Act V: Makudonarudo
Lucy succeeded in the internship. She got a job offer after graduation.
In her accounting career, Lucy had grown older and perhaps wiser, though she hardly noticed when it began. University had blurred into memory, like a dream that revisited her at night but left her waking hours empty.
She worked now as an auditing consultant, promoted quietly.
Her diary from those years was thin. At school she had recorded every little episode—Joseph’s laughter, Bella’s earrings, Catherine’s guiding hand. But of her work there was almost nothing. It was as though her mind refused to make room for ledgers and client accounts. She lived those days diligently, yet when she dreamed, she was always a student still.
Park
One night, she and Park worked late on a financial report for a client. Stacks of papers, the glow of monitors, the city already asleep outside.
Lucy insisted on adding commentary to the report.
“This is how we’d lose marks in class if we left it out.”
Park frowned, sharp.
“You’re still thinking like a student. This isn’t homework—this is business.”
“I don’t feel right leaving it.”
Park sighed, voice both weary and mocking.
“Lucy, Lucy, our dear Lucy. This isn’t school. We’re on a chessboard now, and you have to play by the rules of the game.”
“What chessboard? You sound insane!”
Park threw up his hands. “Fine. Do what you want. I’m done.” He slammed the file shut and stormed out.
Lucy stayed. She knelt to gather the scattered pages, smoothing each one with trembling hands. She checked every figure, every line, rebuilt the report until dawn. At eight a.m., exhausted but certain, she sent it to the client herself.
Veronica
Later that morning, Lucy caught a glimpse through the glass wall: Veronica, their boss, face flushed as she shouted into the phone. Then—bang—the receiver slammed down.
“Park! Lucy! Get in here!”
They shuffled into the office like guilty schoolchildren.
“Who did the report?” Veronica barked.
“Lucy,” Park said at once. “I didn’t touch it.”
“You didn’t check it either, did you?!” Veronica snapped back.
“She never listens to me.”
Veronica turned, eyes blazing. “Lucy, do you even know what you were doing? What kind of third-rate school taught you this?”
Lucy’s voice shook. “Wasn’t… wasn’t it supposed to be this way?”
The desk shook under Veronica’s palm as she slammed it. Lucy flinched. Only then did doubt stab her—perhaps Park was right, perhaps the perfect report she slaved over was flawed from the start.
“Get out,” Veronica hissed. “Both of you. I need to calm down.”
Making Peace
That evening, Veronica invited them to dinner. Her face was serene now, almost kind, as if the storm in her office had never happened.
Over red wine she smiled at them both.
“You are talented, both of you. But talent without teamwork is useless. You must learn to work together.”
Lucy whispered, “I’m sorry, boss. It was my fault.”
Park added his own apology, casual, self-assured: “It won’t happen again.”
Veronica nodded. “Everyone makes mistakes. But if you cling to them, if you refuse to change, then you cannot stay. Do you understand?”
Her voice was soft, but each word pierced Lucy’s chest. Tears pricked her eyes. She had thought her report flawless. Now it seemed nothing but a failure.
Park was quick to answer. “Yes, boss. I understand.”
Veronica’s lips curved into satisfaction. Then she turned to Lucy.
“And you, Lucy?”
Lucy forced her voice steady. “Yes, madam.”
The three dined as though nothing had happened. Yet Lucy’s heart was a storm of shame and confusion. She longed for the certainty of school days, when a mistake came marked in red, visible, fixable. Here, she could not even tell what she had done wrong.
Makudonarudo
That night, alone in her rented room, Lucy pulled out the report she had sent the client. She traced each line, each number, as though red ink might appear on its own. None did. Her hand shook.
She wanted to call Park, to demand answers, but couldn’t bring herself to dial. She gripped the papers until her knuckles whitened, her whole body trembling.
To distract herself, she opened YouTube. A playlist shuffled, and then—unexpectedly—a song filled her room.
“Makudonarudo…”
She froze. It was Namewee’s parody she had once laughed at in passing. But now the words struck like cues.
Makudonarudo! —> She mimed a greedy bite into an invisible burger.
Guguru Toiletto! —> She stumbled about, searching desperately for a bathroom that didn’t exist.
Kitto! Katto! —> She unwrapped an invisible chocolate bar, blushing as if offered by an unseen hand.
Dizunirando! —> She spun in circles, arms flung wide, as though she were riding a carousel in a kingdom of light.
Kōhī Kēki! Aisukurīmu Konbini! —> She became a shop girl, pitching sweets with exaggerated bows and bright-eyed urgency.
And with every gesture, her room began to distort. The wallpaper unfurled into heavy curtains, the desk melted into footlights. The carpet warped beneath her feet until it became dark, gleaming stagewood.
Shadows gathered in the corners, thickening, swelling, until they formed an audience. At first faceless, then—slowly—faces emerged.
Her father, sitting stiffly in the front row, expression weary, disappointment etched deep.
Her mother beside him, eyes wet with unshed tears, lips pressed thin as if whispering a warning.
Joseph, arms crossed, his booming laugh absent, watching her with an unreadable calm.
Bella, silver earrings glinting, gaze sharp and burning, both invitation and accusation.
And Evelin, poised and perfect, clipboard in hand, assessing her like a candidate who had already failed.
Lucy’s chest tightened. They said nothing, but their eyes pinned her in place. She spun, danced, mimed, desperate to please them all—and yet their faces remained still, carved in shadow.
At the final shout: “Ba-ka-ya-ro-u!” —> Lucy screamed it too, the word tearing from her throat. “Baka yarō! Stupid Lucy! Fool!”
Her voice ricocheted across the phantom auditorium. The audience leaned forward as one, their stares converging on her like knives. She collapsed onto the stage—laughing, sobbing, trembling—as invisible applause cracked like thunder.
For an instant she was radiant, lit cruelly by the spotlight. But she could feel their eyes devouring her, weighing her, condemning her.
The relapse had come. Improv had claimed her again—not as freedom, but as judgment.