Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 94.3: Influencer (3)

AI image generation tools, when used well, could create women so stunningly beautiful that they were nearly indistinguishable from real photographs.

But this wasn’t really my skill—it was the result of desire.

AI image generators excel at creating attractive men and women, but they struggle with making average-looking or unattractive people.

That’s because the power of AI tools comes from big data—countless pieces of information it learns from. And people generally want to create beautiful individuals, not average or ugly ones.

So even if you simply generate a random man or woman, the AI tool will default to producing someone who fits conventional beauty standards.

The problem is that these default beauties always carry a distinct AI “scent.”

AI isn’t omnipotent—it still has areas where it falters.

Sometimes, it draws six fingers on a hand. Other times, it has people scooping up noodles with their hands instead of chopsticks.

My plan was to use this AI image generator to craft the ideal woman who would share a romance with Park Gyu.

To do this, I steeled myself and began releasing AI-generated images I had personally created, presenting them to my audience one by one to gauge their preferences.

SKELTON: (SKELTON Survey) I made some pretty AI girls.

SKELTON: (SKELTON Poll) 12 types of AI women.

SKELTON: (SKELTON AI) What do you think of the beauties I drew?

SKELTON: (SKELTON Art) Give me some feedback.

SKELTON: (SKELTON Choice) Who’s the best among these?

...

...

At first, I remember getting a few friendly comments.

But as my data collection continued, the replies grew increasingly harsh.

ㅇㅇ: Is this your fucking summer break art diary?

ㅇㅇ: Old dude found a new toy and got way too excited.

dongtanmom: Nom nom... This is why I said we shouldn’t allow AI tools... Give something like this to a low-intelligence, low-education, low-income autistic idiot, and they’ll spam it all over the place. Nom nom...

Anonymous458: Hey, Skelton, knock it off! This is spamming!

unicorn18: Ugh.

mmmmmmmmm: We need to DM FoxGame and tell them to ban this AI crap... Ugh.

...

...

“...”

Bark all you want.

I wouldn’t be swayed.

At the core, it was all about beautiful women.

As long as I could create the perfect female character, nothing else mattered.

Sure, spamming the board wasn’t very neimde-like of me, but once I gathered enough data, it would all be worth it.

The plan was simple—figure out the most preferred face type among the forum users, tag it, and use it to perfect my romance story.

Now, I just needed to sprinkle some seasoning onto my flawless adventure tale.

And I was going to take a bold step.

A “bed scene.”

Like Pygmalion in Greek mythology, I was pouring my soul into carving out my ideal woman.

That was when my strongest competitor, Dolshingman, uploaded his next story.

Checking a rival’s post while working on your own wasn’t exactly wise, but for some reason, my curiosity got the better of me, and I momentarily stopped tweaking my AI-generated images to click on Dolshingman’s new upload.

*

In the previous installment, Dolshingman had wrapped up his post by reminiscing about his childhood.

Now, he was looking back once more.

"It was a strange kind of relationship. Every time we saw each other, we’d argue and fight, but when she wasn’t around, I felt her absence. I’d feel a little disappointed on Saturdays after school, and she’d be on my mind all Sunday. But when Monday came, everything went back to normal, and we’d start bickering all over again... Now that I’m older, I understand what that feeling was."

"I liked her. And my desk partner must have felt something similar. She always acted prickly, but not once did she ever ask to switch seats or truly show that she hated me. I only realized it when I saw her reaction to another boy teasing her. That was when I knew she was capable of making that kind of expression too."

Time flowed on, separating everything and blurring the past.

The rosy-cheeked boy had grown into a divorced middle-aged man.

He explained to us why he was bringing up his past.

"Turns out, shared experiences matter more than you’d think."

The story then returned to the bunker.

Dolshingman had noticed a woman around his age living in the same underground shelter.

He was deeply intrigued by her.

She was the only other resident of similar age, and he shared his curiosity with the bunker’s caretaker.

"I think there’s a woman around my age living here too."

Discussing other residents was forbidden.

But it had already been over two years since the bunker opened.

In any normal communal bunker, that was more than enough time for the caretaker to betray its inhabitants multiple times.

