Chapter 46…..
Fly Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Bee!
This is fun.
Honestly, the way not to stand out is simple: just follow what everyone else is doing. If you’re in a market, copy the market people’s behavior. That way you naturally blend into the background.
That’s why I went digging through the old-clothes donation bins.
The outfits the staff brought looked fine at first glance, but there was a crucial difference: they weren’t what people in this neighborhood actually wore.
Gangnam has its own style, Gangbuk has its own style. Areas full of goshiwons have their own common look. Unless you’re going on a date, every neighborhood has a distinct vibe.
Maybe most people wouldn’t notice, but I could.
What’s a beggar’s job, really? People-watching.
Just watching people pass by, imagining their stories like they’re characters in a drama. When couples bicker—“ah, jackpot!”—it’s like watching a soap opera. And when couples get lovey-dovey, well, that’s entertaining in its own way too. I’d mutter old-man lines like, “ah, such good days…”
So as I wandered here, I absorbed the neighborhood’s feel first.
Of course, there were lots of foreigners and tourists, but I figured they’d attract more attention than locals. So I used the staff’s clothes to dress up decoys—people who looked just a little too polished, the kind that make others wonder, “Wait, are they a celebrity?”
Meanwhile, I grabbed properly worn-in, secondhand clothes that matched the local type.
Not all old clothes stink. Some are tossed just because they don’t fit anymore, or the style is outdated. So the condition isn’t bad. Sure, there are torn pieces, but in Korea most ripped clothes tossed out are just jeans with shredded crotches.
Shoes, though, I picked carefully. Foot odor never washes out. That part I used from what the staff brought.
After that, I matched the skin texture of local workers. Normally, if you don’t wash for a while, your skin naturally looks a certain way, but since we’d just bathed, I had to recreate it with tricks. A little cooking oil rubbed in for shine, plus discarded powders and cosmetics for color tone.
Think no one throws away makeup? Big mistake. People toss it all the time—expired, impulse buys they regret, or cracked compacts. They’re everywhere.
So naturally, I became a master of disguise.
“Woooah…”
The members of Run, Friends stared at me, dumbfounded. Even Yoo Wooseok and Noh Jio, who’d taken pictures with me before, were speechless.
“Wait… are you National Intelligence Service?” asked singer Dio.
“Come on, does being good at this make me NIS?”
“But in spy movies, you see stuff like this.”
“So… you’re saying I have talent?” I asked with sparkling eyes.
Everyone burst out laughing. Were they making fun of me? I was serious. Didn’t they realize how good it felt to find out you could do something?
“By the way, Juhwan, how did you not notice after filming with me so long?”
“I told you! It looked totally natural.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect it to be this convincing.”
The PD, still dazed, glanced sideways.
“You filmed it well, right?”
The GoPro cameraman and writer Yoon Heewon nodded firmly. They’d already double-checked. They knew instinctively—if this footage was lost, none of them would survive leaving this set.
“Wow… this is gold,” the PD muttered.
The staff nodded in agreement. Seeing it live was astonishing—how much more must the PD be shocked? This shoot was a jackpot.
“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!”
The highlight of Run, Friends: pulling off wings from people’s backs.
I was running full speed.
“Catch him!”
“He went that way!”
My heart pounded. Was I running alone? Of course not—this was a team game. Three teams, last one standing wins. But now, I was the only one left on my team.
Where were the others? In jail. They’d all gotten wrecked by a transcendent player during a team fight. Somehow, I dodged—felt something was off, like when cops show up for a street sweep.
I thought about letting myself get caught. But the final prize was gold. Real gold. With prices these days, that was huge. So I was running like my life depended on it.
“Why’s he so fast!?”
Why? Because I was running with the same desperation I used to escape cops. If I got caught, I felt like I’d die.
But survival wasn’t enough—I had to pluck wings. So I’d hide, let the two remaining teams fight each other, then swoop in.
“Wow, hyung runs so well!”
O Juhwan was pouring his soul into this variety show. It was terrestrial broadcast—old-school, legendary, and even exported to Southeast Asia. A golden chance to gain overseas fans. For an actor, foreign name recognition was invaluable.
“Let’s check your mic.”
“Sure.”
“Bend a bit, please.”
He bent as the staff reached for his waist—
Riiip!
“Pfft!” He spat out his drink.
It wasn’t staff—it was me, grinning under a cap.
“Caught you. Rest now.”
“Ughhh!”
I’d distracted him with water, fiddled with his mic… and snatched his wing. Smooth.
O Juhwan, eliminated!
He was dragged away, wailing.
The chaos continued—alliances, betrayals, Dio ambushed, Wooseok resisted, Mayu screamed. And then—
One of the “staff” escorting them suddenly ripped Dio’s wing. It was me again.
“Undercover beggar!” Wooseok shouted.
Even with just glasses, a vest, and headset—no mask, no cap—I’d blended in perfectly, vanishing into the background. Only when I struck did my presence sharpen.
“Holy crap. Did you see his face change?” muttered the camera director. “Thought he was crew…”
Now only two were left: me and Jongwook, the transcendent powerhouse. Bodybuilder, MMA hobbyist, muscles and speed both top-tier.
I dropped my vest, rolled my shoulders, stretched my arms like warming up. Reached out a hand, measuring distance. He tried to grab it—I slipped back.
The tension crackled.
He lunged again, seizing my waistband—
Gasps rang out.
But instead of panicking, I raised my arms high—
Fwip!
In an instant, my shirt came off in his grip. And in my hand—his ripped-off wing.
“Uaaahhh! Gold is mine!” I roared, bare-chested.
The “Golden Cicada Shedding” technique.
When someone grabs your clothes, throw your arms up and wriggle out. Normally, it’s for escape. But I reversed it—while shedding, I snatched his wing.
There’s no rule against stripping, is there?
Clothes flipped over make wings harder to protect. And the key is letting your waistband be grabbed to set it up. Give skin, give clothes—then take wings.
Today, I flew like a butterfly and stung like a bee.
That’s how I won the gold.
