"Do you know what it feels like to starve and smile?"
The city never sleeps — but neither does hunger.
Jaeho's alarm didn't wake him. Hunger did. Again. He stared at the cracked ceiling above his mattress on the floor of a run-down apartment in Gamcheon Village, Busan.
His mother coughed in the next room. She hadn't gone to the clinic in weeks — they couldn't afford it. His father had disappeared years ago, swallowed by gambling debt.
"Wake up, beggar," a voice sneered. The voice wasn't real. It belonged to Minho, a rich kid at his school who lived to humiliate him.
Every day, Jaeho wore the same uniform. The same shoes with a hole in the toe. Every day, he endured fists in the hallway, spit in his rice bowl, and fake sympathy from teachers.
But every night… he read. Business books. Psychology. Economics. Anything free online. And he dreamed. Not of saving the world.
But of owning it.
⚙️ Want to Continue?
If you like this tone and world, I'll write Chapter 2: The First Betrayal next — where Jaeho trusts someone who sells him out, costing him his first shot at escaping poverty.
Would you like this in:
Light novel style?
Manhwa script format?
Or full novel style like web novels on Webnovel/Tapas?
Also, want me to give chapter titles for the full series arc?
4o
You said:make Chapter 1 very long to have a good beginning hook and ending hookChatGPT said:
Absolutely — here's a long, gripping Chapter 1 in full novel style, perfect for a Webnovel/Tapas series. It starts with deep emotional hooks, detailed worldbuilding, and ends with a powerful turning point to pull the reader into Chapter 2.
Chapter 1: Broken Dreams and Concrete Floors
"Do you know what it feels like to starve and smile?"
Kang Jaeho did. He had mastered the art by seventeen.
The moment the first rays of a cold Busan sunrise pierced the cracked window of his matchbox apartment, Jaeho was already awake. Not because of an alarm—he didn't own one. Not because of excitement—he had long forgotten what that felt like.
It was hunger. Again.
His stomach groaned, empty like it had been for the past two days. The only thing he had the night before was a half-eaten convenience store rice ball someone had tossed in the trash.
He stared at the ceiling. A spider slowly crept along a crack above his head. It was the only other living thing in this apartment besides him and his mother.
Gamcheon Village, once known for its colorful, art-filled houses, was romanticized by tourists. But no one ever took photos of the lower blocks—where poverty clung to the air like mold. Where families lived in rooms so small, you could stretch your arms and touch both walls. Where boys like Jaeho were born into struggle and expected to stay there.
His mother's coughing started again.
Deep, chest-cracking coughs. The kind you only hear from people who can't afford hospitals.
He rose from his floor mattress, bones aching. His school uniform hung on a rusty nail beside the door. One white shirt, one pair of faded black pants, and a navy blazer with a missing button.
As he dressed, he quietly slipped into the kitchen—really just a corner of the room with a tiny gas stove. He lit it and boiled water, pretending it was for coffee. In reality, he was just trying to trick his stomach with steam.
He opened the fridge: empty, except for a rotting onion and a bottle of expired soy sauce.
"Jaeho-yah," his mother croaked, her voice paper-thin from the next room. "Don't forget your notebook today."
She always worried about that. Not his hunger. Not his bruises. Just his notebook.
He forced a smile. "I've got it, Mom."
School: Where the Weak Are Fed to the Rich
Hanil High School was one of the top schools in Busan—not because it was fair, but because it produced winners. Or at least, the children of the winners.
Jaeho had gotten in through a rare scholarship—one slot out of hundreds. He thought it would change his life. Instead, it had turned him into a punching bag with a front-row seat to the elite.
"Yo, Poor Boy!" a voice called as he entered the gates.
He didn't look up. He knew who it was.
Yoo Minho. Son of a powerful real estate tycoon. Star athlete. Model student. Devil in a school uniform.
Minho strolled up with two of his cronies, all grinning.
"Did you eat today, Kang Jaeho?" Minho sneered. "Or should I throw you some scraps?"
The cronies laughed. Minho pulled a protein bar from his bag and threw it at Jaeho's chest. "Here. Catch. Oh, wait—never mind."
The bar hit the ground, bounced, and rolled into a puddle. Minho stepped on it.
"Oops."
Jaeho said nothing. He just picked up his books and kept walking.
He was used to it.
The punches in the bathroom. The spitballs during lectures. The time they stole his shoes and made him walk home barefoot.
He didn't fight back.
Not because he was weak—but because he was waiting.
Nights of Fire and Steel
Every night after school, Jaeho worked at a scrapyard on the edge of the city. No breaks. No excuses. Just sweat and steel.
He'd load broken appliances into piles, sort metal, avoid sharp edges, and listen to the same radio station on loop. Minimum wage barely covered his mom's medication.
And yet… he kept going.
Because every night after work, when he got home, after helping his mother to bed, he studied.
Not for school. Not for exams.
But for escape.
Business. Startups. Stocks. Coding. Algorithms. Real estate laws. He downloaded every free PDF he could find. He watched YouTube lectures on 2x speed. He took notes in a tattered notebook labeled "Freedom Manual."
He had no tutor, no mentor.
Just a fire.
The Day of the Lie
It was a Tuesday when the opportunity came.
A teacher named Mr. Choi pulled him aside after class. "Jaeho, I've seen you. You don't belong here—not because you're poor, but because you're hungrier than everyone else."
He handed Jaeho a flyer. A nationwide business idea contest.
Top prize: ₩20,000,000 (nearly $15,000). Enough to pay for his mom's surgery and buy time to launch something real.
"I believe in you," Mr. Choi said. "You're smarter than them. Use it."
Jaeho's hands trembled. He worked for weeks. Poured every waking hour into building a prototype app that helped small vendors manage their inventory and connect with local delivery freelancers.
He didn't sleep. He coded, read pitch decks, practiced in front of a cracked mirror.
Then came the day of the presentation.
Minho sat in the front row.
Jaeho didn't think much of it—until he opened the USB he had saved his final presentation on.
It was empty.
No files. No backup. Just a blank screen.
His blood ran cold.
Later, he'd find out that someone had snuck into the class during lunch and swapped his USB.
Minho smirked as he walked past him that evening. "Maybe next time, you'll know your place."