Initial strict policies could always change.

The caretaker Dolshingman spoke to was a woman who always wore a gas mask. Yet even with her face concealed, she exuded a strong, unshakable presence—like a body forged from stone.

She had once discovered an intruder—whether scavenger or raider, the story didn’t specify—and promptly killed and buried him in a pit. She had also eliminated mutations lurking near the bunker.

When Dolshingman spoke to her, he could smell human # Nоvеlight # feces.

He had a vague idea why.

"The caretaker’s elderly mother had dementia from the start. By now, two years after the war, her condition must have worsened."

Dolshingman decided to ask the caretaker directly.

The gas-masked woman turned to him and stared straight into his eyes.

She asked, "Weren’t you the one who agreed to the ‘no interest in fellow residents’ policy when you moved in?"

Her sharp question made Dolshingman force a sheepish smile.

"Ah, well... Living alone gets lonely, you know. And she seems around my age... Oh, uh, is she married? Did she come in with a husband?"

Dolshingman handed the caretaker a bribe.

A 1kg gold bar.

Some said precious metals had become worthless after the war.

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

But humans had always been instinctively drawn to gold and jewels since the dawn of civilization.

And there were still places where these things held great value.

The caretaker stared at the gold bar in silence, then accepted it.

"She lives alone. She’s single. I can’t tell you anything else."

The moment Dolshingman heard that, he felt an urge to leap sideways and clap his feet together midair, like the protagonist of his favorite musical, Singin’ in the Rain.

From that point on, he fixated on the cafeteria.

He stayed there until the very last moment before curfew, making sure to frequent it at the same time as the mystery woman.

His goal was simple.

To make his presence known.

To silently say: "There’s a lonely man of your age here too."

But getting that message across wasn’t easy.

On an internet forum, all you had to do was type a post and hit "submit."

But in real-life human interaction, things were much more complicated.

Unlike the internet, reality was full of limitations and obstacles, and bunkers had even more restrictions than most places.

Three months into his efforts, Dolshingman noticed something.

The woman hurriedly left the cafeteria, but on the table, she left behind a book.

The title?

The Red and the Black by Stendhal.

Instinctively, Dolshingman picked it up, despite bunker rules against touching others’ belongings.

Back in his room, he flipped through the pages.

Before the war, time had been a scarce resource.

Now, in the apocalypse, time was something you had to kill.

The unfamiliar descriptions, the old-fashioned society, the strange names and concepts—it was all overwhelming.

But Dolshingman forced himself to read to the end.

"Honestly, it wasn’t fun. It felt like swallowing bitter medicine. But I pushed through it. Because if I ever got the chance to talk to her, I’d need to at least know the story, right?"

In that communal bunker, going outside was strictly regulated by a timetable.

Under the watchful eyes of a gun-wielding gas-masked woman and man, Dolshingman took his permitted walk through the unadorned garden, breathing in the fresh air and relishing the rare sense of openness.

Then, he spotted a flower.

To a man whose only hobby and interest had been making money, a flower was nothing more than a disposable commodity, something thrown into a cheap bouquet—a gift with an expiration date.

Yet, Dolshingman carefully plucked the flower with both hands, cradling it as he made his way back to the bunker.

The next morning, he took the book he had borrowed the day before and placed it back on the cafeteria table.

Beside it, he laid down the still-fresh flower he had picked.

A day passed.

Dolsingman experienced a surge of emotions he hadn’t felt in years.

An overwhelming mix of anxiety, anticipation, excitement, and nervousness swirled within him as he headed to the cafeteria.

"I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so purely or innocently since graduating high school."

The book was gone.

Along with the flower.

And in its place, another book had been left where the first one had been.

Thus, in a place where solitude-seekers prepared for the end of their days, a strange form of exchange had begun.

There were no meetings, no conversations, not even a single encounter.

Only a series of books appearing and disappearing on the rough metal table, sometimes accompanied by flowers, in an unspoken rhythm.

Dolsingman, who had lost the impulsive impatience of his twenties long ago, didn’t rush.

Perhaps having already tasted the bitterness of failure once had made him more cautious.

