Foreign Workers Support Center
Phone: 1644-0644
Hours: Weekdays, 9:00 a.m. – 6:00 p.m.
Nine to six.
If he called during lunch tomorrow, someone would answer.
But Pavez couldn’t fall asleep.
He picked up his phone.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
What would he say?
What if the professor found out?
What about his visa?
The questions kept circling.
At 3 a.m., he sat up and opened his notebook.
Questions for tomorrow:
-
Is withholding salary illegal?
-
If I report it, will my professor know?
-
What happens to my visa?
His hand was already shaking as he held the pen.
Pavez arrived at the lab earlier than usual.
Mina was already there.
Their eyes met.
Mina gave a small nod.
“Today, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Time moved unusually slowly.
Pavez kept his eyes on the bottom-right corner of the monitor.
10:00.
11:00.
11:30.
Mina couldn’t focus either.
She deleted and rewrote the same sentence again and again.
11:50 a.m.
Mina stood up.
Pavez followed.
“Lunch?” someone asked.
“Go ahead,” Mina said. “I have plans today.”
Far enough from the lab.
A small park with a single bench.
Pavez took out his phone.
Mina sat beside him.
“Are you okay?”
Pavez nodded.
It was a lie.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He dialed the number.
1-6-4-4-0-6-4-4
The digits filled the screen.
His finger hovered over the call button.
“Pavez,” Mina said quietly.
“We’re together.”
He took a deep breath and pressed it.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Foreign Workers Support Center.”
Pavez swallowed.
“English… English, please.”
“One moment.”
Hold music.
In that brief pause, his entire life in Korea flashed through his mind.
“Hello. This is the Foreign Workers Support Center. How can I help you?”
“I’m… a researcher. My salary… was stopped.”
“I see. Can you tell me more?”
He explained.
The email.
The professor’s words.
The visa deadline.
The counselor listened.
“Do you have a contract?”
“Yes.”
“And the email about the salary?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Those are evidence.”
Evidence.
Pavez wrote the word down.
“You can file a complaint with the labor office, but you’ll need to gather evidence first.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Contract, emails, records. Dates and times. The more, the better.”
“If I report it… will my professor know?”
A brief pause.
“The process is confidential. But during the investigation, he may guess.”
Pavez’s hand froze.
“My visa?”
“That’s handled by immigration, not us. But proving wage theft can support your case.”
“Can I… start recording conversations?”
“Yes. For your protection, that’s allowed. Keep everything.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing,” the counselor added.
“Yes?”
“You’re not alone. We’re here to help.”
The call ended.
Pavez looked at Mina.
“How was it?”
“They said it’s possible.”
“Really?”
“But… we need evidence.”
Mina’s face tightened.
“Contracts. Emails. Records.”
“Do you have a contract?”
“Yes… no…”
Pavez stopped.
There were no pay stubs.
Payments had always come in envelopes.
“I don’t have them either,” Mina said. “Pay statements.”
They sat in silence.
“The counselor said we should start recording. From now on.”
“Recording what?”
“Everything. Dates. Times. What was said.”
Mina pulled out her notebook.
“Then let’s start.”
She wrote the date.
January 2, 2025
Pavez opened his phone’s memo app.
Dec 29, 2024 – Professor’s Office
“Too much talk causes trouble.”
“Especially about money.”
Dec 30, 2024 – Morning
Salary withheld email received.
His fingers shook.
But he kept typing.
“We’ll do this every day,” Mina said.
She opened her recording app.
“Next time the professor talks, I’ll turn this on.”
“Is that legal?”
“The counselor said it’s allowed for self-protection.”
Pavez nodded slowly.
When the building came into view, Mina stopped.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
Pavez didn’t answer.
“I’m scared too,” Mina said.
“But doing nothing is scarier.”
She smiled—genuinely, for the first time.
“They said something at the end.”
“What?”
‘You’re not alone.’”
Mina laughed softly.
“So we really aren’t alone.”
Nothing looked different.
The professor was in his office.
People worked quietly.
Pavez created a folder on his laptop.
Folder name: Evidence
Mina added a recording shortcut to her home screen.
No one noticed.
Outwardly, nothing had changed.
Inside, everything had begun.
Pavez messaged his mother.
“Please wait a little longer.
Things will be resolved soon.”
This time, it wasn’t a lie.
There was no certainty.
But it wasn’t surrender either.
He opened his notebook.
To do:
-
Record daily
-
Prepare recordings
-
Collect evidence
He put the pen down.
For the first time, there was a plan.
For the first time, he wasn’t alone.
For the first time, he could fight.
Records become weapons.
But before they can be used,
a quiet war must be endured.
Not with rebellion.
But with documentation.
It doesn’t promise justice.
It promises something more fragile—and more powerful:
Every email.
Every delay.
Every “casual” warning.
But internally, the rules have shifted.
And memory requires records.
It will be slow, procedural, and exhausting.