this tutelage, she finally saves the world. At long last, she has defeated the big, bad boss.

Man-Young no longer identifies as a woman. He is Man-Young, the young man. Presently, he squats to labor away, to pick the lock of the service door to an arcade cabinet that has been recently well fed. The hulking gaming machines are trickier than the vending machines, but they often yield more loot. In this case, Man-Young merely wishes to obtain what he has willingly lost, knowing that he will likely gain it all back with a little bit of luck. In the end, picking the lock proves more difficult than saving the world. Man-Young decides to forgo the criminal venture, leave the coins to the greedy machine that for all the fun it has offered him on this late night deserves a little something.

At the vending machine, a young man deposits a few coins and presses a combination of buttons. More coins, more buttons. Now he boasts the contents of an unwholesome supper, a scrumptious snack. Man-Young chews his Choco Pie. He washes it down with Chilsung Cider. He smiles with teeth that glisten, enamel well-coated in corn syrup and citric acid.

The prowler smiles because he knows he has just fed coins to a machine that now feeds him, a machine that had given out the coins in the first place, or, more precisely, a machine that had been taken from, coins stolen. The great glass box of snacks, oblivious, has paid for the meal, has treated a young man to dinner. But the joke is on Man-Young as he bites and slurps his way towards bad health.

While his body works to digest the inadequate meal, the anti-nourishment of his snack, as his blood sugar spikes and his heart races unnaturally fast -- but not so fast as when he thought he was spotted by the security guard -- Man-Young operates a crane at a construction site. He pumps coin after coin into a cubic glass mass filled with stuffed animals and plush super heroes. He deftly rotates his wrist, works the joystick, hones in on a Disney princess or a Star Wars warrior savant, perhaps a pink, fluffy teddy bear, and punches the button with his thumb. Nothing. Attempt after attempt. Nothing but the budding callus on his thumb pad.

Then, just as the sugar high reaches its zenith, when the bag of coins has become notably lightened by hours of fun and failed attempts, the claw descends like the predatory talons of some mythic dragon as it closes inward, as it takes hold of a noteworthy prize, an adorable, fat, pretty pink pig -- a sign of good fortune in Korea. As Man-Young holds his lungs at bay, dares not to breathe, the fickle claw trembles under the weight of its cute burden. It sways in its slow approach to the dispensing shoot where whatever bounty lands will slide downward into the hands of its new, lucky owner.

And then a moment that is more epic than when he saved the world an hour or two earlier, a moment that exceeds all other exhalations, exceeds everything that ever was and perhaps will ever be. Man-Young positions the claw and the adorable, rose-hued boar over the downward bullseye of great fortune and has nothing left to do but release the dubious, arthritic grip.

From behind, a security partition clicks as it unlocks from its withheld state. An iron curtain that differentiates digital daydreams from the real, bustling urbanity of Seoul lifts upward, a squeaky wheel cutting into the drone of mingled, collective jingles. The daytime security guard has no MagLite. He does not require battery-powered luminosity. The a.m. sun, indirect, reflects its cascading rays off of the glass panelling of tall, surmounting buildings that reach for the clouds. Man-Young is blinded in this dire moment. He no longer sees his prize, his pink pig, as it suspends, claw-bound, waiting for its freedom, a click of a button.

‘Who goes there!’

A young man scrambles. He drops his plastic sack of coins. His bank notes remain in his pocket. For that, if nothing else, he is grateful on this late evening that has turned into early morning. ‘Come back, vagrant!’

But the vagrant is gone. The soft pitter-patter of worn sneakers, smooth, carbon rubber soles upon the pavement go unnoticed amongst the din of activated arcade cabinets. The morning security guard shouts out at the faceless backside of a prowler who flees the scene, escapes on legs much younger than his own. He gives up the chase before it has begun. He enters the arcade. He scratches his head in all the confusion of lights and noise. Usually, it is quiet. It is dead. It is the last thing he sees, desolate, before his first coffee of the day. But today, it is filled with joy. It is filled with promise.

He finds a sack of coins. He finds he is ahead of schedule, that he has some time to kill. He feeds the machine some coins but realizes the device is in mid-game. He gasps. He trembles. He reaches for the joystick and hardly even touches it. He reaches into the slot where his prize awaits him. Through blurred vision, through tears of joy, he looks down at the soft entity which he clutches dearly to his chest. Amidst the reflected light of a clement morning in the bustling Itaewon, Seoul, he gazes upon a beautiful, velveteen piglet. He gazes upon good fortune.