But as the seasons changed, a serious problem arose.

As the weather grew colder, the flowers vanished.

The mysterious woman’s books continued to appear, but flowers were at the mercy of nature’s whims.

With the bitter chill that had taken countless lives approaching, the flowers withered and fell to the ground.

Dolsingman requested a meeting with the caretaker.

"I sincerely apologize, but I have a request."

What he asked for was a meeting with the woman he had been exchanging books and flowers with.

He felt that the time had come for them to finally talk face-to-face.

But the caretaker’s response was cold.

Her gas mask obscured her expression, but Dolsingman was certain she was looking at him with a hard glare.

"The rules were set by the clients. This regulation cannot be broken under any circumstances. What if someone else, who you don’t want to meet, requested to see you through me? Wouldn’t you protest by pointing to the contract?"

Dolsingman didn’t argue further.

The caretaker held all the logical and contractual authority.

Feeling disappointed, he returned to his private bunker.

Instead of brooding, he stood in front of a mirror and looked at his own reflection.

He had aged—a lot.

Even he could tell.

His hair had thinned, his skin had darkened, and his face bore the weight of time.

There was a time when young women used to tell him he looked younger than his age—when they would react in shock upon learning how old he actually was.

But not anymore.

Time and the loneliness of the apocalypse had wound the clock on his face to match his true age.

But Dolsingman smiled.

"I don’t need to force myself to look young anymore."

She was someone of his generation.

Perhaps they had once sat in the same classroom, staring at the same chalkboard, studying the same textbooks.

Above all, they were here, together, exchanging books and flowers.

And so, Dolsingman stood outside her bunker door.

It was a sturdy steel door, just like his own.

He hesitated.

Would he knock?

Or would he turn back to his own bunker?

In the stillness—where one second stretched into eternity—Dolsingman heard something.

Laughter.

A man’s laughter.

For a brief moment, he clung to the hope that maybe it only sounded like a man’s voice.

But then, a soft, unmistakably female laugh followed.

And in that instant, Dolsingman felt nothing.

His emotions had dulled, like a numb pinky finger that no longer registered sensation.

He no longer reacted to external stimuli.

"...Books still appeared on the table from time to time after that. But I never picked them up again. It wasn’t because I was disappointed. It was something else. I just didn’t care anymore."

"The novels were from a different era, written by different people with different sensibilities. It was inevitable that I wouldn’t enjoy them. Before, I forced myself to read them. But like I said earlier, it was a chore. A complete slog."

With a clean break, Dolsingman returned to his solitary, undisturbed life, slowly rusting away in peace.

As the brutal winter faded, books no longer appeared on the cafeteria table.

And with the arrival of spring, Dolsingman found a new love.

By pure chance, he caught a glimpse of the caretaker’s face.

Without the gas mask.

Her face wasn’t breathtakingly beautiful, but she was young, healthy, and had an undeniable charm.

Most importantly, she wasn’t bound by the restrictions of the VIP bunker.

And so, Dolsingman was now relentlessly pursuing her.

"Wish me luck, everyone! To make this happen, I even spent my free time creating something special!"

At the end of his post, he uploaded a photo of himself grinning broadly.

His hair had grayed, his skin had darkened, and bald patches were forming.

He looked sickly.

And yet, he was beaming.

The moment I saw his face, I sent a message to Defender.

Defender knew a medic.

It didn’t take long for Defender to respond.

Message from Defender: Skelton. Your hunch was right.

Message from Defender: I can’t be sure without precise measurements, but based on his appearance alone, the doctor believes it’s highly likely he’s suffering from arsenic poisoning.

It was a painfully familiar scenario.

Caretakers—once faithful and dutiful—gradually changed over time.

And the people who relied on them eventually became prey.

Choosing arsenic was probably one of the more gentle methods.

But I didn’t want to see another friend from the board die.

Even if he was my competitor—even if he was someone I had clashed with over influencer status—I wasn’t going to let him die.

So I sent a message to my rival—who, if I were being honest, wasn’t all that formidable.

Message from Dolsingman: What? You’re saying you want to help me?